21
No Place Like Home

Three a.m. the day after Cherish boarded the plane at JFK headed for Los Angeles found me in the driver’s seat of the Impala on I-95 about sixty-five miles south of Savannah, GA. Fatigue urged me to stop after over eighteen consecutive hours of driving, but the desire to reach my destination compelled my Chevy to continue on its journey. About the time I tired of the company from the library of musicians housed in my CD case and gave up on finding a decent radio station some three and-a-half hours later, what used to be familiar ground seemed to have crept up on me virtually without notice. About twelve miles outside Valdosta, the old wood-framed house stood as it always had; in the middle of a tobacco field at the end of a country dirt lane that had no ditches for drainage. As the sun topped the tree line, I drove up in the front yard at the pump house on the left. It stood near a garden that had been planted every year since I was a child, but seldom properly tended. We had always jokingly referred to it as the weed patch.

Once I’d cut the car’s engine I heard an insistent voice, “Who dat out dere?” Dad questioned. “I say, who dat?”

I answered in a hurry, when recalling the fact that he was never more than two steps from his trusty shotgun. “It’s Willie,” I said.

“Who ya say?” he repeated.

I wisely identified, “Its Willie, Pop…your son, home from New York.”

A scream came from the kitchen window, “Oh my goodness; Lord, if it ain’t a miracle! Will, whatcha do’n back here?”

The high-pitched voice of my one shade-darker-than-
Caucasian cousin, Tammy, was still as unmistakable as ever. Although we were billed as relatives, her opinion allowed that there were enough branches between fourth cousins on the family tree to warrant a romantic relationship. It was her who had taught me how to French kiss at the point I first discovered the difference between boys and girls. But that was when I was a lot younger and a lot curious. I responded, trying to maintain balance after she’d bolted off the porch and into my arms, nearly knocking me onto the hood of the car. “The last I heard, this is where I grew up. I like to think of it as home.”

Another familiar voice came from the corner of the house, “Ya did ‘til ya left.”

I turned to see my mom, as spry as she ever was and joked, while reaching to embrace her barely four-foot tall petite figure. The hug had her feet lift off the ground, “Well, who is this pretty young thing? Gots to be careful I don’t kidnap you and take you back to the city.”

A solemn voice cut into the moment. My dad complained, “I don’t reckon she ain’t gots no mo bidness in dat city dan you do.”

“Well, I’m happy to see you too, father dear,” I commented with just enough sarcasm to not be disrespectful.

“Hmmph,” he grunted. “Dat be no pro’lem if’n ya cared ‘nough ‘bout da place you’s a’ways say’n is yo home.”

“C’mon Ed, da boy jest gettin in,” Mom defended. “’Least let ‘em get cleaned up ‘n fill his belly ‘fore ya’all start slappin each other ‘round.”

Tammy chimed in, “That’s right. He gots a lotta ‘splain’n to do ‘bout what he been up to in the Big Apple….ain’t that what them turist folks calls it…..the BIG APPLE?”

“Yeah, something like that,” I said.

Dad’s voice was filled with the contempt he didn’t bother trying to conceal on his face, “Prob’ly back ‘cause he need’n someth’n.”

I tried to sound as convincing as possible, “And no, I didn’t come because I’m in need of anything.”

“Or ‘cause he run’n from someth’n,” Dad concluded.

Mom’s irritation took front position, “All right now, that’s ‘nough.” She directed the both of us, “You go’on ‘n gits yo stuff outta da car, ‘n you gits back in dat house if’n ya don’t means no good.” The pint-sized powder keg ordered us, and then shook a finger at Cousin Tammy, “And you git yo butt back in dere ‘n finish da cookin so alls ‘o us can eat.”

“Yes ma’am, I’m a-go’n,” Tammy conceded.

In my old bedroom, I found things exactly as they had been left almost five and a half years before. Like I had gotten up, gone out to tend the animals, and was just returning to the house. Everything, that is, except the small twin bed on the wall opposite the door. It was positioned in front of the large floor-to-ceiling window. The first order of business was to remove the board just below the window frame that allowed access to my hiding place. That’s where two spare nine millimeter handguns, identical to those taken by the New York police, were kept. After tucking them, beneath the button-down shirt, into the small of my back and replacing the board, I was standing reminiscing the many nights and early mornings that window served as a portal. It had unknowingly granted me unauthorized access to a world beyond the tobacco patch and corn fields. Suddenly, my thoughts were demolished when a squeal shattered the memory glass.

Tammy’s soprano rang out, “That there my bed.”

I tried to not make it obvious that she’d startled me, “Do what? I mean, excuse me?”

Tammy began explaining, “I been stay’n wit Aunt Martha ‘n Uncle Ed since my mom passed ‘bout three years ago.”

“Aunt Joyce died?” I interrupted. “And why didn’t anybody bother to tell me?”

“Well, ain’t nobody knowed how to gits in touch wit ya ‘an Uncle Ed said ya prob’bly wadn’t gonna come to the fun’ral no way.”

I felt the temperature of my blood start to rise, “Who the hell does he think he is to decide for me how I’m supposed to feel? That was some foul…”

“I’s yo daddy boy,” my old man interrupted, “Dat’s who I is…’an I don’t ‘preciate no cuss’n in dis here house. Ya ain’t in da city now. Thangs still don’t work here da way dey does up dere where ya been liv’n. Or maybe ya done fo’get ya roots?”

I was suddenly irritated at the mere thought of his presence. My mind wrestled with the fact that he’d taken it upon himself to decide the level of compassion I would have for a family member. The reply was intentionally harsh, “So what, you can’t come into the room and take part in conversation? That’s what normal people do. Why you sneaking around hiding behind walls and shi…and stuff?”

“One thang fo sho; e’ry one o’ dese bless’d walls is mine and if’n I don’t got noth’n ta say ta ya, I jest ain’t gots noth’n ta say. Jest ya ‘member, e’ry one o’ dese is my walls,” he declared again, “E’ry sangle sol’tary one o’ dem.”

I instinctively prodded, “You don’t have anything to say to me, but you can lurk around spying, trying to find dirt to throw in my face the first chance you get? That sounds a lot like a ruler’s behavior,” I accused. “That is what you always say, right? You’re the king of this house…your castle?”

He warned, in a twisted country philosophy, “Well, I guess ya done gone off ta dat city ‘n gits a good whiff. Seem ta me you’s smell’n yoself…Jest ya be careful ya don’t gits out dere too fer dat ya can’t finds yo way back, now.”

My voice was laced with an irritated sarcasm as it required more effort than I was willing to expend to simply avoid cursing him. “Don’t you worry yourself dear father, whatever I might be occasioned to get myself into, I have certainly learned to get out, no thanks to you,” I said.

The scowl on Dad’s face was more defined as one brow raised a couple inches and the corners of his mouth angled downward. He snorted louder than the old red bull fenced out behind the barn. “Figers ya take dat at’tude…like ya ain’t ne’er gits noth’n from me…I ain’t done noth’n ta makes ya da man ya thanks ya is; many a time ya planted yo foots under my table ‘n sucked down my grub...”

I protested, “Why does everything have to be about you and yours? You act like nobody ever did anything around this place except you,” I said, before stating the obvious. “There were many days I worked my ass off to put stuff in those pots so food could be brought to the table…where we all planted our damn feet.”

He began to chastise me, “I done teld ya ‘bout…”

“And I’m telling you!” I snapped. “As much hell as I put up with trying to live up to expectations that I’d never be able to because you not happy with yourself!”

Mom appeared from the hallway beaming at us both with a look that was beyond interpretation. In classic fashion, her voice never exceeded a whisper but served to immediately establish order. “And I’s tellin both o’ ya…stop dis fool talk, now. Y’all actin like ain’t ne’er been nobody right ‘cept yoselves ‘n ain’t ne’er been nobody wrong ‘cept e’rybody else. Now, I tells ya, da past jest well be left whey it is ‘cause ya sho can’t ca’ry nothin ‘bout it wit ya, ‘cept fo da eda’cation it brung. Hell, I can’ts see why’n da world ya’d wanna drag da past witcha tru life no ways.”

Trying to prove his manhood, my father scolded, “Martha! Ya might wanna mind yo tongue,” while shaking a crooked finger at me. “Da boy ain’t eb’n back a good hour ‘an ar’eady disrupt’n thangs.”

“Hell ain’t no cuss word,” Mom said. “It’s all o’er dat Bible you’s al’ays throwin at folks…”

I took offense and argued back, “Now, just how is what she said my fault? I’m not holding a gun to her head.”

Tammy had excused herself midway through the exchange between my father and me. She now re-appeared with an announcement that the food was ready. It was her way of attempting to usher in a sense of calm amidst the tense situation. “If’n alls y’all gone do is fight the whole time Willie home, ya gone need to eat so’s ya can keep up yo strength,” she said.

“Don’t bother to prepare much for me, Tammy. In fact, don’t take up anything at all; I’ve suddenly lost my appetite,” I said. “I think it might do me well to just take a ride into town.”

Tammy sounded disappointed, “But Will, I fixed pork sausage, scrambl’d eggs ‘n toast the way Aunt Martha say ya liked; ‘an all fresh from the back yard…’nclud’n the sausage.”

“Well, you obviously weren’t cooking it for me,” I said. “You were already in the kitchen when I came up. Besides, I try to limit the pork. Once in a while is okay, but not more than twice a week.”

Dad grunted, “Hummph, furst, he too good fo us country folk…an’ now our country cook’n ain’t good ‘nough fo him neither.”

“Well, if you must know, it has been a proven medical fact for years that eating too much pork can have an adverse effect on your blood pressure. I had pork chops before leaving the city.”

“Yeah,” dad interrupted, “Jest goes ta show ya what dem fancy city docters knows. Folk in dese parts been eat’n pork ‘long as an’body can r‘member.”

I stated in false agreement, “Yes sir, you’re right.” Then detailed, “But that’s the reason people around these parts don’t see much past sixty…if they’re lucky; the reason why forty or fifty always been considered old, because people never expect to see much past that.”

My dad launched a verbal assault, “Dem’s yo peoples ya talk’n ‘bout…ya oughta have mo r’spect,” he said. “Dey’s a sight better bunch o’ folk dan you’s e’er gone ‘mount to. Ya walks ‘round wit dat city-folk talk like you’s bet’er ‘n rest o’ us. Soun’n likes one o’ dem yanks, ‘an ya acts dat way too.”

“So, that’s what it is? You’ve always blamed me for getting a decent education,” I accused. “It wasn’t me who decided to go off to Atlanta for five years because you couldn’t take care of your son during the time Mom was sick!”

My dad snapped at the thought of what he considered his one demonstrated act of failure, “Ya ain’t gots no bidness toss’n ‘round what done been gone o’er!” he argued. “Ya ma had da cansur and da doc say she had ta go in da hosp’tal. I ain’t knowed nut’n ‘bout tak’n care ‘o no young’n.”

“Well, if you must know, I’ve got plenty of respect for my people. It’s just ignorance and stupidity with which I have a problem,” I corrected. “Like I have much respect for you, but…”

Mom cut in, to keep me from finishing the thought, “You sho ya ain’t hongry none a’tall?” she asked. “I means, ya been ridin all night ‘n most o’ da morn’n. Why ya don’t let yo Cud’n Tammy fix a li’l sumthin fo ya?”

By now, I was standing at the sink watching Tammy near the stove while secretly admiring the Daisy Dukes, shorter than shorts, she wore. It was no secret the thong-cut shorts exposed enough of her ass cheeks to almost be considered X-rated. I found it rather peculiar that Dad didn’t openly protest the nature of her costuming as he did everything else. That is, until realizing Tammy’s shorts were most often the target of his increasingly frequent blank stares. I had to admit, since arriving, I’d been mesmerized on occasion myself. There were moments when the branches on the family tree were sometimes farther apart than at others. Mom’s insistence interrupted me enjoying the shade from one of the limbs on that same tree.

“Will, did ya heared me?” she asked.

Uneasiness at the notion of having been caught with my mouth open was rather apparent. Tammy noticed the fact that I had noticed her and our eyes met momentarily which left me with the feeling of having been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

“Uh, no ma’am; I mean, yes ma’am, I heard you, but I don’t…uh…want any sausage and eggs.”

The insinuation in Tammy’s tone confirmed speculations that she’d noticed my gaze if no one else had. “Ya sho they ain’t noth’n ya wants to eat?” Tammy smirked.

The embarrassment had to be apparent, “No, I’m good.”

She passed me to sit at the side of the table and seemed to go out of her way to briefly come into contact; resting her hand on my shoulder while taking a seat. “To be d’termined,” she whispered.

There was a lump in my throat and I suddenly felt the need for fresh air, “I’ll be right back,” I advised.

“If’n ya gives me a minute, I’ll ride inta town wit ya. Long as ya don’t mind,” Tammy suggested.

“Well, I mean, if you don’t have anything else to do,” I said.

“She gots dishes,” Dad interjected. “No sense leav’n da kitchin in sech a mess.”

Mom interrupted in effort to save the moment, “Ed, r’lax a l’il. Po chile been workin all morn’n and she done real good wit fixin dinner yesttidy night. Let dem kids go ketch up on thangs. It been a great while. I takes care o’ the kitchin,” she said.

It hasn’t been that long, I thought to myself. But the way those shorts complimented what signified Tammy as a Black woman had me considering things that shouldn’t even be an option. The mere thought of “climbing the family tree” would be a violation of the most sacred of codes in my parents’ book.

Moments later—“Okay Will” —Tammy sprang up from the table and tossed her dish into the sink. She committed, “Gimme a minute to brush my teeth ‘n change shoes; then I bees yo’s the whole day.”

I thought to myself, She has no idea the implications of that statement, but the expression accompanying the comment as my cousin passed from the sight of her aunt and uncle, told me she did. I informed her while making my way from the kitchen to escape any further remarks from Dad, “All right, I’m waiting outside.”

Coltrane had been keeping me company in the car for more than thirty minutes before the passenger door popped open. In slid Tammy, outfitted as though she was on her first date.

“Looks like you changed a little more than just your shoes,” I commented. “I was beginning to think you’d reconsidered going.”

A discrete wink came from behind a mischievous grin, “What? Pass up this chance,” she asked. “’Sides, what I’s wear’n ain’t match these shoes.”

“O-Kay, and you had to put on pumps with a skirt to go riding? Who’s going to see your feet if you’re in the car?”

“C’mon Will, ya been liv’n in the fashion cap’tal o’ the world ‘an ya tell’n me ya ain’t know a woman a’ways need’n ta be look’n her best,” she defended. “Maybe I jest wanna looks good fo ya. I mean…while…while I’s out wit ya.”

I commented, without turning in her direction, “For some reason, I don’t think looking good is ever much of a problem for you.”

Tammy grinned like a three year-old in a candy store, “Be careful, that almost sound like a compl’ment,” she said, before asking, “Ya really means that, fo real?”

I remarked, in a rather matter-of-fact tone, “Well, I’m not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean.”

She blushed, “Oh…well, thanks ya, Willie.”

“You’re welcome,” I responded. “Now where are we off to?”

My cousin pointed out, “Since ya the one b’hind the wheel, that’d be a d’cision fo you ta make, ain’t it? Ya mighta been gone a few years but thangs ain’t change that much,” Tammy said, “They did open up a new lounge; place called Harry’s…’an they’s talk ‘bout a new mall in a couple years. But don’t nobody knows fo sho if that gone ever happen. Place jest ain’t got ‘nough folk fo noth’n like that.”

As the car began to slowly move forward, “The way I figure, that’s a decision for somebody other than people like you and me. I try not to get caught up in the whole politics thing,” I explained. “And why are we going to a lounge on a Sunday afternoon? I thought this was still a dry county.”

“It s’spose to be,” Tammy said. “But Harry half-brother wit the mayor. E’rybody knows they’s sell’n a’cohol, though. Folks jest looks the other way. Where ya thank the police chief be e’ry Sundy from church?”

“Well, it’s all about money anyway,” I replied. “Something people like us don’t have near enough of to make a difference. How far to the lounge?”

Reaching to adjust the volume on the CD player, she asked, “What’s that?”

“Coltrane,” I replied. “The unofficial master himself.”

Searching my thoughts, she asked, “No, I mean, what it is folk like us don’t got ‘nough of?”

Turning the volume back to the level it was before she’d changed it, “Presidents…the good old dead ones,” I replied, before stating, “Like you said, I’m the one behind the wheel. The radio is off limits.”

Following a lengthy deliberate silence, she finally directed, “The other side o’ town…Pheonix, off Main Street.” She pouted about me having turned up the CD player, “I’s thank’n we’s gone have a chance to talk ‘bout stuff.”

“It’s not like I’ll be gone by the time you wake up in the morning. There’ll be time to play twenty questions soon enough,” I assured.

My cousin frowned amidst the confusion, “I ain’t got twenty…jest two or three quest’ons,” she said.

I’d begun laughing before realizing it, “The phrase twenty questions is just a figure of speech,” I explained.

“I don’t see noth’n so funny,” Tammy scolded.

I chuckled, pushing her forehead with my index finger, “I do…you.”

An eerie hush accompanied us for the rest of the drive to the lounge excepting periodic directions from Tammy and the Jazz Master commanding respect from the CD player.