Down Home Blues
A Novel
Phyllis R. Dixon
New Generation Press
Copyright © 2016 by Phyllis R. Dixon
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All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form. For information, address New Generation Press, P.O. Box 750024, Memphis, TN, 38175-0024.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by HPP Design
Cover photography by Corrine Wells
Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint lyrics from I’m Smilin Again by Grady Champion, GSM Music Group LLC.
Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family… in another city.
George Burns
For Maggie Jean
My first teacher, my role model, and my best friend.
Acknowledgements
At last. It’s been a minute since the Washingtons have told their story. A lot has happened to them and to me since Forty Acres. Two of my biggest cheerleaders have made their transition, Fitzgerald ‘Fitz’ Dixon and Clovice Wilder. In the words of James Taylor, “I always thought I’d see you again.” My babies Trey, Candace and Lee are all grown up now and I am proud of each of you. Keep moving forward and keep your head to the sky. I’ve got some new angels, Braylon, Erica and Brenton – what a precious gift. A shout-out to some more new people who have come into my life, Arlender Jones and Michael Stewart, seems like I’ve known you forever. And a shout-out to Tanya Beckley, Tujuana Britton, Karen and Sheryl Dean, who I have known forever. Special acknowledgement to Sharon Williams and Linda Campbell, my extra-special sorors (Delta Sigma Theta of course). Thanks to Shelia (yes, she spells it like that) Bell, and Written Word Editorial. I am eternally indebted to Evelyn Palfrey and Miss Mary. I thank the Jacksons and the Lees, my OCC friends (you know who you are) and my St. Andrew family for your support. And a special thank you to YOU, for taking the time to read what I write. I hope you enjoy.
Phyllis R. Dixon
“…the winter'll soon be over, children.
And when we get on Canaan's shore,
We'll shout, and sing forever more.
Oh, the winter'll soon be over, children.” Negro Spiritual
Chapter 1
WINTER SOON BE OVER
Just five more hours left in this year and I say good riddance. I lost my mother nine months ago. I never imagined my world without Lois Washington in it, and not a day goes by that I don’t think about her. I miss hearing her call me by my full name, Beverly Ann. Of course, that name is as country as a gravel road, and I always wanted something sexier like my sisters Carolyn and Cecelia. Now I’d give anything to hear her say it again. They say it gets easier with time. I’m still waiting. That’s how my year started, and the bad news kept coming.
My sisters and I didn’t speak for three months due to a silly dispute over my mother’s jewelry. I was in a car accident and couldn’t work for six weeks (although that could have been a blessing in disguise since that’s when my sisters and I started speaking again). My son enlisted in the military and is fighting some ridiculous war on the other side of the world. In July, my dog, Money, got loose. He usually finds his way home, but this is the longest he’s ever been gone. And my husband, Anthony, moved out after breaking his promise to be faithful – again. Not that I really
believed him. After more than twenty years of marriage, I had gotten used to his roaming eye and other body parts.
We’ve been together since high school, and even though we’re separated, and I’ve been dating, he’s still the measuring stick — in more ways than one. But when his latest hussy posted pictures of the two of them online, I couldn’t keep looking the other way. My sisters said it’s about time, although Cecelia controlled her husband, and I didn’t want a docile man. Apparently, my brother-in-law didn’t want to be controlled anymore, since they just got divorced. And my little sister Carolyn is a newlywed. She beat the odds and actually found a keeper. It took her twenty years to find him, but he looks like he was worth the wait.
Anthony and I have been separated more than a year — although I still see him every week. We own The Oasis, a beauty salon and barber shop. A few years ago, we bought the house next door to our house and transformed the corner lot into The Oasis. Anthony still comes by to check on the barbers and keep up with handyman projects. Aunt Belle says he keeps sniffing around just enough to keep a claim on me, like a dog guarding a bone. He’s not going to gnaw on it, but doesn’t want anyone else to either. I know she’s right, and my New Year’s resolution was going to be to see a lawyer and start divorce proceedings. Then, our son Tony came home for Thanksgiving. That was the good news. The bad news was that he was being deployed to Afghanistan. Why should my baby put his life on the line trying to settle a dispute that’s been going on since Bible days? He was leaving the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, and he wanted to spend the holiday with both of us, so his father came home and the three of us spent the holiday weekend together. It was like old times, maybe even better. Anthony didn’t have to lie and I didn’t have to question everything he said and did.
Other than him not being able to keep his thing in his pants, he was a great husband. We rarely argued. He didn’t drink or do drugs. He was generous with his money and kept up with the house and salon repairs. We both enjoyed bowling, dancing, and the blues. He remembered all holidays and anniversaries. He wasn’t abusive and there were no complaints about our sex life. Even with all those positives, I know they don’t outweigh the scales of his messing around. When I decide I’ve finally had enough, he’ll do something to rekindle the flame I keep trying to stamp out.
I don’t know how I would have made it through Christmas without him. I hadn’t heard from Anthony since we took Tony to the airport. Then, he showed up the day before Christmas Eve and said he knew the holidays would be hard for me. He took me down home to see my father early on Christmas Eve. We came back that evening, and he hasn’t left since. My sisters will berate me for taking him back again, but this was the longest we’d ever been apart, and I really thought he had changed.
Anthony and I had planned to bring in the New Year on Beale Street with twenty thousand other partyers, then come home for private festivities. I’ve lived in Memphis twenty years, but had never been to Beale Street for the midnight guitar drop. As part of our vow to rekindle our marriage, we said we’d start doing new things together, and the guitar drop was one of them. We usually spent the days around the New Year down home in Eden, Arkansas. It’s just sixty miles from Memphis, though it seems like a world away.
Eden is a refuge and my daddy still farms and lives in the house he and Mama built fifty years ago. Every New Year’s Eve, I attended Watch Night service with Mama, while Anthony played cards and dominoes with his relatives. Daddy loved to play cards, so when Mama and I got home, we would all go to Anthony’s folk’s house for all night rise and fly bid whist. At dawn, we’d go home, sleep a few hours, then eat black-eyed peas for good luck, cabbage for money, and fried chicken because Mama’s was the best and it was everyone’s favorite. This is the firs
t New Year since Mama’s death. I feel like I’m abandoning Daddy, but I couldn’t face that ride knowing she wouldn’t be there. My brothers said they would stay with Daddy so he wouldn’t be alone.
Anthony was making a daytrip to Eden to see his relatives from Chicago. His truck needed an oil change, so he took my car. I wasn’t going anywhere and he was coming right back to Memphis in time for us to go to Beale Street. That was the plan – until he called and said his brother from Chicago had just gotten there and would I be terribly upset if he stayed longer. I told him to stay put, since the roads were supposed to turn icy. I asked Anthony to check on Daddy for me, and to promise not to try to surprise me by coming back to Memphis. He promised, and said he would leave first thing the following morning.
With the change in plans, I decided to bring in the New Year with a pampering session. I lit jasmine candles, found my Etta James playlist, and opened the Moscato wine I had been saving. I texted all my siblings to wish them a Happy New Year, then called Daddy.
“Hey, Big Sis,” Carl said, answering on the first ring.
“I know I’m early, I just called to wish you guys a Happy New Year.”
“Same to you, but you’ll have to wait until next year to talk to Daddy.”
“Is he sleep?”
“He isn’t here.”
“Oh. Did he go with Aunt Belle to the rehabilitation center?” Aunt Belle volunteers at the Dwight County Rehabilitation Center. She says too many times people her age are just thrown away, and she wants them to know someone still cares. She planned a full itinerary that would culminate with Jell-O and line dancing at midnight. She made sure she had tapes for the electric slide, cupid shuffle, and the wobble, and invited Daddy to the party.
“He said that was for old people. He’s visiting his lady friend.”
“Which one?” I asked. Daddy is in his eighties, and other than a skin cancer scare a few years ago, he’s in pretty good health. He still drives and we had to make him promise not to go hunting alone anymore (we also hid his shotguns just to make sure). He’s got hair, most of his teeth, and his right mind. At that age, men with those traits are in short supply. My brothers think Daddy’s eligible bachelor status is cool and hope his stamina is hereditary. My sisters and I have been amazed at the women who swarmed around Daddy like flies on you-know-what before Mama was even cold in the ground. Even more amazing, Daddy seemed to enjoy the attention.
“Miss Emma. She looks like the front-runner.”
“Are you serious? Miss Emma Davis, our high school English teacher?”
“That’s her,” Carl replied.
“She doesn’t seem like Daddy’s type. She’s nothing like Mama. He shouldn’t be out driving on New Year’s Eve anyway. There are too many drunk drivers out and the roads are supposed to turn bad. Plus, folks will be shooting guns all night. It’s not safe.”
“I guess he forgot to ask your permission,” Carl said.
“Here I was thinking Daddy would be missing Mama but instead he’s hanging out. I asked Anthony to check on him, but looks like there’s no need for that.”
“He did come over this morning. He said we were his last stop, and he was heading back to Memphis. It was good seeing you guys together for Christmas. Maybe the New Year will bring you two back together. It just doesn’t make sense to break up after all these years.”
“Now you sound like Mama.”
“You should listen to her. I wish I had,” Carl said.
“Well, tell Daddy I called and you take care,” I said. I called Anthony’s phone and it went straight to voicemail. In days past, I would have immediately called his folks and asked to speak to one of his relatives. I enjoyed talking with them and they treated me like a daughter. While I was interested in their welfare, my real motive for calling was usually to make sure Anthony was where he said he would be. I thought we had moved beyond those days. I should have known better, I thought, as I scrolled through my cell phone apps.
I traded in my Navigator and got a new Lexus last summer after my car accident. I even dated my salesman a few weeks. He showed me how to use all the bells and whistles, including syncing the GPS system to my phone. It was supposed to help if the car was stolen or if you wanted to monitor a teen driver. Tracking down lying husbands wasn’t listed as one of the uses, but over the years I’ve had enough experience that I should patent an app for it. Although I have mellowed over the years, especially since the shooting incident a few years ago. I missed on purpose and wasn’t really trying to shoot that skank, but Carolyn said I’m lucky she didn’t press charges. Even Daddy, who usually stays out of his children’s marriage drama, said I went too far. Women are always flirting with Anthony, but to have a so-called friend betray me was too much.
I don’t know why women won’t leave my husband alone. Then again — I do. Anthony is fine with a capital F. He was good looking in high school and he’s good looking now. Most of our classmates have potbellies, bald heads (not the good Michael Jordan kind), or an inside out Mohawk. Those that do have hair are gray. Anthony looks better with age. Women talk boldly among themselves and proclaim what they will and won’t take. My response was, “Look at Jesse Jackson and Bill Clinton. They had affairs and got caught. Do you see Hillary swiveling her neck and moving on? She’s sitting right there reaping the benefits she has worked for, and I plan to do the same. Why should I let some other woman step in after I put in all these years? I drive a new car every two years, have a three thousand square foot house and an eight-hundred credit score. I work, but only because I want to. Running the beauty shop doesn’t feel like work because it’s what I’ve always wanted to do. Anthony has always worked one and sometimes two jobs and gives me his checks. So, no I’m not leaving.”
That was my mantra for years, but losing Mama made me realize how short life is and I don’t want to look back and see I wasted half of it chasing Anthony Townsend. The address 5909 Elm, popped up on my screen. Anthony was less than ten miles from the house. Usually my New Year’s resolution was to lose weight. Grieving over Mama and my marriage had been the catalyst for a thirty-pound weight loss, so that wasn’t my goal for the coming year. This time I vow not to be seduced by Anthony’s lies anymore. That had also been my resolution in other years. But this time, I mean it. Aunt Belle says the only time you can change a man is when he’s a baby in diapers. The time and energy I spend snooping, plotting, and stressing over him are better used on something else. Before I set Anthony aside for good, I have one more plan to carry out. I looked through the drawer and found my license plate number, then got my AAA card to call for towing service. This is going to be Anthony’s nightmare on Elm Street.
CAROLYN
New Year’s Eve is the worst holiday to be single. No other day is it more obvious that you are alone. Christmas and Thanksgiving are for family and you can go solo. Valentine’s Day is for sweethearts, but it’s usually a work day, so you can get through it by treating it like any other work day. You can spend your birthday with your girls, go to church on Easter, and find a barbeque for the Fourth. But New Year’s Eve is different. No one wants to go to a party alone. And if you stay home, you feel like you’re missing something. I’ve spent more than my share of New Year’s Eves alone, or babysitting my nieces and nephews, or with someone I wasn’t that crazy about just so I wouldn’t be alone. And though I’m ashamed to admit it, I’ve spent New Year’s Eves alone, while my man spent the holiday with his wife. Not this year. To quote Sophia, “I’s married now.” Mrs. Derrick Roberts. It will be a year tomorrow, and I’m still getting used to the sound of it.
I had given up looking for Mr. Right. By the time I turned forty, I would have settled for Mr. Suitable, but Derrick had all the qualities I was looking for. He seemed perfect, except for the fact that he lived in Eden, Arkansas. But he wouldn’t let six hundred miles stand between us. We racked up frequent flyer miles and Amtrak points and spent as much time together as I had with some guys I dated that live right here in Chicago. In the
beginning, I kept trying to figure out what was wrong with him. How could this thoughtful, good looking, financially secure man be unattached? I figured he would show his true colors eventually, so I’d just enjoy the attention while it lasted. Instead of disappointments piling up as they usually did, this relationship only got better. We had only been dating six months and when he got on his knee to propose, I thought he was bending over to tie his shoe. He quoted romantic Smokey Robinson lyrics and presented me with a stunning two-carat diamond engagement ring. You’ll hear women say it doesn’t matter if a man marries them; it’s only a piece of paper. Just like when they say size doesn’t matter, don’t believe them. I said yes before he finished the ‘e’ in me. Even though I was next in line for a promotion at work, I applied for a transfer to Memphis and quickly planned a wedding. If I had known Southern men were so gracious, I would have set my sites below the Mason-Dixon Line a long time ago.
Derrick and I reconnected during a family reunion when he came to my parents’ house to visit. I remembered him as Bucky, the annoying buck-toothed kid who played with my younger brothers. That kid had turned into a good-looking, lean, six-foot tall man, with a warm smile full of straight teeth. He remembered me as Chubby, his friends’ dismissive big sister. Let the record reflect, I was given the nickname after the singer, (they said I did the twist like Chubby Checker when I was small) not for being fat. Anyway, it was supposed to be time with my family, but I spent more time with Derrick as it became obvious he was interested in me. We stayed in touch and he courted me old-school style. He sent flowers just because. When we went out he paid, and he ordered for me. On the weekend, he would drive to Chicago like he was driving around the corner. He made me feel like he was glad to be with me and not just sexually. When we announced our engagement, I don’t know who was happier, me or my parents. They were proud when I got my law degree. I work for the IRS, and to hear them tell it, I run the agency. Despite my success, Mama never really embraced my career woman lifestyle and always inquired about marriage prospects.
Down Home Blues Page 1