They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel (Tommy Lee Tyson)

by Daniel Black

  But e’en as I listened the mock-bird’s song,

  A thought stole into my saddened heart,

  And I said, “I can cheer some other soul

  By a carol’s simple art.”

  For oft from the darkness of hearts and lives

  Come songs that brim with joy and light,

  As out of the gloom of the cypress grove

  The mocking-bird sings at night.

  So I sang a lay for a brother’s ear

  In a strain to soothe his bleeding heart

  And he smiled at the sound of my voice and lyre,

  Though mine was a feeble art.

  But at his smile I smiled in return,

  And into my soul there came a ray:

  In trying to soothe another’s woes

  Mine own had passed away.

  “My God!” I cried. Dunbar’s words had brought healing to my young heart and convinced me that a black man could have feelings and express them without shame. I jumped up and ran all the way to Darrell’s house and declared, “Man, I got to tell you something! You ain’t never heard nothin’ like this!”

  He cast me a suspicious eye. “T.L., what do you want?”

  “I want to read you somethin’ incredible, man. It’s gon’ change your life forever!”

  “Change my life forever? Is you crazy?”

  “Naw, I ain’t crazy. Just listen for a minute.” My excited anxiety made it difficult to hold the book steady. I threw my head back, Martin Luther King, Jr. style, and recited the poem with all the drama I could muster. My eyes bulged and narrowed at the right points, and the inflection of my voice made Darrell laugh several times.

  “‘But at his smile, I smiled in return,’”I read, and then grinned broad enough to show all my teeth at once. “‘And into my soul’”—I tapped my chest—“‘there came a ray.’”With eyes closed and face grimaced in preparation for the imminent theatrical moment, I clutched the book to my bosom and whispered the final couplet slowly and intensely: “‘In trying to soothe another’s woes, Mine own had passed away.’”A tear formed in my right eye but stood there stubbornly. I wanted it to fall to convince Darrell of the power of poetry, but it remained a watery glaze, too stubborn to obey.

  “Is that it?” Darrell frowned.

  “Man, you must be a fool,” I said, disappointed.

  “The poem was OK, but it wasn’t great.”

  I turned and walked back to the barn, depressed that my joy had not been contagious. “He just don’t get it,” I resolved. I had almost gotten over my frustration when the barn door opened and Daddy’s angry eyes pierced mine. My usual quick wits failed me, so I fidgeted and said, “I’ m’bout to feed the cows.”

  “Give me dat book,” he demanded. I obeyed, fearful he was about to destroy it.

  “Who de hell is Paul Dunbar?” he inquired with a tone of frustration.

  “He’s a black man who lived a long time ago who wrote poems and stuff,” I answered, hoping my response would encourage interest.

  “Well, de next time you run off and leave dese cows unfed you gon’ need Dunbar to come rub yo’ sore ass.” Daddy tossed the book onto a nearby bale of hay and went out.

  Relieved, I fed the cows quickly and returned to the barn, reading half the book before I went to bed that night. Most of the poems moved me to tears. I didn’t understand how Dunbar did it, yet I knew then I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. The power of his words captured and healed my heart, and that’s what I wanted to do for others. To know that I could construct a poem in Arkansas and it soothe the soul of someone in California or Budapest was absolutely intriguing. I knew I’d have to leave Swamp Creek to do it, though, because my hometown offered very little room for a man whose occupation was the cleansing and nurturing of human souls.

  However, my escape plan must have backfired, for there I was again, sitting under the Meetin’ Tree sweating, unable to explain to myself exactly why I was there at all. I had risen to start walking home when I heard an engine coming down the road and glanced to see who it was. I didn’t know what to say to anyone, but not to say anything was completely unacceptable. Whoever it was would definitely speak. Swamp Creek folks have always had that principle.

  The little pickup truck pulled off the highway onto the bare dirt spot in front of the tree, and out stepped Old Man Blue. “Hey dere, young fella!” he said, obviously not recognizing me, beneath the brim of my hat. “You from round dese hyeah parts?”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Blue,” I said, smiling. He was shocked I knew his name, and the frown in his eighty-year-old wrinkled forehead exposed his desire to know who I was.

  “Seem lak to me,” he said, shifting from one bad knee to the other, “you looks rat familiar.” He took a handkerchief out of his overalls to wipe the sweat from his shiny jet-black face. “I jes’ can’t place you.” He hobbled a little closer to where I was standing and looked down from his six-five frame directly into my eyes. His hair, which used to include a few black strands here and there, now stood short, stubby, and completely gray. Even the hair in his eyebrows was gray, as was the hair on his right knuckles that held the homemade walking cane.

  Suddenly Old Man Blue’s eyes bulged and he gaped at me. “Lawd have murcy,” he murmured. “T.L., is dat you?” His voice trembled.

  “Yes, sir. It’s me, in the flesh. It’s been a while, huh?” I reached to shake his hand, but Old Man Blue grabbed me and hugged me violently.

  “Lawd have murcy Jesus!” he kept repeating. He had caught me off guard, really, because menfolk in Swamp Creek didn’t hug each other, at least not while I lived there.

  “Boy, folks thought you might be dead somewhere. Ain’t nobody hea’d from you since befo’ Momma died. You jes’ disappeared, seemed lak to me, and all we knowed to do was pray.”

  He slapped my shoulder and grinned, apparently unashamed of the two lonely teeth in his mouth.

  “Where you been all dis time, boy?” Old Man Blue asked, both for information and to reprimand.

  “I went away to college and then decided to get my doctoral degree. I’ve been doing a lot of studying and writing, so I haven’t had much time to …” I knew this excuse was lame even before I offered it.

  “Folk where you went to school ain’t got no telephone or post office?” He hesitated and wiped his brow again, frowning from the glare of the sun. He had trapped me and he knew it.

  “It’s a long story, Mr. Blue. Hopefully I’ll get a chance to come by and sit and talk before I go back. I ain’t been home yet, so I guess I’d better be gettin’ on that way. I just stepped off the Greyhound bus a few minutes ago.”

  “Lawd, boy, yo’ momma gon’ have a tizzy when she sees you! I ‘speck yo’ daddy might shout, too, don’t chu thank?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, wondering why both of us were lying.

  “Well, hop on in and I’ll take you home.” Old Man Blue began to drag his bad leg back to the driver’s side of his truck.

  “Oh, no sir. Thank you, though. I’m just sitting here enjoying the breeze and catching my breath. I’ma walk so I can take my time and look around.”

  Old Man Blue chuckled, a sign that he knew something was wrong, especially since there was absolutely no breeze to be found anywhere in Swamp Creek that day. “Well, help yo’self,” he said as he struggled to climb back into the little beat-up Toyota. “I’ma git on down de road heayh. I’ll see you in de moanin’ at church, won’t I?”

  “Oh, yes sir,” I said emphatically. And he would see me. You don’t sleep in my momma’s house and not go to Sunday school on Sunday morning.

  He began to drive away slowly. “If you run into my folks, before I do,” I yelled from the shade, “don’t say anything about seeing me, OK? I want to surprise them.”

  “Oh, I ain’t gon’ say a wurd! But I’m sho’ is gon’ thank de Lawd that you’s in the land of the livin’!” He raised his extra-long arthritic left arm and waved. “I’ll see ya.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Blue,” I said
too softly for him to have heard. He was always such a nice man, he and his wife, Ms. Polly. Willie James and I used to go to their house and eat fried pies every chance we got. We almost got a whoopin’ one Saturday morning because Ms. Polly begged us to “come on in hyeah and git you some o’ dese old pies, boys. Yo’ daddy ain’t gon’ mind,” she said convincingly. Still, we knew better, but we went in and ate the pies anyway. After a moment, we heard Daddy calling us.

  “We gon’ get it now,” I told Willie James.

  “No you ain’t,” Ms. Polly intervened. “Cleatis better not touch you. I gave y’all dem pies’cause I wanted to, and he better not say nothin’’bout it. Shit, he used to eat’em all de time hisself!” I don’t think Ms. Polly realized she had said a bad word. Willie James and I laughed, hopeful that Ms. Polly’s clout as an elder would cover us.

  “Ain’t I told y’all’bout eatin’ at other folks’ houses?” Daddy said when we exited Ms. Polly’s front porch.

  “Ah, you hush, Cleatis Tyson!” Ms. Polly scolded. “You can’t say nothin’. You done ate enough of dem ole pies to fill a barn! Now let dem boys alone!” She winked at us as she turned to reenter her house. We chuckled from the joy of watching Daddy get put in his place for once. I had never seen him submissive. Even the hardest men bow down when an elder speaks. The smart thing, I realized, was to be on the side of the elders—always. So I started speaking to all the old men and women at church, and they began to adore me. “That T.L. is somethin’ else!” Mother Berthine used to tell Momma proudly. “He gon’ be great one day. You mark my word!” I loved hearing Mother Berthine prophesy about me.

  Momma didn’t. She would give a patronizingly fake smile and say, “Yes, ma’am,” but her tone did not confirm the sentiment. I don’t know why. As I got older, I began to think she didn’t like me, but I could never think of a reason why. I had decided, in fact, to ask Momma one day why she hated me, and, from the looks of things, that day had finally arrived.

  It was ninety-five degrees in the shade with no relief in sight; therefore I saw no reason to prolong the imminent confrontation. I took a deep breath, grabbed my bags, and began the long, slow walk home.

  2

  I had forgotten the walking distance between the Meetin’ Tree and our house, but the heat reminded me. Sweat drenched my face and back, and my hands were too moist to hold my bags for more than four or five steps. I had to stop, dry my palms, and continue the journey, which seemed much longer than I remembered. “Good God!” I proclaimed aloud, wiping my brow in disbelief of the heat. The sun was beaming down on me hard, like a parent standing in authority over a recalcitrant child. Even when I passed beneath the few trees along the road, the shade proved irrelevant. I concluded this was what hell must be like, or at least this was my preparation for the hell I was about to encounter.

  In some ways, I was most anxious about seeing Sister. She was only nine when I left home, a youngster who certainly wouldn’t have understood why her favorite brother hadn’t stayed in touch. She was my baby girl, I used to say. Maybe she would understand, for we always shared a special connection. Any time one of us cried, the other cried. When we laughed, it was always about something both of us thought was funny. She and Grandma were the center of those rare moments of happiness I knew as a child. Sister and I used to sneak and sleep with each other, joking and laughing all night long. I knew I’d get a whipping in the morning if Momma found out. She said it wasn’t right for girls and boys to sleep together, yet when I asked why, she scolded me for questioning her and threatened to whip me if I didn’t obey. I didn’t care. Hell, whippings came my way almost every day. However, the boy-girl argument didn’t hold, because any time we had company, Momma would tell Sister to get in bed with Willie James and let the company use her room. Sister didn’t like sleeping with Willie James, though, because he snored monstrously. Yet if she ended up in my bed, we would be in trouble by morning. Usually we took our chances.

  “Scoot over, girl,” I whispered late one rainy night. Thunder caused the old house to shake freely.

  “I’m scared, T.L.,” Sister said and grabbed my arm, leaving fingernail marks. “Is God mad again? Dat’s what Grandma say when it thunders like dis.”

  “Naw, God ain’t mad,” I consoled her. “Thunder is the result of electrical properties—” And as I offered a scientific explanation of thunder, a fierce clap sounded, causing both of us to jump into each other’s trembling arms.

  “God’s really mad at somebody, T.L.!”

  “Maybe He is,” I said, rubbing Sister’s head gently. My explanation seemed insufficient and ineffectual, so I dropped the whole thing. “Who could God be mad at?”

  “Mean people,” Sister murmured confidently.

  “Mean people are everywhere. It would thunder all the time if God was mad at mean people.”

  “No, sometime people are real mean. And maybe that’s when God make it thunder real hard.” Sister looked squarely in my eyes to see if I agreed. Our faces were close enough to have kissed simply by puckering our lips.

  “I don’t know, girl,” I said. I brought her head deep into my bosom and rocked her back to sleep. I must have fallen asleep, too, for in the morning Daddy’s voice woke us abruptly.

  “Ain’t I don tole you two ‘bout sleepin’ togetha!” he screamed vehemently.

  I mumbled a weak, “Yes, sir.”

  “So y’all gon’ do what chu want to! You ain’t gon’ mind me!” Daddy revealed a belt he had concealed behind his back.

  “We gon’ mind, Daddy! We promise! We gon’ mind!”

  The declarations fell on deaf ears. “I done tole you, boy,’bout thankin’ you grown and ain’t gon’ do what I say. You gon’ mind me or either git kilt!” Daddy stood over me, striking my body like one chopping wood for a fire.

  “Don’t hit T.L., Daddy! Don’t!” Sister pleaded on my behalf, but there was nothing she could do.

  Daddy whipped me and left welts all over my body. Blood oozed from some of the wounds, but that didn’t deter him. Indeed, the blood fueled his anger, for he struck me harder as it flowed, to assure I never slept with Sister again. I did, though. My time with her was about the only fun I had in childhood, and even Daddy couldn’t take it away.

  Sister and I used to run in the woods behind the house and mock old Reverend Samuels’s whoops and laugh at him for hours, bless his heart. He said he was called to preach at fifteen, yet Daddy said he should have let the phone ring, “’cause Samuels is a no-preachin’ wonder!” They didn’t say this to him, however, because he was an old man who had to be respected. Folk didn’t disrespect elders in Swamp Creek.

  Sister and I had Reverend Samuels down pat! I would jump up on a log, creating a raised pulpit structure, and say, “Good moanin’, bruthas and sistas! We’se gathered here dis chere beautiful day to heayh a wurd from de Good Lawd. He’s done brought us from a mighty long way.”

  “Amen, amen,” Sister would say, cracking up with laughter.

  “See, if you thanks about how good Gawd is, you ain’t gon’ be able to sit there lak you’s doin’ now.’Cause, see, the Lawd didn’t have to wake you dis moanin’, but he did. Yes, He did! Oh yes, he did!” I would whoop, and jerk my head back like Reverend Samuels. While Sister rolled on the ground, hysterical.

  “You ain’t got no sense, boy!” she would scream repeatedly. After she got herself together, she would begin to mock Miss Josephine’s puppy shout. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!” Sister would shout in her highest soprano, saying the words fast as she could. She would then dance like Miss Josephine and shout simultaneously. You talkin’’bout funny! That child had Miss Josephine down! If Momma had seen us, oh Lawd, what a beatin’.

  The prospect of seeing Sister again made me smile. In fact, the heat cooled a bit the more I thought of her. She had been a cute child with profoundly kinky hair. Momma washed it in the kitchen sink, with Sister laid out on the countertop like a dead corpse. She would complain the entire time about Sister’s “damn woolly hair
” as she scrubbed it like a hardwood floor. Once clean, the hair was wrapped with a towel until it dried partially. When the towel was removed, Sister’s hair sprung out into a massive black bush. Sister would walk around the house shaking her’fro like Tina Turner. She would laugh and pose for me, her photographer, and I followed her excitedly every step of the way. “Lean your head a little more to the right,” I would say, trying to sound professional. I’d drop to my knees with the imaginary camera in my hands. “Sex! I need sex!” I’d whisper to Sister, and she would fling her arms wide and throw her head back, Diana Ross style. Momma would get mad and make us cut it out.

  I heard a tractor engine coming down the road. I started to hide because I wasn’t ready to deal with Daddy yet. “Hell, whatever,” I said instead, and braced myself. Around the bend came my brother, Willie James, bobbing up and down on the old John Deere tractor with the bush hog attached. As he got closer, he gazed at me real funny, like he suddenly saw the dead. Then he nodded his head slowly and chuckled sarcastically, making sure I heard him. Without saying a word, he turned off the tractor and stared at me with confusion in his eyes. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I simply stared in return.

  The sun’s brightness blinded me and made me shield my eyes with my hands to break the glare as I looked up into my brother’s face.

  “Hey, boy,” I said wimpishly.

  Willie James didn’t respond. He brought to mind an old man who had lived a life of regrets. He was five years my senior, but I was sure he could pass for my daddy. His face had patches of hair where a beard started to grow, and he was thinner than I remembered. In fact, he was at least fifty pounds lighter. Only the baseball cap gave him any appearance of youth. He kept examining me, trying to discern the image the puzzle would be if he had all the pieces.

  “Hey, kiddo,” I said again desperately. I was starting to feel like shit.

  “Where you been all this time?” Willie James said, sitting on the tractor.