by Daniel Black
“What if I pray for something different from what God thought I would?”
“It ain’t possible, boy! You can’t neva do nothin’ God didn’t already know about befo’ it eva happened.”
“That doesn’t sound like free will to me, Grandma. ‘Cause if it was truly free will, God got to wait to see what I’m gon’ do and say.”
“God ain’t got to wait to see nothin’ from you, fool! Who you thank you is?”
I let it go at that point. I wasn’t going to win, and too much was at stake for Grandma to lose. She was trembling. I suppose I tugged at the very fabric of her beliefs, although I hadn’t meant to. I was trying to resolve some of the conflicts I had after church service on Sunday mornings. Pastor would always say at least one thing that simply didn’t make sense to me, especially his belief that “to understand de Lawd, you can’t use yo’ mind.” What kind of nonsense is that? On the way home one Sunday, I asked Daddy how a man was supposed to understand God if he didn’t use his mind and Daddy said, “You too damn smart fo’ yo’ own good.” I didn’t understand that, either. If indeed God was smarter than everybody in the whole world put together, how could my little intelligence be too much? I didn’t ask this out loud. Daddy had made it clear he didn’t want to hear any more of my intellectual bullshit, as he called it.
Momma never entertained my childhood wonderings. She simply shook her head and mumbled, “You idiot,” and walked away. Therefore, the only person I knew to go to was Grandma. However, after seeing her extreme anger, I kept all my questions about God to myself.
The rain had stopped. I knew it wouldn’t pour down long enough to run the heat away permanently, but I had hoped for more than a mere dust-settling shower. Arkansas summers were famous for gathering black clouds together and blowing 25 mph winds yet delivering ten-minute rains. Rethinking Momma’s words, I realized her jealousy of me. She wanted a relationship with Sister like the one I had with her. Maybe if I had known, I would have encouraged Sister to pay Momma more attention. Maybe not.
The end of the rain disappointed me. Generally, storms gave me a hiding place and hours of quiet contemplation, and, the day I returned home, I needed both. Thunder and lightning disturbed me as a child because Grandma associated storm with the announcement of God’s apocalyptic wrath. Yet, in later years, I grew to appreciate the beauty of a storm. The whistling of the wind, rain beating diligently upon the rooftop, clouds colliding nervously into one another, and the darkening of the sky together formed a tapestry of nature both exhilarating and soothing. In the midst of storms, I enjoyed watching the rain fall, imagining each droplet as a tear that fell from my own eye. That’s why I cried when it rained. The earth’s cleansing provoked my own and served as catalyst for the release of baggage and pain lurking in my soul. My friend George asked me, as an adult, why I liked rain so much. I tried to explain how it allowed me to purge my heavy heart and make room for a new day, but he said my explanation made no sense. George offered an argument about the depressing nature of rain and the cloud of gloom it left behind. Hence rainy days contributed nothing to the union of our brotherhood.
I met George Thornton in New York City, and he quickly became my best friend. Our relationship was strange from the inception because we shared an intimacy unusual for black men. We wore each other’s clothes, wrote weekly letters—we lived in the same apartment building—and wept openly together without shame. We were definitely more than friends, although I never found the word or category to describe adequately the extent of our bond. We were committed to meeting each other’s needs and making sure nothing happened to each other. For a while, we were roommates, but the level of our comfortability often resulted in our insensitivity toward and even disrespect of each other. So I got an apartment next door. It worked out really well. When I was broke, George fed me, and when he didn’t have food, I fed him. We nurtured each other through our relationship blues and retreated into our secret hiding place whenever our girlfriends pissed us off. George offered to go to Arkansas with me, but I refused him. “T., man, you might need some support from a brother after yo’ folks get through cussin’ yo’ ass out,” George said jokingly. I knew then not to take him. He clearly didn’t understand fully the seriousness of my return.
George was an actor and a good one, too. He did mostly off-Broadway shows, although occasionally he landed a small part in a Broadway hit. Acting was his natural-born gift, but acting was also his problem. He feared reality. He didn’t know what to do with life outside of the theater. I was his closest friend, and even I didn’t know anything about his family. He simply wouldn’t talk about it. I asked him about his mother once and, through tearstained eyes, he told me never to ask him again.
He kept a diary under his bed. I know because, well, let’s just say I know. I started to steal it and read it one day, but I decided against it. Any man who would reveal himself to a book before he would another human probably had some heavy shit to deal with, and if I read it, I would feel responsible for the truth of his life. Ain’t no way I was about to assume that responsibility. Yet, even with his idiosyncrasies, George Thornton was my dearest friend. It’s sad more brothers couldn’t hang like George and me.
When I first got to New York in September of 1987, I bumped into George at La Guardia Airport.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said shyly.
“Sir?” he cackled.
“Well … I mean … I don’t know your name … so …”
“My name’s George Thornton Junior,” he stated abrasively, examining me from head to toe and laughing the entire time.
“What’s funny, Mr. George Thornton Junior” I inquired curiously.
“You must be from down south somewhere, huh?”
“I am. Arkansas. How’d you know?”
“Because nobody in New York would ever call me ‘sir.’ They hardly say ‘excuse me,’ either.”
“Oh,” I returned, relieved that this stranger wasn’t laughing at me.
“What are you doing in New York?” he went on.
“I’m going to graduate school.”
“Is this your first time in the city?”
“Yeah, It’s my first time up north actually.”
“Good! Welcome to crime and poverty and one-thousand-dollar studios!”
“One-thousand-dollar what?”
“Studios. It’s a glorified name for a small room with an even smaller bathroom and kitchen. Most of them are about as big as first-class areas on airplanes.”
“For a thousand dollars a month?”
“This is New York, baby!”
“My God. I had no idea.”
George sensed my apprehension and said, “You’ll do fine. Country boys know how to survive. Most of my friends from the country aren’t very materialistic, so New York won’t kill y’all.”
“I hope I like this place,” I said to lighten the conversation.
“You will. You already have one friend. Come on. I’ll show you around.”
George took one of my bags and started walking with me as though we had been friends for years. He told me about the World Trade Center, the theater district, and the Schomberg Center for Research in Black Culture. He went on and on about how dynamic the clubs were in New York and how he was the quintessential party animal.
While we were waiting for a cab, I asked, “Are you sure you have time to show me around? I mean, I know you probably have a job to get to or things to do. Please don’t rearrange your schedule for me.”
“Why not? Aren’t you worth someone rearranging his life?” George glared at me and smiled.
I didn’t know what to say. “I’ve only known you a few minutes, and I don’t want to consume your time.”
“I do with my time what I like. And I like you.”
“OK,” I said slowly as George opened a taxi door for me.
“Don’t worry. I’m not some crazy person out to rob you. I could use a friend in my life and I think you could, too.”
The taxi s
ped off and into more traffic than I had ever seen. For whatever reason, I felt absolutely comfortable with George. He seemed independent, self-assured, hilarious, and completely open. We spent the whole day together. Toward nightfall, he asked, “Do you already have a place to stay?”
“Actually, I had planned to search today for a room or an apartment, but you consumed all my time.” I smiled.
“Well, I guess you’ll have to stay with me. Poor me.” He hung his head, feigning sadness.
“Oh, shut up!” I said, poking him in the shoulder playfully.
“By the way, what’s your name?”
“Oh my God! I’m sorry. I’ve known your name all day and I never told you mine. I’m Tommy Lee Tyson.” I extended my hand to shake his.
“I don’t need to shake your hand, Tommy Lee. I’ve been with you all day!” We both laughed at the realization.
“Call me T.L.,” I said after the laughter subsided. “No one ever calls me by my full name.”
“That’s why I’ll call you Tommy Lee. I want to call you something no one else calls you. Is that cool?”
“Yeah, if you like. It doesn’t matter to me.”
“I do like. Come on; we’ll go home.”
My first night at George’s house turned into a six-month stay. He treated me like a king, cooking practically every night, paying for the two of us any time we went anywhere, and never making me feel indebted to him. I couldn’t have asked for a better situation. The only problem was that I hadn’t been raised to accept such charity, and George had been charitable longer than my dignity usually allowed. I moved at the beginning of the seventh month. George understood. We talked every day thereafter, telling each other everything about ourselves, even the most risky information. That’s why I’d never let him go. We went places with each other I’d never been with anyone.
Yet George Thornton was not my main concern that evening in Swamp Creek. I was still trying to figure out what had happened to Sister. As I thought about it, I suddenly remembered Sister’s picture was missing from the living room wall. Momma once had pictures of all of us plastered throughout the house, but I didn’t recall seeing Sister’s picture earlier that day when I walked inside. Or mine, for that matter. I didn’t take note of their absence at the time, but they were definitely not on the wall.
Momma had every right to be a bit beside herself. Yet that was the funny thing—she wasn’t beside herself. She was the same calm, unmoved woman I had known all my life. She had worn one hairstyle for thirty years and still cooked fish on Saturday. I could never figure her out. If she was depressed and unsettled, why didn’t she leave Swamp Creek? She deserved happiness, too. Why didn’t she go somewhere and find the source of her joy? I didn’t understand. Why wouldn’t she tell me what happened to Sister? And how did it make sense for Momma to bury the girl in the backyard in order to keep an eye on her? Where did Momma think Sister was going? “Dead means ‘immobile,’ Momma,” I wanted to say.
I had an acute suspicion Daddy knew what happened. He would never have had Sister’s grave in the backyard without his wanting it there. It definitely wasn’t his idea, but he had to have agreed. However, it wasn’t the grave that troubled me most. It was the logic of it all. Didn’t folks who came by the house tell them this wasn’t right? I mean, surely Mr. Blue or Deacon Payne had seen the tombstone and asked Daddy about it. They attended the funeral, I was sure, and didn’t they wonder about the place of interment? The more I thought about it, the crazier it became. When Daddy or Willie James mowed the lawn, didn’t Sister’s grave leave them discomposed? How did they ever get past the agony of Sister’s death with her body lying only a few feet away? Had folks gone absolutely insane in Swamp Creek?
I got up and began to walk back to the house. It was practically dark. I had thought Daddy would have been home by now, but, as luck would have it, he was late. I had wanted to meet him on the road in hopes of our encounter being eased by the chirping of birds or the slightest evening breeze, but now I had no choice but to encounter him within the confines of our small family room, and I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be pleasant.
I reentered the house. Momma had finished cooking and, because of the rain, was sitting in the dark quietly. No lights, no sound. Folks in Swamp Creek unplug everything electrical in the house except the icebox when it begins to rain. I never really understood it. I guess I didn’t need to, though, for my lack of understanding certainly didn’t stop anybody from unplugging their appliances.
“Where you been?” Momma questioned me.
“Walking around,” I said and took the nearest chair.
“What you find this time?” she asked sarcastically.
“Momma, why are you doing this to me? You knew Sister’s death would devastate me, and you make a joke of it?” I felt empowered in the dark. Momma couldn’t see me and I couldn’t see her, but we certainly felt each other.
“I’m not makin’ a joke. I was jes’ askin’ a querston. Yo’ whole life you been lookin’ for stuff, and I was jes’ askin’ if you had done found any of it.”
“Momma, why won’t you tell me about Sister? And please don’t say that same shit—I mean stuff—again.”
“I done told you all I know, boy. Now stop worr’in’ me’bout dat damn girl.”
“Momma, she was your youngest child and you don’t even know how she died?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment.”
“Well, you ain’t got to.”
Willie James walked into the dark house, presumably soaked from head to toe.
“You seen T.L., Momma?” he probed without searching the room.
“He sittin’ right dere.”
Willie James turned his face in my direction but said nothing.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Sister?” I asked with more than an edge of ugliness.
He walked on into the kitchen and asked Momma what she had cooked.
“You know what she cooked. It’s Saturday. Why are you ignoring me?”
Momma rose to turn the lights on and replug the TV. She was more relaxed with Willie James at home.
“Miss Pearlie Mae sho’ is one’ o’nry ole lady. Ain’t nothin’ neva right and she always complainin’’bout how hard it is to git good help. She too cheap to pay anybody. Lawd, soon’s I got dere, here she come talkin’’ bout—”
“Stop it, Willie James. Stop it! What the hell is wrong with you? I asked you about Sister!” I was standing, ready to fight if it came to that.
“I don’t know nothin’’bout Sister,” Willie James mimicked. “Don’t ask me again!”
“Your own sister dies and you tellin’ me you don’t know anything about it? Oh, come on, man! I ain’t no fool.”
“I done told you I don’t know nothin’.” Willie James began to walk toward the bathroom, but I wasn’t giving up that easily.
“Willie James, what the hell is wrong with you?” I walked up on him, peering into his eyes deeply. “Don’t you think I deserve to know?”
“I don’t think you deserve shit,” Willie James whined resentfully.
I couldn’t take it any longer. I punched him in the stomach, and the war was on. We were scrapping in Momma’s kitchen. Willie James put me in a headlock and slung me onto the kitchen floor. I raised my right foot and kicked his shoulder like I was trying to break down a door. Instead of hurting him, I only infuriated him. Willie James grabbed the broom and began to beat me like an old dirty, dusty rug. He was clearly overpowering me, but I grabbed the end of the broom and plunged it up against his throat. We continued fighting until I was simply exhausted. Willie James stood over me with that do-you-want-some-more-of-me expression and, since I didn’t, I said very softly, “Sorry.”
“You damn right,” he said furiously, and proceeded to the bathroom.
I peeled myself from the kitchen floor and noticed Momma had not moved the entire time. She simply watched us in excitement to see which son would overcome the other.
“Momma, what’s wrong with y’all?” I asked helplessly.
“We the same thang we always been,” she insisted.
Having no response, I dragged myself to the back bedroom and fell across the bed in tears. I had never felt so nihilistic in my entire life. Traditionally, Momma and Willie James weren’t allies, but I guess things do change over the years. She had the ability to consume people, and Willie James had fallen victim to her venom. Like the time Grandma got sick, it was Momma who decided she should stay with us. People praised Momma for being the committed daughter, the one who honored her mother enough to take care of the latter in her old age. Yet even back then, I knew Momma’s actions were not centered in love for Grandma. Momma treated her like an old sofa she couldn’t figure out how to get rid of. She told Grandma when she could move, eat, shit, and when to keep her mouth closed. However, in public, Momma acted like she was bearing the burden of her mother with love. People would ask, “Marion, how ya’ momma doin’?” and Momma would fake exasperation and say, “Momma’s doin’ pretty good. I tries to make sho’ she got ever’thing she needs.” People would then extend their hearts in sympathy, admiring Momma’s commitment to an ailing mother. I wanted to tell everybody what was going on for real, but Momma would have destroyed me had I exposed her charade.
I rolled over on the bed and gazed at the wall. That’s when I noticed the butterfly picture was gone. The nail on which it hung was still in place, but the painting had been removed. Of course I knew who had moved it, but I didn’t know why. No need to ask that question, though. “No one around here knows anything,” I mumbled.
Momma called me to come eat, but I didn’t want any fish. I wanted her to tell me what happened to my baby sister. I lay there and acted like I didn’t hear her and decided to write George a letter. Fumbling quietly until I found pen and paper in my bag, I wrote desperately:
Dear George,