An American Marriage(73)

“Anything else?”

“That’s all. Later on, your daddy came in. Black dirt on his clothes from head to toe. People say he buried your mother with his own two hands.”

I held the receiver hard, pressing it against my ear, like that would make me less alone. I wasn’t even a week out of prison and already I felt caged again, like a woman had used a length of clothesline to bind me to a chair. You hear these stories about men who shoplift a beer right in front of the security cameras so they can get sent back to the joint, to get back to where they know what to expect. I wouldn’t do something like that, but I’m not mystified by the choice. Pulling a soft lap blanket over my hips, I thought about Walter, my father the Ghetto Yoda, and I wondered what he would say about all of this.

Davina said, “You there?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Get some rest. It’s hard at first, for everybody. Take care of yourself,” she said with a calming voice like a lullaby.

“Davina, I was thinking to tell you something. I’ve been thinking back.”

“Yeah?”

“I remember a boy named Hopper.”

“Was he okay?” Her voice was so low that I couldn’t say for sure that I actually heard it, yet I knew what she said.

“He was doing okay. That’s why I didn’t remember him, because there wasn’t much to remember.”

When I hung up, the large orange clock over the sewing machine announced that it was three thirty, a perfect right-angle o’clock. I figured Andre was at my father’s house, likely sleeping in my bed. In the dark, I smiled a little bit, picturing Andre’s expression when Big Roy told him I was gone to Atlanta. He was probably dressed in jeans and a T-shirt like an average person, but in my mind’s eye he was always wearing that skinny gray suit he wore for my mother’s services. Oh Mama, I thought. What would she think if she could see me now, sleeping on the couch in my own house, surrounded by happy baby dolls that Celestial was going to sell for $150 a pop?

“Only in Atlanta.” I said it out loud before I finally figured out how to sleep.





Andre


Roy’s father and I slept in the living room, with me on the couch and him in his recliner chair, like he didn’t trust me not to make a break for the door. He didn’t need to worry. By the time I covered myself with the crisp sheet and soft blanket, I was tired and ready to close the book on this insane day. The room was quiet except for the hiss of the gas heater in the corner, glowing blue and running hot. Still, we woke up several times in the night and shared a few words.

“You want kids?” he asked me, just as I had fallen asleep.

“Yeah, I do,” I said, hoping to return to my dream.

“Roy, too. He needs that new beginning.”

Feeling claustrophobic under the covers, I wondered if Big Roy knew how close he had come to being a grandfather. I recalled driving home with Celestial, miserable and exhausted. “I don’t know about Celestial, though. She might not want them.”

Big Roy said, “She just thinks that she doesn’t. Babies bring the love with them when they come.”

“You and Ms. Olive decided to stop after Roy?”

“I would have kept going,” Big Roy said, through a yawn. “Fill up the house. But Olive didn’t trust me enough. She was scared I would get my own offspring and forget about Little Roy, but I wouldn’t do that. He was my junior. Still, she went to the doctor and got that taken care of before I even had a chance to bring it up.”

Then he was asleep again or at least not talking. I lay there counting the hours until morning, fingering my father’s chain, doing my best not to think about Roy making his way home.

It was dark out when Big Roy rose from his recliner and pointed me in the direction of the bathroom, where he set out fresh towels and a toothbrush. Before I headed for the road, we ate breakfast: coffee and dinner rolls slick with butter. The weather was cool but not cold. We sat on the front porch, our legs dangling.

“You want her,” Big Roy said, fiddling with the strings on his hooded sweatshirt. “But you don’t need her. You see what I’m saying? Little Roy needs his woman. She is the only thing he has left of the life he had before. The life he worked for.”

The coffee, laced with chicory, gave off a sweet tobacco-smoke aroma. Although I usually take mine black, Big Roy lightened it with milk and sweetened it with sugar. I drank it down, then set the cup on the concrete floor beside me. I stood up and extended my hand. “Sir,” I said.

He shook my hand in a manner that felt both formal and sincere.

“Stand down, Andre. You’re a good man. I know you are. I remember how you carried Olive. Do the decent thing and stay away for a year or so. If she wants you after a year, and you still want her, I won’t object.”

“Mr. Hamilton, I do need her.”

He shook his head. “You don’t even know yet what need is.”

He waved like he was dismissing me, and without thinking, I moved in the direction of my car, but then I turned back. “This is bullshit, sir.”

Big Roy regarded me with a confusion, as though a stray cat suddenly started quoting Muhammad Ali.

“I’ll admit that I have had it better than some, but there are a whole lot who have it better than me, and there are some out there who have it worse than Roy. Be honest. You have to see my point, too. I saw you out there that afternoon in the hot sun struggling with that shovel. You know exactly what it is that I feel.”