Ahgottahandleonit

by Donovan Mixon

  Nothin’ was ours not even the tools.

  We worked the land, but had no say—

  no power to refuse.

  We lived on credit,

  That’s what they called it—’cept for,

  we couldn’t get out of it.

  The nine of us lived in that tiny hole,

  I was the only one sayin’ we deserved more.

  At night we slept two to a cot

  spent our days in the fields—

  fo’ real.

  With no escape or place to fail,

  We worked like dogs in our open-air jail.

  I hid in the barn

  creeping along the floor.

  In came McClerkin,

  Man, I was shaken.

  But then I saw yo’ gramps

  Standin’ bent like he got the cramps.

  The leather ’round his neck

  Wouldn’t let him stand straight.

  A strap for a beast

  Now a tool of hate.

  I’m lookin’ at my daddy,

  There’s no smile, no swagger.

  He speaks real low,

  Like a truly humble nigga.

  The cottonseed is down,

  There’s no explanation.

  McClerkin jerks the belt,

  He wants a solution.

  Daddy, awash in shame and fear—

  Takes a hit to the weekly yield.

  This hole in my soul done got so wide

  I shiver at the thought of looking inside.

  I don’t wanna see how I lost my head,

  Stealing the seed, running out on my peeps

  —ditching the homestead.

  One desperate move,

  sent my brother in motion

  to meet those fools,

  now our family’s broken.

  But this ain’t so new.

  When I look at you

  I see the same ol’ story

  in a modern venue.

  You come in my place.

  With a heart full of anger.

  The story’s on yo’ face,

  Another boy heading for danger.

  You in need of my help,

  I don’t know if I care

  I’m too drunk really—

  So I sit in this chair,

  With a bottle—lookin’ silly.

  We poke around the edges

  But then I get distracted

  Our talk becomes protracted

  Maybe you over-reac-ted?

  I know,

  it’s hard to see.

  I’m just passin’ on

  the pain of my legacy.

  Baby, can you feel me?

  Ahgottahandleonit son…

  Ahgottahandleonit.

  Ain’t ’bout bein’ free,

  It’s ’tween yo mama an’ me.

  Ahgottahandleonit son…

  Ahgottahandleonit.

  You worried ‘bout the whis–ky?

  Don’t think about it.

  Ahgottahandleonit.

  Ahgottahandleonit, onit, onit!

  “Aw man, Dad…did you really have to leave us?”

  THEY CAN’T TAKE THAT AWAY FROM YA

  It was early afternoon. Tim sat at a crowded library table reading the news online. The joint was unusually busy—a welcomed distraction from his thoughts. Nothing—no mention in either of the local papers of anybody found anywhere. It had been three whole days since he’d left Chucky in the park, left the stink and lies of his drunken father in that stupid apartment.

  But just that morning, he’d had breakfast with his dad who had hit him up on his phone first thing. He showed up to his old man’s door without even answering his text.

  When his tutor suddenly arrived to say that there was a call for him at the desk, everyone turned to see who was in trouble. At least that was the way Tim felt about it. This had to be something. You don’t get called on the library phone for chitchat. “Wh-what’s up, Darryl?”

  Too busy to fool around, Darryl shrugged and said, “Just take the call, man. It’s your sister,” and rolled a cartful of books away.

  Tim suspected that he could have been dreaming again or it was the police. Surely something had changed. The proof of it was Mrs. Shepard—she looked directly into his eyes as she handed over the receiver. Weirdly, she appeared about ready to burst into laughter. Tim thought that maybe it was for the whispering girls at the corner table. He could hear them riffing through lewd scenarios for the mysterious phone call at the library desk.

  “He-hello, Sheila? What’s up?” he said, afraid to let the receiver touch his ear.

  “Why is your phone off? You have to come home now!” she screamed.

  The sound of her voice sent Tim into a panic sprint towards the restroom, pulling the entire phone base off the desk along with practically everything else. “So-sorry about that,” he said to the librarian as he picked up the mess. “Yeah I know, I know…it’s a landline.”

  Oh shit! he thought. Could this be it? “Why? Wha—happened? Why didn’t you call my cell?”

  His sister exhaled into the phone. “I just said that it’s turned off, boy! It’s Daddy, Tim. He’s gone.”

  “Sh—gone where? I-I just saw him this morning—he ma-made me breakfast!”

  “Well, he’s dead, Tim! Get your butt over here. Now!” she said, and hung up.

  He would have broke down in tears right then and there if Mrs. Shepard hadn’t with a simple touch on the arm sent a jolt of static electricity through him. He wondered about that touch for a long time, playing the scene in his mind again and again, each time seeing himself flinch like a fish. He could never decide if the shock was more from her hand on his skin or the fact that before that moment, he hadn’t noticed her eyes and how beautiful they were.

  Just that morning, his father had cooked up a giant stack of pancakes, scrambled eggs and ham. They watched adventure movies, exchanged funny stories and even talked about girls. It was like old times except that this time, his old man was talking different. “Timmy, whatever you do in life, do your best. Make sure to get yourself an education ’cause they can’t take that away from ya!”

  He walked the long way home and bathed in the memory of their last meal together. His dad had been so funny, talkative, full of life. For the first time in a while he didn’t leave his hole feeling sorry for him.

  A familial patchwork of narratives around his dad ran through his mind. Somehow they always led to Victor as a kid watching a white man beat down his own father, Tim’s grandfather. Piecing together stories he’d imagined many times, Tim’s internal eye moved circuitously from the face of his dad, to the face of his grandfather, to the white man’s face and so on. But this time they were all in Jones’ classroom. His teacher inhabited the body of the white man and he—Tim—stood in his grandfather’s overalls. Tim was so deep in his muse that when landowner/Jones came to thrash him, he lurched blindly to the side and slammed into a kid on the street. Before the dude could say anything, he’d sprinted away.

  He slowed to a walk when he arrived at the corner near his house and imagined himself gliding along a couple inches above the surface. Nothing could touch him. A breeze kicked up the sweet aroma of lilies from the neighbor’s front yard, and he heard his dad’s voice in the soft rustle of the leaves on the trees, saying to him the things that he’d always wanted to hear from him, but never did:

  You can do it, Tim—I have faith in you.

  I’m proud of you.

  I love you, son.

  He wanted to deny, delay the pain that was coming. He also needed to settle with Jones.

  WHERE’S TIM?

  Things were way too festive for Julia. Victor was dead. D. E. A. D. No matter how many people showed up or how much food they consumed, there was nothing anyone could do about it. Looking at the six or seven cakes sitting next to a banquet of home-cooked meats and vegetables on the kitchen table, Julia thought, Damn! ’Scuse me, Lord. The body ain’t even cold yet. Seems like they had th
is stuff already cooked and ready for when Victor would finally kick the bucket.

  Julia smiled at the sight of her daughter in the doorway. Sheila walked into the room and hugged her for a long time. Everyone watched them in silence. “Oh baby, baby, baby…it’s going to be alright. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, Mom. I know, I know. You need to sit…” she whispered, stroking her mother’s hair.

  “Where’s Tim?” Julia asked, her eyes glassy with tears.

  Sheila pulled her mom’s wet face into her neck and hugged tight. “I called him at the library. He’s on his way. Don’t worry.”

  “Oh Lord…how is he going handle this? You know he’s a delicate boy.”

  “I talked to him, Mom. He sounded okay to me. He’ll be here in a minute. Oh! Mom, you’re shaking! Give me your hands—let me help—are you alright?”

  Julia stood straight, wiped her tears and thought, He’s just like his Daddy. Oh no! Forgive me, Lord. “So you have talked to him? Never mind, darling. I’m going to my room for a bit. You tend to things, okay? No-no, I’m good, Leola, Tissie…Joe…I’m fine. I’ll be right back.”

  She nearly fainted when she closed the door behind her. She lurched towards the bed, tossed aside some of the clothes that covered it and collapsed face down on top of what remained. A loud familiar squeak came from the far wall. She’d forgotten to close the closet door again—in her mind’s eye she could see the cheap closet leaning hard to one side, threatening to collapse. It would have to wait.

  It had been a crazy morning. Getting the call at work, asking permission to leave, waiting for the bus in the heat. It didn’t matter, she’d become used to the hot days and the wait gave her time to make calls and arrangements. She hadn’t planned for so many people to show up. But it was no use thinking it could have been any other way, once Aunt Tissie got wind of it. By the time she got home, the first faces had already arrived, sitting with Gentrale who’d begun a silent vigil. The air in the room sat very still—heavily perfumed from the fresh cut lilies in new vases. Thank God someone had dragged out the fan from the basement.

  Julia squeezed hard what she thought were her daughter’s hands and opened her eyes to the sweet smile and crooked teeth of Aunt Tissie.

  “You-you alright, Julia?”

  “Wha—? Who? Aunt Tissie? I must’ve been dreaming. Whew!”

  With a firm hand on Julia’s forearm, Tissie cooed, “Whoa, don’t get up. It’s been a long day. Lie down a little while longer. I’m not going anywhere.” A young eighty something, the only facial lines visible were crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes. She reeked of Chanel No. 5. Her flowered dress fit snuggly around her waist while a slender gold necklace competed with matching bracelets for attention. At the sound of a crash and laughter coming from the living room, Julia said, “I’m glad to hear that everybody’s enjoying themselves.”

  “Oh, child. Don’t let it get to you. They just trying to distract themselves. We all are. Especially me. I don’t claim to know what’s in the Lord’s mind, but it don’t seem right for an old auntie to outlive her nephew.”

  The curtains swayed solemnly as if in agreement. Julia watched their shadow move across Tissie’s face. “So, how are you, Auntie?”

  “Don’t worry ‘bout this old bird. How are you is the question? I know what it’s like to raise kids alone.” She moved her head side to side slowly as she spoke.

  “I’m not exactly alone, there’s Gentrale—” At the thought of Victor’s brother, her son came to mind. Julia covered her face with her hands.

  “Oh, don’t cry, darling,” Tissie said, pushing Julia’s hair away from her face. “Don’t you worry yourself, girl. Tim’ll be here before you know it.”

  “Yeah—you’re right. Anyway, like I was saying, having Gentrale here has been a blessing.”

  “Well, that’s something, I suppose,” the old biddy mumbled. “But he’s getting up there himself. Oh, I can remember them as kids—seem like yesterday,” she said, working a pair of knitting needles in her hands. “Uh, Julia baby, how you intend to make it from this day forward? I mean all that legal stuff is, uh, behind you now. Right?”

  Julia looked at her husband’s aunt long and hard. Grateful that they didn’t have an audience, she smiled and relaxed in the luxury of not having to save face. For once, she could think before responding. “Yes, Auntie, that’s all over with now. I got a job at a factory and everythi…”

  Fearing she’d stepped over the line, Tissie cut her off. “I-I didn’t mean to offend,” she said nervously.

  Julia pushed up onto her elbows. “No, Auntie! I’ve got plans to get out of here with the kids and…”

  “Nothin’ to do with that man in jail, does it?” She didn’t look at her niece this time.

  In a flash Julia was on her feet—hands on hips, nostrils flaring, set for battle. “What are you talking about? And where’d you hear anything about some man? Where you get off asking me something like that?”

  Tissie’s knitting needles went into a frenzied sprint. “Oh! I-I’m sorry, honey. You right. It ain’t none of my business. I mean…”

  “You damn straight, it ain’t,” Julia yelled and turned to leave. When the bedroom door failed to open on her first try, Julia placed her foot on the wall for leverage. The thing swung open with a crick and a bang.

  “Sheilaaaaaaa! Where the hell is Tim? Well, go and find his ass!”

  STRESS

  “Well, how long he’s been here? Why didn’t you tell me? Let me through, ya’ll!”

  His mother’s voice sounded thick and wild as it cut through the crowd. He had figured it would be like that so he’d deliberately slipped in the back door to avoid making a scene. But all his efforts were in vain.

  “Tiiiimmmy!” she hollered. She grabbed him around the neck with both arms and bawled full force, squeezing him as tight as she could. To his surprise, it made him feel better. “Ooh, Timmy…I’m so sorry, baby, so sorry…ahhhh. You going to be alright. You know it, don’t you?” she blubbered into his neck.

  Tim didn’t dare to look at anyone. He kept his head down and spoke into her neck. “Yeah, Mom. I-I’m alright, I guess. Where’s Sheila?” He wriggled his face free of her shoulder.

  All eyes were on them. He wanted to cry, but not like this, as if it were a performance.

  So he held her tight and planned to run out of the house as soon as she released him. A whiff of jasmine oil tickled his nose. His heart skipped a beat. Is that Rene? he thought, but when he turned his head to look, his sister was practically on top of him from behind, strong arms trapping him around his waist, leaning her head on his back. Sobbing her ass off. “Timmy!”

  Speechless, sandwiched between the two of them, he stood there soaked front and back.

  His own grief pushed inside his chest like a volcano. Don’t do it, dawg. Don’t do it!

  In desperation, he turned and looked for his uncle Gentrale who sat alone in a corner not speaking to anyone. A seamless piece of an idea came to him and it made him feel better—

  Blue suit saggin’.

  Seams strainin’

  to reign in

  the grief of a

  brother in his

  waning—years.

  Bow-tied, recently deodorized—

  matching handkerchief peeping

  from a breast pocket

  of his ancient outfit.

  Silver grey hair

  sprouting wildly everywhere

  ‘cept from the crown of his deep chocolate head

  that shone like a coffee bean.

  Tapping ratty wingtips to a secret song,

  swaying side-to-side,

  hands and chin long,

  resting on an African cane,

  as he stared into the distance.

  Gentrale returned his nephew’s gaze, nodding with appreciation for the care he saw in his eyes. They had become close in spite of their numerous rows. He genuinely worried about the boy. After six weeks of summer school
, instead of showing signs of getting it together, it appeared that ambition had been wrung out of him like water from a sponge. No wonder, he reckoned, Julia could fly off the handle so easily. The girl was on her own, tired and discouraged—pretty much helpless to raise her children right.

  His mind turned to his dead brother who in many ways couldn’t help turning out like he did. While what happened down on the farm, back in the day, had affected them all badly, it was Victor who’d actually witnessed his father’s shame. Since he could never be sure how he himself would have reacted, he couldn’t really blame his brother for running away like he did—not completely.

  But then, there was the matter of Booker.

  Gentrale closed his eyes at the memory of the torn-up body of their younger brother who—out of despair over Victor’s departure—had gone into town to get drunk and returned a corpse.

  Some good ol’ boys who didn’t like the looks of the uppity nigger tied him to the back of a pickup and drug him for a quarter mile down a country road. Some tried to put the blame for Booker’s death on Victor for leaving his family as he did.

  Gentrale figured it was pure guilt that fueled Victor’s anger, cussin’ and drinking—he must have infected his own son with hopelessness. The way his nephew had been talking back and sneaking in and out of the house without a word seemed to confirm his suspicions and made his head hurt.

  Over the years Victor and Gentrale hadn’t been very close. But here, on full display, was the fact that there had been a deep connection between them. Now only the pain remained. Gentrale hadn’t spoken a word all day, so Tim, like everyone else, was surprised to hear the old man call out to him. It gave him the perfect escape route from the grip of his mom and sister.

  “Timmy!” Gentrale croaked. The sorrow in his voice cut through the crowd.

  Tim wrestled himself free and pulled up close to his uncle. “You alright, Uncle Gentrale?” he said, wiping his brow.

  Gentrale pointed and curled his index finger. As Tim moved in closer, he leaned towards his ear. “Yes, but get me outta here! Okay?”

  Ten minutes later they had slipped out of the rear door into the backyard. Gentrale paused and stared at the rows in the soil where a vegetable garden had once existed. He locked elbows with his nephew, made a start and paused again just as Tim lurched backwards to brush off a hairy caterpillar from his lapel. Gentrale shook his head with a sad chuckle.