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

by Daniel Black

  Willie James gaped at me, unsure of whether my question was genuine or I was caricaturing him.

  “OK. Here’s what happened. I walked into de party and everybody started tellin’ Lucretia dat her boyfriend was here. I started feelin’ good and gettin’ cocky. What I didn’t realize is dat ridin’ on dis damn tractor at night, I was covered wit’ thick, red dust from head to toe.”

  My laughter caused me to lose my balance, and I almost fell off the tractor. Imagining Willie James grinning while his whole body was red with dust was about to kill me.

  “Nigga, you tryin’ to make a joke outta somebody!” he alleged cordially.

  “No, I’m not. Go ahead.” I tried unsuccessfully to hold my laughter.

  “I started slow dancin’ wit’ Lucretia”—Willie James’s head rocked from side to side—“and she started sneezin’ real bad. She frowned at me and I looked back at her’cause we couldn’t figure out why she was sneezin’ all of a sudden. Then, somebody turned on de lights and dat’s when Billy Ray Jackson said, ‘Oh my God! Look at dat nigga! He look like a black-ass dust ball!’ I didn’t know what he was talkin’bout at first, but then everybody started starin’ at me, and when I looked at myself I saw dat I was covered in thick dust all over.”

  “No!” I kept screaming, trying desperately to regain my composure.

  “Yeah, it’s funny now, but it wasn’t funny how I kicked Billy Ray’s ass!” Willie James volunteered confidently.

  “You didn’t kick his ass, Willie James!” I instigated further. “He was three times your size!”

  “Dat don’t mean nothin’! I jumped ova on dat nigga and started beatin’ his ass like he had done stole somethin’! We was rollin’ on de floor right in Lucretia’s momma’s livin’ room. She was holl’in’ and screamin’ fu’ us to stop, but I wasn’t’bout to git punked in front o’ all those people. I throwed him against de wall—”

  “Willie James!” I shrieked in disbelief.

  “I did! Then I throwed him on de floor and jumped on him and started beatin’ his chest like Grandma used to grind corn! Dat nigga wasn’t gon’ git ‘way wit’ callin’ me no fuckin’ dust ball in front o’ Lucretia and I not do nothin’’bout it.”

  “But, Willie James, other people said Billy Ray was on top o’ you, smackin’ yo’ ass like you was his bitch!”

  “Oh, fuck you, nigga! You know dat ain’t true! I wish dat nigga woulda tried to smack me!”

  Tears rolled down my face like bowling balls, merging with the sweat caused by the beaming sun.

  “Willie James, I laughed for at least two weeks!”

  “I’m glad you found dat shit funny, ‘cause I sho’ didn’t,” he said with a straight face. “I didn’t speak to Billy Ray again till we was near’bout grown. I saw him in Krogers one day and we looked at each other and both of us busted out laughin’ at de same time.”

  “What is he doin’ now?”

  “He workin’ wit’ his daddy down at de paper mill. Ain’t nothin’ else to do round here but work at de paper mill.”

  “Whatever happened to Lucretia?” I asked curiously.

  “She married a boy from way out in de hills and he took her out dere and kept her barefoot and pregnant!”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. She got at least six kids and dey say she pregnant again. You oughta see her! Big as a house!”

  “Stop lyin’!”

  “I’m tellin you! If me and you put our arms together and made a circle she couldn’t fit in de middle.”

  “Willie James!”

  “Wait till you see her. She weigh at least three hundred fifty, four hundred pounds,” he suggested matter-of-factly.

  “Shut up! She used to be the finest girl in Swamp Creek!”

  “I know! But she sho’ ain’t now. She might be de biggest!”

  We howled. Lucretia Clemmons’s being undesirable vindicated Willie James somehow.

  We pulled up in front of the barn and turned the tractor off. Willie James assumed a serious expression and said, “Everythang I done said is between us. Right?”

  “Right,” I said, praying I’d be able to keep the promise. I must have sounded a bit uncertain, for Willie James huffed and said, “Come on, T.L. Don’t say nothin’ to nobody. I got to live round here. You don’t.”

  “All right, all right. I won’t say anything,” I pledged. However, somewhere within, I felt like I was lying.

  18

  We ate dinner Wednesday evening in delicate, labored serenity. Momma had cooked neck bones, string beans, black-eyed peas, and corn bread. Everything was rather spicy, but Daddy piled salt on his food anyway. It was more habit than taste. The fact that he applied the seasoning was what prepared his meal for consumption.

  “Look like we might git some rain tonight,” Momma announced, breaking the silence.

  Daddy scoffed. “De Lawd gon’ do whatever de Lawd want to. Don’t chu neva thank He ain’t.” God’s intentions was a topic Daddy had always refused to discuss. In fact, his religious rigidity exposed, I believe, Daddy’s fragile fear that maybe God wasn’t omnipotent.

  “I hope it don’t rain ‘cause I need to git up dat hay’fo’ it get wet,” Willie James commented.

  “Boy, you don’t worry ‘bout dat. If it rain, you thank de Good Lawd fu’ de rain and go’head on. De hay’ll take care o’ itself.” Daddy shot Willie James a look of finality.

  I didn’t say anything; it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

  “I want chu boys to walk down dat back fence afta suppa and fix de hole where dem damn cows been tryin’ to break out. Take some wire and a couple o’ cedar posts wit’ chu’cause you might need to replace dat weak spot right in de back comer. I ‘speck y’all better hurry up, too, ‘fo’ it start thunderin’ and lightnin’.”

  “Cain’t dey do dat tomorrow, Cleatis?” Momma asked tremulously.

  “Naw, dey cain’t, ‘cause if it storm, dem cows is gon’ git nervous and try to break out. Ain’t no tellin’ where dey be by mornin’. Y’all hurr’up now.”

  Willie James and I glanced at each other, thinking the same thing. “We’ll handle it, Daddy,” I submitted cheerfully. That was a mistake. Willie James kicked me lightly under the table, a sign that I was acting out of the ordinary. I tried to redeem myself by changing the subject.

  “Ms. Swinton passed last night,” I said, studying the faces around me.

  Daddy’s head jerked up. He was clearly hurt, yet he dared not express it. Instead, he remarked tranquilly, “Is dat right?”

  “Yes, sir. She died sometime before midnight.”

  “You found her?” Momma asked. I could have sworn I saw a smile.

  “No, ma’am. When I got there, her … um … relatives had already arrived. They told me she had died.”

  “I didn’t know Ms. Swinton had folks. Did you, Cleatis?”

  “Yeah, I knowed. Everybody got some folks. Hers is up north somewhere like Detroit or Chicago. We’ll see ‘em at de fune’.” Daddy’s susurrant tone assisted his attempt to remain dispassionate.

  “When dey gon’ have it?” Momma asked with a quiet vengeance.

  “Saturday at one,” I answered defensively.

  “Dat’s good; dat’s good,” she repeated as though the thought brought her satisfaction.

  “Dat woman sho’ gon’ be missed round hyeah. She done taught chillen and chillen’s chillen. It’s gon’ be hard to find another one like dat.” Daddy was laying on the guilt trip again, so I kept my eyes focused on my plate. That last bite of black-eyed peas was a lifesaver.

  “Maybe de Good Lawd already got somebody else in de makin’. You cain’t neva tell’bout God,” Daddy stated.

  “Maybe He do,” I said, and shot Daddy a kiss-my-ass look.

  Suddenly a loud clap of thunder exploded. “Y’all better hurr’up, boys,” Daddy urged. “It’s gon’ storm somethin’ terrible, I believe.”

  We rose from the table and put our plates in the sink. “Willie James, git cho’ raincoat, b
oy. Cain’t you see it’s gon’ rain?” Momma never said a word to me. I took an umbrella anyway I saw leaning against the coatrack, and Willie James and I headed out the door.

  The wind was blowing frantically in the cool, dark evening, and although the sky rumbled angrily, the air was actually rather refreshing. I stood still and felt the wind blow on me like one of those huge fans hanging from a factory ceiling. The branches on the trees shook excitedly like one waving at an oblivious friend far in the distance. In the field, the cows lay on the ground completely still as though bracing themselves for the imminent storm. At times, a few of them squinched their eyes when the wind blew hard. Their faces said, “Chile, it’s ‘bout to storm sho’’nuff!” The barn door was swinging freely back and forth like a sheet of paper in an upturned notebook. “Go close de barn do’!” Willie James shouted to me, then ran to get the wire and cedar posts. The wind blew him fiercely and caused him to stumble.

  After I closed the barn door, we began our descent into the woods. It was beginning to sprinkle.

  “We gotta hurry up, T.L.! It’s gon’ storm bad!”

  “You still gotta show me where you saw the baby!”

  Willie James ignored me rudely. He lifted the hood of his raincoat onto his head and kept walking as though alone. Another clap of thunder sounded. “Oh, shit!” he clamored.

  “I guess God’s mad about something,” I said, remembering Grandma’s philosophy about thunder.

  “Let’s git dis fence fixed and git de hell back to de house!” Willie James shouted stringently.

  The sky was a pretty bluish purple. Clouds moved back and forth, confused or at least unsure of exactly where to settle. A flock of birds hovered overhead, making screeching noises that sounded like frightened children. How amazing nature was, I thought, changing from a breezeless ninety-nine degrees a few hours ago to a whirlwind of beauty and splendor in the rain. “Come on, man!” Willie James yelled some distance ahead of me. I quickened my steps, and soon those tall Arkansas pines, oaks, and cedars engulfed me in darkness. We paused, and Willie James turned on a flashlight. I didn’t know he had brought one.

  “You got to stay ready to keep from gettin’ ready,” he said proudly.

  “You de man!” I yielded freely.

  We walked alongside the fence until we found the weak spot, which would certainly take us more than a few minutes to fix. It was starting to pour.

  Willie James pointed with his right foot to a bare spot on the ground. “Take de posthole digger and dig a hole right here!” He had to scream above the sound of the wind, a reality that made it easier for me not to take his orders as demeaning. Remembering my ulterior motive, I obeyed his command.

  The ground had not been penetrated by water in years, it seemed. “It’s hard as a rock!” I complained, but Willie James dismissed me and I kept digging. Finally, he said, “Dat’s good.” I leaned against a nearby tree, wondering how much of the moisture on my face was sweat and how much rain. It was pouring down like I had never seen before. Willie James and I glanced at each other to make sure we were all right. “At least we under de trees,” he said. “Now take dat cedar post and put it in de hole. Then pack de dirt round it. Pack it real tight!” As I did that, he cut the old barbed wire and strung new wire in its place. It took us at least an hour to repair the fence to what we hoped would be Daddy’s satisfaction.

  “I’spect that’ll do,” Willie James hollered to me as he hammered the last nail in place. “Now let’s git outta here!” He started walking briskly toward the house.

  “Wait a minute, man!” I protested. “What about showing me where the baby was?” The sound of the water hitting the leaves drowned out the bulk of Willie James’s cursing.

  “We can do dat anotha time, fool! Don’t chu see it’s stormin’ like hell?”

  “Come on, Willie James! We won’t get another chance to come back here without Momma being suspicious. It won’t take but a minute!”

  Willie James shook his head disgustedly and said, “Oh, fuck! I don’t know why I ever said anything to you about it. Come on!”

  He led me through a thick expanse of overgrown shrubbery until we reached a small grove of young trees. “It was right there,” he mumbled, squinching his eyes and pointing with the flashlight. I took a few steps forward to where he was pointing and bent down to see if I could find any clues. I rubbed my right hand on the wet ground, hoping to find anything that might help me make sense of my sister’s death.

  “Ain’t nothin’ down there, boy!” Willie James said angrily. He turned the flashlight off and started walking home. After a few steps, he turned and yelled, “You betta come on!”

  “There’s got to be something here, Willie James!”

  “Did you see anything, T.L.? Did you?”

  I stood up slowly and followed Willie James back to the house. We walked onto the back porch and took off our wet clothes before we went in.

  “You satisfied?” he whispered with one hand on the doorknob.

  “No, I’m not,” I said with a frown. I couldn’t believe Willie James wanted to drop the issue absolutely.

  “You may as well be!” he said intensely. “You asked me to show you where I saw the baby, and I did. Ain’t nothin’ else we can do.”

  “It’s not that simple, Willie James!” I whimpered with the same level of intensity. “I can’t just know stuff and act like I don’t. I’ll never have any peace of mind!”

  “You betta learn how to know stuff and keep yo’ damn mouf shut. Talkin’ too much can git you hurt round here. Dat’s all I’m gon’ say.” And he went in the house. I had no choice but to follow. I couldn’t discern if his words were supposed to be a threat or a plea for me to keep the secret he had shared. I decided to be cool.

  I took a bath, went into the bedroom, and lay across the bed, listening to the sound of the rain. Water poured off the house like a waterfall. Everyone else either had gone to bed or was about to, so I retrieved one of Ms. Swinton’s journals and read for a while.

  Sometimes I cannot ascertain if the children are listening. They stare at me with expressions of wonder and then, in an instant, they seem utterly confused. Perhaps I seek too much too soon. I want another DuBois, another Morrison, another Baldwin right away. But, for now, it looks as though I shall have to wait. I beg parents to expose children to books and museums and ideas, but the most these children get is chitlin-cleaning lessons and how to distinguish a possum from an armadillo. It seems so futile sometimes, I hate to guess what would become of them if they were in the hands of a teacher who assumed their inferiority. I know that cleaning hogs and piecing quilts are dignified work and demands a very great level of intelligence. That’s why I stay around here. I see the brilliance in the eyes of my students when they arrive early in the morning smelling like cow manure. The problem is that they don’t see brilliance. That’s why their homework doesn’t get completed properly. They, and their parents, equate country with intellectual ineptitude. It’s truly strange. The people in Swamp Creek function with the unspoken notion that “real intelligence” is an anomaly in southern, rural places. It’s sad. And they teach their children likewise. When the children arrive at school, they prepare to enter a world that has no resemblance to the one in which they live. They can’t see that for a poor black woman in Swamp Creek to figure out how to feed six children every day she must be brilliant. Since she cannot afford to frequent the supermarket and since she is too proud to beg, she must find food in places and in ways most people never consider. I have always been completely amazed by such acts of survival, for they demonstrate a level of intelligence about which our children should boast proudly. Instead, they hang their heads low, having concluded that schooling is a gift from the county they simply do not deserve. And, furthermore, they presume it is a gift for which their mental capacity is absolutely unprepared. What a travesty.

  “Wow,” I mumbled, depressed.

  So I continue, day by day, trying mightily to lift the veil of inferiori
ty from before the eyes of my children, only to realize that their parents replace it every time they return home in the evening. However, I cannot give up. This is my fight, my mission, my purpose. I walk the earth for the sole reason of teaching these children how to recognize their own grandeur, and I will not rest until I’ve done so.

  Cynthia Tyson keeps my spirits high. She is simply a joy and a wonder. She reminds me so much of Tommy Lee that it’s rather frightening. I fear, at moments, that I will say too much or let on that I know something. I try desperately to maintain distance, only to fail miserably, I’m afraid. Her eyes are always full of excitement and courage. When I ask the class for a volunteer reader, her hand is first to fly into the air. “Ooh, me! Please! Me!” she begs. I try to disregard her, hoping nervously to find another child confident enough to speak out, but the others sit with lowered eyes, probably praying that I’ll call Cynthia so they can relax. “Proceed, Cynthia,” I am usually forced to say. And when she does, she transforms into so me kind of literary diva whose debut is on the line. She stands and acts the part as she reads it, complete with theatrical voice variations and body movements. She flings her arms wide and cries and laughs boisterously, as though she stands before a crowd of thousands. Oh, what a joy! Some days, I let her go on for hours as the other children watch through eyes of wonder. But other days, I do not call upon her at all, for I realize Cynthia stands to the other children for what they are not. They seek refuge in her performance, for it means they are saved from the possibility that they, too, could manifest such confidence, such self-belief. They want her to go on and on to ensure they are never called upon to do likewise. Their applause of her reveals this truth. It is almost as if they clap in gratitude for the hiding place Cynthia grants them. They seem to be begging her to return tomorrow and do it again, hoping that her one-woman show will divert my eyes from all of them, at least for the day. And the days I do not comply, the other children are desperate, squeamish, and pitiful. Yet I cannot perpetuate the “one smart nigga” theory, especially not in a place like Swamp Creek. All of the children must know and recognize the manifestation of their own brilliance and the brilliance of their people as well. They cannot be “grateful” for the “exceptional” intelligence of one, as though this is confirmation that there will always be “at least one” smart one in the bunch. Yet this is what their parents believe, making my attempt to counter such a philosophy abortive. Still, I go on, more determined than ever that the power of education will transform the minds of the self-loathing. One day, I shall be heralded as either a great teacher or a fool.