by Tayari Jones
“Nothing is ever over,” I said, unwinding her arms from my shoulders. I lay beside her, remembering us sprawled on the asphalt, forbidden to touch. “Celestial,” I said, surprised by the bass of my own voice in my chest. “I am not a rapist. Do you hear what I’m trying to tell you?”
“Yes,” she said, but she seemed confused. “I never thought you did it. I know who I married.”
“Georgia,” I said. “I know who I married, too. You’re in me. When I touch you, your flesh communicates with my bones. You think I can’t feel how sad you are?”
“I’m scared,” she said, her fingers transmitting a miserable willingness. “It’s hard to start over.”
The vast generosity of women is a mysterious tunnel, and nobody knows where it leads. The writing on the walls spells out trick questions, and as a man, you must know that you cannot reason your way out. What unkindness showed me that she loved me by revealing the ways that she didn’t love me? Celestial was offering herself to me like a banquet prepared in the presence of my enemies, like a flawless red pear. What cruelty revealed that she cared by making me understand the limits of the same?
“Listen,” I said with what threatened to be my last breath. “Listen, Georgia. Hear what I’m about to say.” I made my words hard and she stiffened against them. To make amends, I spoke tenderly like I was addressing a butterfly. “Celestial, I will never force myself upon a woman.” I removed her two frightened hands from my body and held them between my own. “Do you hear me? I will not force you. Even if you let me, even if you want me to, I will not do it.”
I kissed her finger near the base, where my ring once rested. “Georgia,” I said, beginning a sentence I couldn’t bear to complete.
“I tried,” she began.
“Shhh . . . Just sleep, Georgia. Just sleep.”
But neither of us closed our eyes against the immeasurable dark of that silent night.
Epilogue
Dear Celestial,
People around here think that I got saved in prison. But prison is a haunted house of mirrors; it was impossible for me to come to the truth there. When I try to explain this, they turn around and ask me if I am a Muslim, since I don’t belong to a church, but they know that I think of myself as a man of God. I can’t really break it down to them because I can’t really break it down to myself. Who would believe that what happened to me came to pass in the holy dark of our bedroom?
I’m ashamed to think about what I did to Andre. I swear to you that I never hurt another human being like that before. Even when I was incarcerated, I never brutalized anyone. I get hit by a sharp pain behind my eyes to think of how close I came to killing him. Dre didn’t fight me back hard. That made me feel like he didn’t think I was worth the effort. Maybe I wanted you to see him suffer because it didn’t seem like you cared if I was in pain or not, but I knew you cared about him. I know that none of this makes sense, but I’m trying to express my emotions at that time. I was out of my head. I was even jealous of that tree. I felt forsaken. That is the only word for it. When you said you were going to call the police, I was glad. That phone in your hand was a pistol and I was hoping that you would fire it. Then you would have to live with that and I wouldn’t have to live at all. This is how my mind was working. This is how my heart was pumping. I was ready to die and take Dre with me. I was going to kill him with only the hands God gave me.
I used these same hands to sign the documents your uncle Banks drew up. Davina is a notary, so you will see her name as well. I know this is the right thing to do, but I hated seeing my signature on that dotted line. We tried. I guess that is all we can say or do.
Sincerely,
Roy
PS: The tree? Did it make it?
Dear Roy,
Seeing your handwriting feels like a brief encounter with a friend you know you may never see again. When you were away, the letters made me feel close to you, but now they remind me how far we have traveled away from each other. I hope that one day you and I can get to know each other again.
Now that I have the papers, you probably think that Andre and I will be on the next bus to the justice of the peace, but we don’t feel the need to get married. My mother, his mother, even strangers—they all want to see me in a white dress, but Dre and I like what we have, the way we have it.
At the end of the day, I don’t want to be anyone’s wife. Not even Dre’s. For his part, Dre says he doesn’t want a wife who doesn’t want to be one. We’re living our lives together, a communion.
Thank you for asking about Old Hickey. We had a specialist out last week who told us that you can tell the age of a tree just using a measuring tape and a calculator. According to the expert, Old Hickey is about 128 years old. They say he has another 128 in him, assuming that nobody else comes after him with an axe.
And this is the news: I am having a baby. I hope you will be happy for Andre and for me. I know it is painful, too, and don’t think that I have forgotten what we went through all those years ago. It may be unreasonable for me to ask this of you, but will you pray for us? Will you pray every day until she is born?
Always,
Georgia
Dear Celestial,
Don’t laugh, but I’m the one running to the JP. Davina and I are not trying to have a baby, but I would like to try my hand at marriage again. You say that you are not cut out to be a wife, but I disagree. You were a good wife to me when conditions were favorable and for a long time when they were not. You deserve more respect than I ever gave you and more than you give yourself.
As for me, I would like to be a father, but Davina already has a son and that situation is very unhappy. She doesn’t want to start over, and truthfully, as much as I used to fantasize about my little “Trey,” I don’t want to jeopardize what I have with her over a dream that may not even fit me anymore. I wish I could be like Big Roy and take her son as my own, but he is an adult. She and I are enough to be a family. If you need a kid to keep you together, then how together are you? That’s what she says and she is probably right.
Of course I will pray for your family, but you make it seem like I’m a preacher! I’m not trying to minister to anyone but myself. I have found myself a small plot of sacred ground by the stream. Do you remember that spot? I go out there early in the morning and listen to the wind play that bridge music while I think or pray. Everyone knows that this is my morning routine. Occasionally I invite one or two to come along. Big Roy has joined me and sometimes Davina. But mostly it’s me alone with my own head and my own memories.
And speaking of heads, Big Roy and I have gone into business. We have a barbershop called Locs and Lineups. You know I always had that entrepreneurial streak. Picture a traditional barbershop complete with pole but with a lot of 2.0 amenities and services. We’re making decent money, not Poupées level (yet), but I’m content.
My prayer for you is for peace, which is something you have to make. You can’t just have it (words of wisdom from my Biological, who I go visit most Sundays—he’s getting old in there and it is hard to watch).
But mostly my life is good, only it’s a different type of good from what I figured on. Some days I get antsy and start talking to Davina about pulling up stakes and starting over in Houston, New Orleans, or even Portland. She humors me, but when I’m done, she smiles because we both know I’m not going anywhere. And when she smiles at me, I can’t help giving one back. This is home. This is where I am.
Sincerely,
Roy
Acknowledgments
There were many moments in the composition of this work when I feared I would not be able to resolve the thorny conflicts that both bind and separate these characters. I offer bottomless gratitude to the people and institutions who believed in me during the dark moments in which I struggled to believe in myself.
In particular, I owe thanks to my friends and family who assisted me by reading early drafts, unwittingly providing crucial dialogue, challenging me to think more expansively, and
helping me right the ship: Barbara and Mack Jones, Renee Simms, Camille Dungy, Suheir Hammad, Shaye Arehart, Maxine Clair, Denis Nurkse, Maxine Kennedy, Neal J. Arp, William Reeder, Anne B. Warner, Mitchell Douglas, Jafari S. Allen, Willie Perdomo, Ron Carlson, Ginney Fowler, Richard Powers, Pearl Cleage, Lisa Coleman, Cozbi Cabrera, June M. Aldridge, Alesia Parker, Elmaz Abinader, Serena Lin, Sarah Schulman, Justin Haynes, Beauty Bragg, Treasure Shields Redmond, Allison Clark, and Sylvia Jenkins.
As we witness dramatic decreases in funding for the arts, I’m grateful for the generous support of the following organizations: the National Endowment for the Arts, the Ucross Foundation, the MacDowell Colony, Rutgers University–Newark, and the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard University.
Jane Dystel, my brilliant agent, has been with me since the beginning; not even Dante was blessed with such a charming and capable Virgil. Lauren Cerand is my publicist and confidante. Bridgett Davis listened to me tangle with this story for years with a patient and gracious ear. Jamey Hatley kept the faith. Terraine Bailey, Ronald Sullivan, and James Tierney are fluent in both letters and the law. Thank you for helping me get the details straight. My editor, Chuck Adams, is a sharp collaborator and a very nice man; Algonquin Books is a true friend of the arts. Jeree Wade knows the way to the answers. Tom Furrier is the world’s greatest typewriter doctor and quite the gentleman. My fast-friend, Amy Bloom, was kind enough to shine a light in the dark. Claudia Rankine and Nikki Giovanni allowed me to borrow their verses, and I strive to follow their sterling examples. Dr. Johnnetta B. Cole told me to keep going, and I was powerless to disobey. Andra Miller pushed me to finish, while Elisabeth Scharlatt cooed, “No book before its time.” They were both right, and to both I extend great thanks.
Sweet, sweet Lindy Hess was my dear friend, mentor, and champion. I’m devastated that she didn’t live to see this book in print.
Tayari Jones is the author of four novels, including Silver Sparrow, The Untelling, and Leaving Atlanta. Jones holds degrees from Spelman College, Arizona State University, and the University of Iowa. An associate professor in the MFA program at Rutgers-Newark University, she is spending the 2017–18 academic year as the Shearing Fellow for Distinguished Writers at the Beverly Rogers, Carol C. Harter Black Mountain Institute at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. She lives in Brooklyn. Her website is www.tayarijones.com.
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Published by
Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225
a division of
Workman Publishing
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014
© 2018 by Tayari Jones.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
eISBN 978-1-61620-760-4