CHAPTER 14

Converting Ms. Swinton’s house into his home was far more work than TL had imagined. Her spirit permeated everything—the floral curtains, cabinets, bedspread, glistening white kitchen, immaculate flower bed in the front. This was simply her house, and he was having a hard time making it his. But he had to do it. He had nowhere else to live, and he was tired of running. Whenever he attempted to change things in the house, he felt disrespectful, as if he had no right to be there. He did have a right, didn’t he? Doesn’t a son have a right to his mother’s things? Does it matter that they hadn’t lived as mother and son? He couldn’t even leave a cup in the sink without feeling bad! He had to do something. He couldn’t live like this forever.

TL rose and slid into a pair of old jeans and a brown-and-tan-striped short-sleeved shirt. He knew what he needed to do, and he knew that if he didn’t do it then, he never would.

An hour or so later, he and Willie James returned from Home Depot with three gallons of paint, various size brushes and rollers, and other supplies. Willie James dropped him off, and TL went to work. He didn’t intend to spend another day trapped in someone else’s world.

The first thing was to remove those heavy, dusty, red velvet drapes. Standing on a chair, TL unhooked them carefully as streams of sunlight burst into the living room. The brightness energized him. TL wasn’t sure if he’d cover the windows again, but if he did, he thought, the material would definitely be thinner and lighter. From the walls, he extracted cherrywood-framed paintings of fruit and landscapes and antique black-and-white portraits of people, probably relatives, he didn’t know. Some were beautiful, but none was smiling. They appeared upset about something they couldn’t articulate.

His momentum slowed once he began painting. In fact, if someone had told him how exhausting it would be, he probably wouldn’t have done it. The initial idea was thrilling, so he rushed forward without thinking it through. The painting itself wasn’t so bad; it was the prep work that killed him. First, he taped off the ceiling and moldings. Slowly, tediously, meticulously. It had to be right. He’d inherited two mothers’ anal natures, so sloppiness was out of the question. If he messed things up, he’d have to start again, and he definitely didn’t intend to do that. Hours later, he covered the furniture and floors with old sheets and plastic so as not to spill any paint on Ms. Swinton’s priceless antiques and polished floors.

By sundown, those once-white walls were grass green. All except one. A lady at Home Depot had convinced him to leave an accent wall, as she called it, so he did. It matched the built-in white bookshelves perfectly. TL stepped back and nodded. The red sofa clashed with the green walls, but that was okay for now. New furniture would come in time. He just needed the house to feel like his own, like he was supposed to be there.

Willie James helped paint the bedroom the following day. It went from yellow to ocean blue. The floral window dressings got tossed and replaced with three-tone blue curtains. TL kept the fluffy white comforter and matching pillows, more for their feel than their look, but since they complemented the blue color scheme, he wasn’t dissatisfied. The nineteenth-century vanity was too pretty to discard, so he let it stay. It definitely disturbed the masculine vibe of the room, but he didn’t care. He’d never been very committed to masculinity anyway.

For the rest of the day, he milled about the house, removing shiny ceramic animals from dressers and countertops until he had a paper bag full of them. Most rested on delicate, lace doilies, in the shape of snowflakes. He never understood why southern women collected them. And why so damn many? They definitely had to go!

Once he cleared everything out, including her clothes, which went to the Salvation Army, the house felt empty but free. And it was his. He wanted black art everywhere, with the faces of his people overlooking him. He’d always liked paintings of people. He’d told George once that facial portraits give a place a communal feeling and remind you that you’re not alone. He needed that reminder now more than ever.

With no rent to pay, TL figured he could live off the thousand dollars or so he had in the bank. It would be tight for a couple of months, but he didn’t have anything to buy except food, and, often, people gave him that. He went from house to house each week, visiting families of children he’d be teaching, and folks sent him home with bags of frozen purple hull peas, okra, sweet yellow corn on the cob, tomatoes, cabbage, and turnip greens. And this was the 1990s! Sometimes he got ham shoulders, fresh ground hot sausage, which he loved, and ziplock bags of crappie or catfish (whichever they had at the time), so he never starved.

What surprised him most was how timid the children were. They escaped to back rooms or backyards when he arrived, as if they feared his authority. Children were like that years ago, but hadn’t times changed? he wondered. Kids in New York would’ve laughed at the deference these kids gave teachers. TL chuckled and thanked God he was from the backwoods of Arkansas.

At the McDaniels’, he met a nine-year-old boy named Ezekiel. His father, Gary, and TL had gone to school together and traded homework sometimes. Gary wasn’t necessarily smart, but he worked harder than anyone in the class. Ms. Swinton liked that about him. He never said much, but he always had his homework. Always. Now, he was married with four children, Ezekiel being the oldest, and everyone agreed the boy was his spitting image.

“Hey in there!” TL hollered, knocking on the old wooden screen door. The main door was open and the screen unlocked, but of course he couldn’t enter without invitation. It was an overcast Sunday afternoon.

“Man, come on in here!” Gary said, opening the screen wide. They shook and half hugged. “Angela! TL’s here!”

“Oh, don’t bother her. She might be in the back, resting.” He sat on a brown leather sofa and instantly felt the heat. All the windows were open, but no air was stirring.

“She ain’t sleep. Just piddlin’ ’round wit’ that no-’count sewin’ machine.”

Angela appeared in a paper-thin, pink-and-white house duster. TL stood. The shadow of her bra and panties shone through, embarrassing him slightly. She was taller than Gary by several inches and much darker, with short, feathered, straight hair. Wide eyes and pearly white teeth made her glamorous.

“Hey, TL,” she called sweetly. “How you doin’?” They embraced.

“Good! I didn’t mean to bother y’all. Just wanted to come meet the boys.”

Angela stood slightly behind Gary as if to assure him he was the head of the house. “Oh, that’s fine,” she said. “They ’round here somewhere, gettin’ into God only knows what.”

TL laughed along.

“Sit down, man,” Gary said. “I can’t believe you ’bout to be the new teacher. Who in the world woulda guessed you’d come back here?”

“I know, right? Man, you couldn’t’ve convinced me in a million years.”

“It makes sense though. You was the best student in the class. You gon’ be a hell of a teacher, too. I couldn’t think of nobody better. Ms. Swinton definitely woulda chose you.”

She did choose me!

“I can’t believe you’re married, Gary. And kids?”

“Yeah, man. Ain’t nothin’ else to do ’round here.”

They talked shop awhile, then Gary rose to get the boys.

“Oh no! I’ll go out back and see them myself, if you don’t mind.”

“Okay, help yo’self. But be careful. They a rowdy bunch!”

“Man, please. I grew up here, too, remember? I know how to handle boys.”

TL found his way to the back door and into the yard. The boys stopped playing when they saw him.

“Hey, fellas! What’s going on?”

They waved politely and mumbled, “Nothin’.”

The three youngest favored their mother. They were skinny, but not frail, probably six, four, and two years old. Each had narrow, piercing eyes that seemed to hide beneath protruding brows, and oval, slender faces with small, sloping foreheads. They’d be handsome one day, TL presumed. Their dark clothes were so worn he could see their flesh in a few places, especially the two-year-old’s, and each boy’s pants were obviously too short. As TL spoke, they drew together in fear or reverence, and looked at each other before answering any of his questions.

But not Ezekiel. He stood alone beneath a small plum tree, with his round head nodding excitedly as TL talked. More than his brothers, he was warm-spirited and confident. His energy overwhelmed anyone who encountered him. The white of his eyes and teeth contrasted so intensely with his beautiful dark complexion that TL couldn’t stop staring. Clearly the oldest, he was a bit thicker than the others and not quite as athletic in build. His clothes appeared untouched, and his shoes looked brand new. He’d been reading something. As his brothers shied away, he drew nearer.

“What’s your name, young man?”

With shoulders back, he shouted, “Ezekiel. But everybody calls me Zeke.” His smile revealed a large gap where three front teeth used to be. TL cackled.

“I see. You’re mighty friendly, Mr. Ezekiel.”

“Yessir!”

“What are you reading?”

He displayed the cover. “I got it for Christmas. I done read it a thousand times, but I like it, so I keep readin’ it over and over.”

“Do you have a lot of books?”

“No sir, not a lot, but I got a few.”

“You mean you have a few.”

“Yessir, I have a few.”

The correction didn’t dampen his joy. It seemed to invigorate him. TL had never seen a child so eager. Ezekiel danced from one foot to the other as they spoke.

“How old are you, Mr. Ezekiel?”

“Nine years old, sir!”

He shouted like an air force cadet answering a lieutenant.

“I guess you like school, huh?”

“Yessir! I like it a lot!”

They were practically toe-to-toe. The excitement in Ezekiel’s eyes radiated, causing TL to shiver with joy.

“I’m in the third grade, sir. Well, I’m goin’ to the third, but I just finished the second.” He rubbed his hands nervously.

“Oh, I see. I bet you’re smart.”

His eyes widened. “Yessir, I am!”

Gary called from the back porch, “Don’t let him talk you to death, TL. He’ll try if you let him.”

Ezekiel’s enthusiam never faded.

“Oh no! He’s fine. I like this young man.”

When TL touched the crown of the boy’s head, Ezekiel twitched with glee. His smile exposed the gap again, causing TL to laugh out loud.

“I’m your new teacher, you know?”

“Really?” Ezekiel beamed and clapped lightly.

“Really. I hope we’ll get to be good friends.”

“Oh, we will, sir! We will!”

They shook on it, then TL said he had to go.

“Okay, but can I ask you somethin’ first?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“What’s yo’ name?”

“Tommy Lee Tyson. But you can call me Dr. Tyson.”

“You a real doctor?”

“Yes I am.”

“Like the ones in the hospitals?”

“No, not that kind. I’m a PhD doctor. The kind who teaches in colleges and universities.”

“Wow. I ain’t never met no doctor like that befo’. I’m glad you our new teacher, Dr. Tyson.”

“Well, I’m glad, too, Mr. Zeke.”

Without announcement or hesitation, Ezekiel threw his arms around TL’s waist and squeezed hard. Then he let go. “I’ma be a doctor like you when I grow up!” He raced back to the tree and sat with his back against the trunk. He waved as TL disappeared into the house.

A few other precocious children surfaced throughout the community, like Amanda Cole, Mr. Somebody’s great-granddaughter, who shared Ezekiel’s intelligence but not his zeal, and Bradley Johnson, the funniest kid the good Lord ever made, although he couldn’t spell his own name. Yet Ezekiel McDaniel was in a class by himself.

A week later, TL sat in his newly renovated living room, pondering who else might know about his sister’s death, when he heard a light knock on the door.

“Come in.”

He saw the small hand push the screen before he saw the face.

“Hello? Dr. Tyson?” Ezekiel called.

“Yes? Yes! Hello there! What a surprise.” TL stood. “How good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, too, sir!” The child’s energy boiled. They nodded in silence until he said, “Daddy said it was okay if I come by to see you. I didn’t want nothin’ though.”

“Well, thank you for thinking of me, Mr. Ezekiel. That’s very kind.”

His gap made TL smile again. Sporting black slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt with a multicolored bow tie, he stared at his new teacher with unbridled admiration.

“Why are you so dressed up?”

“Oh. Um … I don’t know. Just thought that since I was comin’ to see a doctor I’d better be presentable.”

TL nodded. “Yessir. Have a seat. Would you like something to eat or drink?”

“Oh, no sir. We not ’lowed to eat at other folks’ houses. Daddy said it makes people think he don’t feed us.”

“I understand.”

Ezekiel sat on the edge of the red velvet sofa, with his feet flat on the hardwood floor and hands on his knees. If TL hadn’t known better, he might’ve thought the boy had come for an interview. Still in pajamas and a white V-neck T-shirt, TL lounged in the opposite chair while Ezekiel surveyed him. There was obviously something he needed.

“So … what can I do for you?”

“Oh, nothin’.” Ezekiel’s wide, bright eyes examined the room. “I like all the different colors, sir. It makes the room feel … fun.”

“Well, I’m glad you like it.”

“I do!” he yelled.

Moments of silence passed. What does this child want? “Is there … um … something you’d like to talk about?”

“No sir.” Ezekiel’s contentment was all the more troubling.

TL couldn’t fake it anymore. “Son, why are you here?”

“’Cause I wanna be a college doctor one day. Just like you. Daddy said I need to see what college doctors do, so I asked him if I could come over here and watch you.”

“Ha! That’s mighty flattering, Mr. Zeke, but I’m afraid my life isn’t very exciting. I’m still settling into my mother’s house, as you can see, so that’s what I do most of the time. That, and read a few books occasionally.”

“What kinda books?” His good Sunday shoes tapped a slow rhythm onto the floor.

“A short story collection called Some Soul to Keep and a biography of Paul Laurence Dunbar.”

“Who’s that?”

For the next hour, Ezekiel drilled TL about everything the boy had ever wondered. He simply never tired. TL became irritated although he tried not to show it. When he moved from the living room to the kitchen, Ezekiel followed like a desperate reporter, oblivious to the possibility that TL might’ve had other things to do. Ezekiel voluntarily swept the floor as TL washed dishes, all the while asking more questions about life outside of Swamp Creek. He reminded TL of himself at that age.

“You got a wife?”

Here we go. “Excuse me?”

“A wife. You got one?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Guess it’s not time.”

“A grown man’s s’pose to have a wife, ain’t he?”

“Not necessarily. Who says that?”

“My daddy.”

“Well, some men do, some don’t.”

“Which ones don’t?”

TL huffed. “The ones who decide not to, I suppose.”

“Oh.” Ezekiel muttered. His silence was the first break TL had had since the boy arrived. They sat at Ms. Swinton’s oval four-seater dinette set. TL began to tell Ezekiel the story of him and Henry Joe fighting in the schoolyard when, suddenly, Ezekiel’s face went blank. He hung his head the way children do when they think they’re in trouble. TL waited for an explanation. When he didn’t get one, he lifted Ezekiel’s chin lovingly and said, “What’s wrong, son?”

Zeke looked everywhere except at TL. Tears streaked the child’s dark chocolate cheeks as TL touched his hand.

“Daddy hits Momma sometimes.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Ezekiel sniffled. “He beats her, Dr. Tyson, and sometimes it’s real bad.”

“I don’t believe that,” TL said, although he knew Zeke wasn’t lying.

“It’s true. Not all the time, but sometimes.” With his free hand he wiped his eyes. “She say it don’t hurt, but I know it do. Her face be swole up.”

TL’s first thought was to accompany Zeke home and confront Gary about the matter, then he considered that maybe Ezekiel was there precisely because he didn’t want to be at home. Withholding the impulse to hug the boy, for fear of impropriety, TL grabbed Ezekiel’s hands again and squeezed them tighter.

“I’m so sorry, son.”

Zeke hung his head. “I thought that maybe if you had a wife and you hit her, you could tell me why men do that.” His tone was pitiful.

“I wouldn’t hit my wife, son, if I had one. It’s wrong. And it’s against the law.”

“Then why my daddy do it?”

“I don’t know, Zeke. I don’t know why any man hits his wife, or any woman for that matter. But I know it’s wrong. You remember that much, you understand me?”

“Yessir.”

After patting the boy’s shoulders, TL offered a glass of ice cold, red Kool-Aid. Zeke’s spirit revived. “Please don’t tell Daddy I told you, Dr. Tyson. Okay? I’ll get a killin’.”

Against his better judgment, TL promised he wouldn’t.

Ezekiel left, but returned almost every day thereafter. TL couldn’t get rid of him! Some mornings, the boy sat on Ms. Swinton’s porch long before TL rose. He could hear Ezekiel, reading aloud and pacing back and forth like a Shakespearean actor. Gary told TL that Zeke would get up extra early and do his chores so he could go see “the doctor.” However, TL’s flattery soon dissipated. Some days, he simply didn’t want to be bothered, although he endured him anyway. TL left a key under the front mat, which, once discovered, Zeke never hesitated to use, and their daily ritual was discovering some word Zeke didn’t know. He’d thumb arbitrary books on the shelves and read until he got stumped. Words like “myopic” and “succinct” became part of his vocabulary long before he needed them, and multiple whippings resulted from his attempt to be what country folks called “uppity.”

Whenever Gary was on the rampage, Zeke would come sullen and quiet, as if believing, somehow, that his silence contributed to his mother’s healing. He’d explain what she looked like, recoiled and weeping in a corner, or, other times, running out the back door, but Gary would always catch her and reprimand her for some trivial offense. Some days Zeke would cry, others he wouldn’t, but he always shared his heart. Involuntarily, TL became his confidant and mentor, but, over time, he feared the boy had grown too emotionally dependent. Yet what other choice did he have?

One blazing hot afternoon in mid-July, they sat on the porch, fanning hot air, when a brand-new, sparkling, olive-green Nissan Maxima turned into the driveway. Ezekiel asked if TL was expecting company. TL said no, he didn’t know who it was. The windows were tinted, so neither of them could make out the image. Whoever it was certainly wasn’t from Swamp Creek. Folks there didn’t believe in buying much of anything brand new.

When the door opened and the gentleman exited, TL rushed Ezekiel away. The boy didn’t understand, and TL didn’t have time to explain.

“Shit, it’s hot down here!” George hollered, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief.

TL stood trembling at the edge of the porch. This can’t be real. There’s no way George Thornton is in Swamp Creek, Arkansas!

“No, it ain’t no ghost, chile!” He slammed the car door shut and looked around. “It’s just me in the flesh.” His khaki shorts were much too short and his red-and-white, cut-off muscle shirt much too tight. TL’s mouth wouldn’t close.

“Aw, you knew I was coming. Don’t play! You didn’t know when, but you should’ve been expecting me.”

TL wasn’t. George walked toward the porch, swaying slightly. They embraced a long time as memories, which TL had tried to bury, resurfaced. TL hadn’t been hugged like that since he left New York.

“How the hell did you find me!” TL screamed.

George took Ezekiel’s chair and shouted even louder, “Very carefully! You live in the goddamn boondocks for real!”

Tell me I’m dreaming, oh God!

“Man, I been driving around for thirty minutes trying to find this house. Everybody said ‘the white house down the road,’ but, hell, all the houses are white down this road!” George crossed his hairy legs. His pants were so tight the crotch bulged.

TL still couldn’t believe George was there. “You drove all the way from New York City?”

“Hell naw! I wasn’t missing you that much! Who drives from New York to rural Arkansas? I flew to Little Rock and rented a car.”

“How’d you know how to get here?”

“That’s what they make maps for, kiddo. I ain’t smart as you, but I can read.” He winked. TL’s head shook.

Years later, Ezekiel confessed that he didn’t go home that day, but rather watched the exchange from the corner of the house. At first he didn’t understand George’s unorthodox behavior, but then he laughed at him. Had he known the word “queer,” he might’ve used it, and had he known that others would soon think of him similarly, he might’ve studied George more closely. As it was, Zeke giggled at the New Yorker who left the impressionable country boy with the notion that a man—a real, grown, black man—didn’t have to act the way he’d been taught a man was supposed to act.

“What are you doing here?”

George frowned. “What do you mean what am I doing here?”

“I mean, why did you come all the way from New York—”

“Just to see you?” George blinked repeatedly.

“You know what I mean. Who jumps on a plane and flies halfway across America unannounced?”

“Me!” He slapped TL’s leg affectionately, then cackled and reclined into the chair. “Relax, man. I’m not stalking you. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. That’s what friends do, right?”

“Yep. That’s what friends do.”

George wiped his brow. “Shit! It’s hot as hell down here, man! You ain’t got nothin’ to drink?”

TL went inside and returned with glasses of cold lemonade.

George swallowed fast and hard, like a dying man in the desert. “I told Miss Zuri I was coming.”

“Oh hell! Tell me you didn’t!”

“I sure did! Shit, I ain’t scared of that chick. That’s your role.”

If there was any possibility of a future relationship with Zuri, it was gone now.

“I told her she could come with me if she wanted to, but she said no thank you. Stuck-up hussy! I ain’t never liked her.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

“Well, that’s fine with me. She can just find herself another man.”

What? TL was too afraid to ask what he meant. Something about George’s presence left him unsettled. He was certainly glad to see him, and glad that he meant enough to George for him to make such a sacrifice, but TL admitted in his heart that the distance had offered a nice break from questions he hadn’t yet answered. It’s funny, he thought, how your past has a way of following you, especially the part you don’t want.

They rose to go inside when Daddy’s truck pulled behind George’s rental.

“Oh no! It’s my father. Please be cool, George. I gotta live here.”

George smiled, tugging at the frayed edges of his shorts. “This is the man I been waiting to meet!”