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

by Daniel Black

  “Who calls?” Ms. Swinton asked in a whisper.

  I followed the voice and discovered her lying in the most beautiful bed I had ever seen. It was covered with a snow-white lace bedspread, several big throw pillows, and an overhead canopy, which gave it a dreamy appearance. The bed accented beautifully the hardwood floors, which would have shined more resplendently had Ms. Swinton had her strength. She was much thinner than I remembered, but her spirit was very much the same.

  “It’s me. Thomas,” I said, beaming at her.

  She gasped at me in total shock. Her mouth was agape and her eyes were three times their normal size.

  “Precious Jesus!” she hollered, and reached for my hand. Ms. Swinton pulled me next to her on the bed and began to cry softly.

  “Lord have mercy! No one informed me of your return, Thomas. I had determined I’d see the Lord before I saw you again.” She was patting my hand, very motherly. “My, my, my. You’re all refined and polished now. What a handsome young man you’ve become.” Ms. Swinton endeavored to sit up, but her strength failed her.

  “Take it easy,” I urged sincerely. “I don’t want you troubling yourself because I’m here. I thought I’d come around and surprise my favorite teacher.”

  Ms. Swinton smiled as her grip on my hand loosened.

  “You have a beautiful house, Ms. Swinton. And all these books! Maybe I’ll have such a collection one day,” I said, feeling overwhelmed with even more books in the bedroom.

  “First of all, this is a home, Mr. Tyson—not a house. You remember the difference?”

  I laughed aloud, for Ms. Swinton had taught us as children that a home is where people live. A house, on the other hand, is a structure meant for human dwelling.

  “Yes, ma’am, I remember. Actually, I remember almost everything you’ve ever taught me.”

  “Almost is not sufficient, young man,” Ms. Swinton admonished lovingly. “You must remember every lesson in order to endow your students with your best.”

  I gasped, surprised. “How did you know I teach?”

  “I knew you’d be a teacher and scholar when I first met you. Your intellectual acumen and zeal could lead you to nothing else.”

  “You were right,” I yielded. “I finished my Ph.D. in black studies a month ago and am anxiously anticipating joining a prestigious faculty this fall.”

  “Marvelous! Congratulations, Dr. Tyson. Go conquer the world!”

  Ms. Swinton started coughing and couldn’t stop. She signaled for me to pass her the glass of water resting on the nightstand, and I did so, although my unsteady hand resulted in a teaspoon of water being spilt on her bed. Motioning for me not to worry about it, she swallowed the tepid water and recuperated arduously, her head falling back on the pillow like a heavy weight. “I shall surely miss this old home,” she commented after perusing the room slowly. “It has brought me great joy and comfort for almost forty years. I ran out of bookshelves years and years ago, so I simply placed books wherever I was when I completed them. Usually my home does not resemble a jungle, but poor health has brought the unusual.”

  She began to cough again, this time more violently. I braced her back as she drank more water. My misty eyes almost spilled over as I remembered how much I adored Ms. Swinton and her once-statuesque form.

  “We shall all go one day, son,” she whimpered and relaxed onto the pillow again. “And my day approaches.”

  “Ms. Swinton, don’t worry. You’ll be fine. You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” I lied. I couldn’t find anything comforting or truthful to say.

  She smiled weakly and corrected me, “You mean aren’t. And of course I am going somewhere. You’d better hope I’m going to the right place.” Her hand touched mine affectionately.

  I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. I had promised myself not to usher gloom and sadness into the room, but they overcame me.

  “Why do you weep, son?” Ms. Swinton asked compassionately. “This is God’s will. I never expected to be here forever, and I hope you don’t, either.”

  “I know, Ms. Swinton, but—”

  “Aw, it’s OK, baby. Tears are signs of love. I’ve always known you loved me.”

  The frog in my throat was relentless. “You meant the world to me as a child, Ms. Swinton.” My head, like a shy puppy’s, dropped diffidently between my legs.

  “Raise your head, boy,” Ms. Swinton insisted. “I’ve taught you never to hide anything, including your feelings. Black people are a proud people, and we surrender our dignity to no one.”

  “I know, Ms. Swinton, but I can’t help it. You believed in me and loved me. You made me work hard because you saw brilliance in me everyone else ignored. You wanted success for all of us and you demanded the best. I would never have made it without you.”

  I leaned my head on her shoulder and cried freely. I was a grown man, but I felt no embarrassment. I wanted her to know what she had meant to me, and I had a feeling this would be my last chance to tell her.

  Regaining my composure, I apologized.

  “For what?” she asked, sounding truly puzzled.

  “I don’t know,” I muttered. “I’ve missed you terribly in the last ten years. I can’t even explain how much.”

  “I’ve thought of you often as well, but I knew you were doing fine. I knew it.” She smiled as she blinked slowly. “I also know why you left.”

  The statement didn’t surprise me. Ms. Swinton knew everything.

  “I didn’t think I’d ever see this place again,” I said as I rose and paced the bedroom floor.

  “Oh, I knew you’d come back. You had to. I only hoped it would be before my time was up.”

  “Why were you sure I’d return?”

  “Because you had no choice. A tree can never escape its roots. The day it does, it dies, and you weren’t about to die. You had too much life in you. Oh yes, I knew you’d return.”

  She coughed again, but this time less impetuously.

  “See, son, all that abuse, heartache, and pain you carried away from here is part of you. These country folk, these trees, and those chitterlings you love so well all combine together to form your identity. And a person can never escape his identity. Indeed, a smart man learns to embrace his, the good as well as the bad. You had to come back to connect with the people and the place that shaped your initial identity. You can’t find it anywhere else because it does not exist anywhere but here. When you left years ago, you were running too hard to come to terms with yourself. But then I thought about it awhile and knew you were too smart to let your folks strip you of your self.”

  Ms. Swinton’s insight was astounding. My subsequent silence resulted from an inability to comprehend how she could possibly have known the workings of my heart, and, more significantly, why she cared.

  “You’re right,” I surrendered, “but also I came to see Sister. And the rest of my folks, too.” I was definitely lying.

  “No, you didn’t,” Ms. Swinton whispered emphatically, struggling to sit up in bed. “You came back because the world never gave you what you were looking for.” The cough languished to a wheeze, allowing Ms. Swinton to continue. “You thought you would leave Swamp Creek and, eventually, the memory of it would evaporate. You tried hard to repudiate this place and forever be free. But, Thomas, freedom never comes to anyone. Freedom is a creation, and the first step in creating it is knowing and embracing your past. You had no choice but to come back here to do it.”

  Ms. Swinton was reading me. She knew the outline of my entire personal evolution and was speaking about me with an authority usually reserved for a parent. Actually, the ease with which she described the complexities of my life implied her knowledge of me to an extent most remarkable.

  I didn’t argue. Instead, I stood in the middle of the floor with my head bowed like a man on trial without a jury.

  “Look, baby, it’s all right. I ran, too. I escaped Swamp Creek at sixteen and didn’t come back until I was twenty-six. I refused to tolerate the intellectual
indolence of these folks. Reading was a disease to be strictly avoided back then, and a good, well-informed discussion hardly ever came to fruition. Leaving was my only option. Yet I didn’t stay away. The people and things I had to come to terms with were here. I knew they weren’t coming to me, so I had to come back to them. Because it took me more than ten years, however, to establish a viable identity, I never left again.”

  Her pitiful stare comforted me. She then closed her eyes and attempted to regain strength as she afforded me time to digest her words. Illness did not suit Ms. Swinton, for lying in bed weak, she had lost her pizzazz and enormity. I never imagined she could be vulnerable and dependent.

  “I want to have peace of mind, Ms. Swinton,” I said vehemently and resumed my seat beside her. She reached for my hand and I gave it to her. “I didn’t come home to start confusion like my folks think. I simply wanted to see Sister and ask Momma and Daddy some questions. That’s all.” I hesitated a moment and then inquired, “Did you hear about what happened to Sister?”

  Ms. Swinton nodded affirmatively. “Yes, I heard. It doesn’t make sense to me, either. I didn’t ask anyone any questions, though, due to fear of impropriety. I prayed that, when you learned the truth, it wouldn’t crush you too badly. I know how much you loved her.”

  “Yeah. I loved her a lot.”

  Ms. Swinton squeezed my hand harder and said, “Thomas,” but then stopped.

  “Yes, ma’am?” I responded curiously.

  “Oh, forget it. It can wait.”

  “Are you sure?” I pressed, wanting to hear what she had to say.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  She took a deep breath, a sign exhaustion had returned, but she tried to smile anyway.

  “Thomas, the Lord has answered my prayer today. I asked Him to send you back to me before I die. I wanted to see you, hold your hand, and know that your life is abundantly blessed.”

  Ms. Swinton’s physical affection frightened me, although less than her fervid heart. Within me, I would have to make room for her character to be other than that of the stoic woman of my childhood.

  “I guess I’d better be getting home. I’ve been here awhile now and I don’t want to drain you. I only wanted to come see you and to let you know I was back home. Also I wanted to thank you for all your kindness and help over the years.”

  I hugged her very gently and struggled to rise, but she held on to me and would not let go.

  “Stay a little while longer, son,” she beseeched. “I don’t have company too often and you always were my favorite student. I want to study you real good”—her eyes squinted—“so I can take you with me when I go home.”

  I obliged, of course, continuing to hold her hand as she rubbed mine amiably. Honestly, the woman was scaring me. Her plea for my presence forced the realization that, indeed, she was dying. Now, more than ever, I needed her to speak to me and say whatever would set her spirit free, but, instead, she lay silent in bed, rocking herself slowly and lamentably, dealing with me more as a memory than a real person. I had no choice, it seemed, but to endure, for Ms. Swinton was in her final hour. Her quietude and inner bliss were at once admirable and ominous. She manifested absolutely no fear; rather, her heart’s desire, it seemed, was to transition while I held her hand. I didn’t know how much time she had, whether days or moments, but it wouldn’t be long. My arrival, I was afraid, had been the defining factor.

  I gazed at this irreplaceable legend of a woman. Everybody in Swamp Creek had a story about how Ms. Swinton whipped them in school until they “got their lesson out” or how she slapped their hands with a ruler until their penmanship was impeccable. She had given her students her best. Yet never once did I consider whether Ms. Swinton felt loved and appreciated. People’s reverence for her never left room for me to consider her pain or loneliness. I assumed her heart was always satisfied. I never knew she, too, had left Swamp Creek in search of a life more abundant.

  “Thomas,” Ms. Swinton said, barely audible.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Sure, ma’am. Anything. You need water or food or—”

  “No, son. It’s much more serious than that.”

  “Whatever it is, just ask,” I said. I saw no need for reservations.

  “Fine. I want you to know, though, I’ve thought this through thoroughly and I know it’s right,” Ms. Swinton whimpered intensely.

  I began to worry. She sounded more serious than I wanted to entertain. “I want you to take my position as Swamp Creek’s schoolteacher.”

  “What?” I screamed, jerking my hand from hers.

  “No one else is as qualified as you, Thomas. You know the people, you know the territory, you have the education, and you have the intellectual savvy. I recognize this is a lot to ask from such a young, brilliant man, but there is no other choice.”

  “I can’t do that, Ms. Swinton! I’m sorry.” The fire in my eyes was disrespectful, certainly, but I had no intention of entertaining what she had requested, even in further conversation. She pressed on irreverently.

  “I know the children will love you,” she complimented me, ignoring me perfectly. “They are eager to learn and full of life. You’ll have to be strict and firm, for Swamp Creek parents don’t value education very much. The money isn’t very good, but the reward comes when you see the children transform.”

  I wasn’t even listening anymore. “Ms. Swinton! I can’t do that! I can’t live here again! It’s out of the question.”

  I stood, preparing myself to go because Ms. Swinton had angered me. How dare she ask me to take over the school and move back to Swamp Creek permanently! I was seething with wrath and exuding irascibility well beyond my comfort zone.

  “Yes, you can do it, Thomas,” she declared calmly. “You must. There is no one else.”

  “I’m sure there’s someone else somewhere! I know lots of recent black college graduates who might like a small country school. I’ll get in touch with a few and see what—”

  Ms. Swinton cut me off. “It must be you, Thomas. These children need to know who they are. I’ve done my best, but my day is over. You know enough black history to transform these children’s lives completely. The Harlem Renaissance, the Negritude Movement, the Scottsboro Incident, the Berlin Conference of 1850 where Europe divided Africa like a puzzle and decided which European country would colonize which part of Africa … these children need to know these things. You, T.L., could explain to them why they loathe their own black skin and despise nothing more fiercely than beautiful kinky African hair. And, most important, you could show them the connection between their own rural black culture and elements of traditional African cultures so they would be proud to be African instead of fighting not to be. You’ve traveled the world and seen people and places most of them will never see. Furthermore, they can relate to you. You and the children are cut from the same cloth.”

  It was my turn to cut her off. “I’m sorry, Ms. Swinton, but I can’t. I already have a job,” I lied, “a home, and other things I want to do that I can’t do here. I’m flattered you’d ask me—really, I am—but I’m sorry.”

  I began walking toward the door.

  Ms. Swinton yelled, “Do not walk as I’m talking, boy!” I froze, feeling like a third grader again.

  “I know this seems unfeasible, Thomas, but we need you.” She paused. “And you need us. Pray about your answer before you give it.” She breathed wearily and then turned her head to examine me. “You may go now.”

  Distraught and disillusioned, I had begun to walk out of the bedroom when she stopped me abruptly.

  “Thomas?”

  I said nothing. I kept my back turned toward her.

  “Thomas Lee Tyson?” Ms. Swinton called more emphatically.

  “Yes, ma’am?” I mumbled.

  “Look at me,” she insisted. Tears stood fragilely in her eyes. I could hardly behold her.

  “Thank you. And … I love you.” She expe
lled a weighted sigh, obviously relieved of a very great burden.

  “Ms. Swinton, I’m flattered and all, but—”

  “Do not insult me, young man!” she roared, then gasped deeply to regain her strength. “This is not about flattery or your ego. This is about the salvation of black children in Swamp Creek. They need your brilliance, Thomas. No one else is going to believe in them like I know you will. That’s why it must be you.”

  She hesitated, in order to catch more breath, and continued. “I envision you rising proud and strong,” she proclaimed with a smile as she closed her eyes, “leading the students in ‘Lift Every Voice and Sing’ until they know it perfectly. They’ll beam at the power of your voice, T.L., and seek nothing more earnestly than to match it. I’ll be so happy!” Her voice broke and tears formed rivers down her cheeks. “You’ll tell them about Frederick Douglass, Ida B. Wells, lynching, Black Codes, and the Little Rock Central High Integration Incident. Or maybe you’ll read The Bluest Eye and teach them the dangers of black people embracing European standards of beauty. Or maybe you’ll study Native Son and contextualize black rage so they won’t think African people in America are livid for no justifiable reason. Whatever you study, the children’s lives will be changed forever. They’ll never forget you because you showed them that their savior is a real-life black man who shares their genesis. Consequently, they’ll finally believe that, maybe, they, too, can save another’s soul. See, T.L., you know things most college graduates do not. I’m sure of this. You left here with a thirst for knowledge and you were not going to be satisfied until you learned enough to see your own beauty. And it’s that beauty you must teach these children, son. They’re dying constantly. They think they’re too black and too stupid to be of any value. Unfortunately, their folks inadvertently reinforce such notions, and I am too old to fight the battle any longer. But you’re not.”