by Daniel Black
Suddenly a woman stood up and began to interpret my tongues! I was laughing hard and screaming louder to cover it. She said, “Thus saith the Lord, Our God. ‘If My people would submit again unto My law, I would bless them tenfold what they could ever imagine. If they would but humble themselves unto My word and hear the voice of My prophets, I would give them the desires of their hearts. Lo, My children, the way of the wicked enticeth the many and causeth all of them to stumble and fall. Hear ye, this day, the word of the Lord and abide’.”
The crowd belted out, “Hallelujah!” and, “Amen!” and, “Oh, thank you, Jesus,” for the interpretation rendered of my unknown tongues.
I started to stand up and tell her, “Sit down, woman! I ain’t said none of that stuff you jes’ said. In fact, I ain’t said nothin’,’cause I made it all up!” Yet that would have ruined all the fun I was having watching my relatives make complete asses of themselves as they turned my joke into the indisputable Word of God.
The ushers came, picked me up, and carried me outside. I kept breathing hard so that the transition back to normalcy wouldn’t seem too abrupt.
“You all right, son?” said one of the ushers, fanning me violently.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m fine,” I returned. “I feel a little light-headed. I guess I’d better sit here a minute and get myself back together.”
“De Holy Ghost really got on you dis momin’!”
“Yes, ma’am! It sho’ did!”
They left me alone to recover. The minute they were out of sight, I said, “Thank God!” and ran to the General Store to get Sister and me some candy.
When I got back, I knew I was in trouble because church service was over. I hadn’t realized I had been gone so long. I walked into the back of the church and started hugging relatives and saying good-bye like I had never left. I could feel Daddy staring at me out of the corner of his eye, but I never turned to face him. On the way home that day, Daddy said, “You don’t play wit’ God, boy.” And that’s all he said.
“Yessir,” I returned, trembling genuinely this time.
16
I went outside and met Willie James, who was hooking up the hay cutter to the John Deere tractor.
“I get a little help today?” he asked without looking up.
“Uh, sure, but I gotta make a run first. I’ll meet you in the field. I won’t be long.”
Willie James didn’t believe me.
“Seriously, I’ll be there. I have something important I need to do first. I’ll be in front of the old Whitcomb place before eight thirty. Promise. It’s seven ten now and you can time me if you want.”
Willie James mounted the tractor and said, “Whatever.”
I started walking down the road to Ms. Swinton’s place. Although I didn’t want to upset her, I had some questions only she could answer. Apparently, she, too, was committed to keeping the secret of her maternity away from me, and, because of her illness, I wasn’t sure if confronting her was such a good idea, but I persevered, determined to know the full truth. She wasn’t going to be around much longer, and I resolved to uncover the details of my conception while I had a chance.
As I rounded the bend in the road leading to her house, I saw a dazzling baby blue Mercedes parked in her front yard. Maybe she has company, I thought, but I hadn’t come that far to turn around, so I proceeded to her house and knocked on the front door.
“Yes, come in,” a man’s voice welcomed far in the distance.
I turned the knob and entered slowly. The house was still and quiet, completely frozen in time. Again I marveled at the books everywhere.
“I’m in the back room,” the voice called again.
I followed it and discovered a rather tall, clean-cut, well-dressed young man sitting on Ms. Swinton’s bed. He was reading what looked like a journal.
He stood when I entered the room, and smiled broadly, extending his right hand. “Hello, Thomas,” he said with a strange familiarity.
“Um … hello … and how do you know me?” I asked peevishly.
The young man released my hand and chuckled. “Ms. Swinton told me all about you. Every word out of her mouth was Thomas this and Thomas that. She said you’d be coming by, and asked if I’d hang around and wait on you.”
“Who are you?” I queried curiously.
The young man beheld me with exuberant hesitation and then revealed, “I’m Ms. Swinton’s son.”
“You’re Ms. Swinton’s son?” I bellowed.
“In the flesh. It’s a long story, but it’s true. I’ll explain it to you later.” He shook his head sadly, indicating that the story had more complications than he wished to entertain at the moment.
“Where’s Ms. Swinton?” I asked, suddenly realizing she was not in the bed.
“Thomas, she passed around ten o’clock last night. She didn’t want me to phone anyone, especially you. She said you would come today and that was soon enough.”
“Oh no!” I screamed, and collapsed to the floor.
The young man resumed his place on the bed’s edge. “Yeah. I was here, though, and everything was pretty nice actually. There was no pain and she said she had no regrets. Well, except one.”
I rose slowly from the floor and sat on the bed next to him. Under normal circumstances, I would never have sat on Ms. Swinton’s bed if she were not present, but somehow it seemed OK now.
“What was the one regret?” I asked.
“She asked me to stay here and wait on you,” he said, ignoring my question. “She knew last night would be the end and made me promise to stay here and tell you everything.”
“This is too crazy for me, man.”
“I know. You ain’t heard the half of it yet.”
“What’s your name?” I asked after realizing I was having a conversation about my life with a total stranger.
“David,” he said rather lightly.
“Maybe I’m tripping or something, David, but you seem to be taking this whole thing rather nonchalantly.”
“Death is part of life, Thomas. Plus, I know more than you about the full situation, little brother.”
“She told you?”
“Yeah, she told me. Years ago. In fact, I knew when you were born. She said your eyes popped wide open when you came out, like you were searching for something. She knew at that moment you’d be a writer, musician, or some kind of artist. I was living with my dad at the time because Momma wasn’t supposed to be a single mother teaching in the rural black South. Hence, I stayed in Detroit. She wanted to marry my father and move back here and have a family, she said, but Daddy wouldn’t hear of it. She knew she couldn’t come back here with a child as a single woman and teach. Folks didn’t accept that lifestyle back in the day, so she decided to leave me with my father.”
“Why didn’t she stay there with you?”
“Because she said Swamp Creek was calling her and she had to answer. She couldn’t get away from it. It didn’t make much sense to me then, but I understand it perfectly now.”
“She came back here because she had a feeling she was supposed to be here?”
“That’s pretty much it, but don’t underestimate the strength of a calling. Yearnings of the heart are difficult to ignore. You know what I mean?”
I thought of my own plight. “I know far too well.”
Thomas continued, “Momma told me she prayed you’d return, and when you showed up a few days ago, she called me and told me her life was complete. I asked her if she told you everything and she said she couldn’t. She wanted to enjoy you the way you always were: smart, handsome, respectful, seeking. She was afraid telling you about her and your father would devastate you and mar her last days with you. She said she owed herself at least a week of peace in her life. I was left behind to do the dirty work.”
We both chuckled disingenuously.
“Momma kept journals over the years. Sometimes she would write for hours, it seems, creating ten and twenty-page entries. Your name is everywhere. From the day
you were born to the day of your return, Momma recorded it. She was an amazing woman who truly loved to write. Read this one.”
David handed me an old torn and battered journal. I had to hold the covers together to keep it from falling apart. The entry was dated January 15, 1965. I read aloud.
“‘Who knows the pain of a mother separated from her child? I wish I could retreat in time and hold Mary’s hand as the Romans nail her baby to the cross. His being the Savior of the world surely meant nothing to a mother whose fate was to witness her own son’s execution. While the world speaks of his gift of eloquence and his ability to transform water into wine, Mary undoubtedly remembers most his first step and his weight at birth. I wonder, as Jesus’ blood was streaming down his side, if Mary even cared that her son had saved other souls. She probably sought desperately for someone to come and save his. And what about her heart after the resurrection? Was the fact that he had died to save the world supposed to compensate for the pain she endured from losing him? What a selfish, thoughtless world that can justify a mother’s tragedy simply by arguing that everyone else benefits.
“‘I joined the ranks of Mary yesterday as I watched Cleatis walk slowly through the snow with my baby. The hurt inside my heart is too intense to describe and too deep to find.”That’s my baby,” I kept whispering, but I can’t have him. People would say he didn’t come right, that I hadn’t been a righteous woman. So I gave him unto a place for safekeeping. I have a bad feeling about this arrangement, but there’s nothing more I can do. Having made such a mistake once, I can’t ascertain how I did it again. This Achilles’ heel just won’t give me any peace. Cleatis asked me not to tell the boy what happened between us, and I suppose I won’t. It’s not logical anyway. I can’t explain it to myself. How did I let myself get involved with a twenty-two-year-old former student? Maybe I’ve been lying to myself about what I need and how badly I want a companion. That lie has certainly forced its own confession.’”
David moved a little closer to me and read along. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone.
“‘But that’s my baby, I keep telling myself. How will he know how much I love him? Who will assure him that his mother contemplated his existence daily? Will others tell him I abandoned him carelessly or thought he was ugly? The future I cannot tell, but I pray earnestly he will grow to be strong and beautiful and certain of himself. Might his joys always keep him in laughter, and might his sorrows be few. I know not how I shall bear this. It seems I have resigned myself to watching him grow without the privilege of nurturing him the right way. I won’t get a chance to read to him for hours while he sits on my lap and falls in love with the written word. He may, in fact, never know he comes from a legacy of writers, that he is, in fact, a writer by birth. The best I can hope for is that Cleatis won’t kill him if any of my blood announces itself in his character. Oh, God. What shall become of all of this? My baby …’”
David handed me a handkerchief. To think that, all these years, she was watching me and pushing me because I belonged to her was simply overwhelming.
“Read this one,” David prompted, handing me a different book.
“‘My son graduated from high school tonight. It’s a day I’ve not anticipated joyfully. He’s going to leave; I’m certain of that. I’ve heard his moans and grumblings about how stifling Swamp Creek is for him. Oh, the days I’ve wanted to grab him and tell him everything! Maybe the truth would keep him here, I thought. But I made a promise I have to keep. Never did I guess it would be this costly, this painful.
“‘His speech tonight was simply brilliant. He spoke of high standards and convictions of the heart as though he were an old man who had experienced a lifetime. He is absolutely beautiful. Where shall he go? I may never hear from him again after tonight. This must be the price of a wanton love affair. I still can’t explain it to myself. Loneliness, maybe. I believe to be alone in the world is the greatest punishment any woman can endure. Cleatis was … there. No logic alone can justify my actions. It was the right day and the right time and he … appeared. I had asked him to come by and help me mount a bookcase, and somehow, as I read to him, we began to exchange feelings that neither of us premeditated. He stared at me while I read and then touched my face so gently that I melted in response. I laid the book down and rubbed his head, buried in my chest. None of this makes sense to me now, but then it felt right. Or at least it felt good.
“‘I pray the world treats my son with dignity and respect. I’ve tried frantically to teach him to love himself and to allow people to be the fullness of themselves without judgment. He loves to read! At least I did something right!’”
I chuckled and sniffled along.
“‘He’ll probably teach somewhere. He’ll be great, too. Charisma, charm, discipline, all the characteristics of a master teacher. I only wish I could be there and watch it all. That’s every mother’s right! I want to encourage him along the way when he gets discouraged and to fix him coffee and bring it to him as he studies all night for those major college exams. But no, it won’t be me. I fear, indeed, it won’t be anyone. Thomas is going to have to weather this storm alone. He was conceived by those who could not give him what he needs. A cloudy origin is his destiny, it seems, yet I pray his life will be filled with uncloudy days. My hope is that he learns to stand firmly and solidly like a tree. He can do it. I know he can. Lord, please help him! Don’t let my baby get devoured by a world that never, ever loved a black man. Oh God, I don’t know what else to do. I’m putting him into Your hands for safekeeping. And, if it be Your will, if it be at all possible, please let me see him again before I see You.’”
I couldn’t read any more.
“I know this is kinda wild, Thomas, but you deserve to know. Momma wanted it that way.” David put his arm around my shoulder and encouraged me to cry freely.
“Hey, man, we brothers, right?” he said as I wiped my tears embarassingly.
“Man, this is crazy,” I remarked, rising and pacing the floor. “I come over here looking for Ms. Swinton and discover she’s already dead and has left me a brother to serve as a personal messenger? This is too much.”
“How you think I felt? I’ve spent years wondering why Momma had to leave me in Detroit and come down here to nothing. She has another son and I never get a chance to meet my own brother until we come together to bury our mother. This is trippin’ me out, too. Believe me.”
We looked at each other like two lost bear cubs wondering where, oh where, our mother had gone.
“She told me we’d meet one day. She said it was a long story, but we’d probably have a lot in common. I used to hope we both looked like her so we’d kinda look like each other, too. It’s crazy, but I had a lotta thoughts about you over the years. I always wanted a little brother to play with and boss around, and Momma told me I had one, but I couldn’t have you. I used to beg her to bring you to Detroit so I could meet you, but she said it wasn’t possible. After a while, I stopped hoping. It seemed like a fairy tale anyway; thus I decided maybe you didn’t even exist. Now here we are.”
We hugged and cried together right there in the middle of Ms. Swinton’s bedroom. It was strange, hugging a man intimately I had only met moments earlier, but it also felt very natural. We sat on the floor together and leaned our backs against the bed.
“Your whole life’s story is in these journals, Thomas. It might take you a while, but you should sit down and read them carefully. Momma’s entire life was obsessed by what you were having for dinner, or what kind of girlfriend you might find, or whether or not you’d become a preacher.”
“A preacher?” I asked, startled.
“Yeah. Momma predicted you were going to be a preacher because you talked all the time, she said!”
“No I didn’t, man!” I lied. We both laughed.
“She was sure your parents or simply living in Swamp Creek was going to land you in the pulpit.”
“I can’t believe Ms. Swinton wanted me to be a preacher! She never was
one big on church.”
“Oh no! She didn’t want you to be a preacher. In fact, she prayed you’d never preach, she said. She thought you’d do it because there wasn’t much else for a smart black boy to do in a little town like Swamp Creek. She never, ever wanted it for you. She used to tell me preachers were narrow and ‘limiting in scope.’ That’s the phrase she always used. She said she hated the fact most preachers could only see God through the eyes of the Bible and certainly God was bigger than the ideological premise any book could ever contain. She told me she had a dream one time you were in the pulpit preaching and you told the congregation the Bible wasn’t even real. It was the creation of writers who got together and decided they were going to write a book about God. Any group of people could do that, you asserted. Wonder what a book about God written by black writers might say? Momma said the church threw you out and told you never to come back. Such rejection is precisely why she hoped you’d never preach.”