The Rented Boy
Daddy’s blue-gray Chevy pickup
bumped along the hard gravel road
forking deeper into pines & oaks,
& then my boyish eyes ran up to the
flickering wick of a kerosene lamp
in the window of a small house half-
hidden on edge of a forever woods,
the front porch leaning to the ground.
This woman I’d never seen before,
granddaddy Gabel’s mama, Julia,
stood, arms flung open, begging us
into her big, strong embrace, a grin.
She said, J.W., I believe you done up
& spitted out this boy & now I can’t
tan your hide. Lawd, have mercy, ya
two done brought me good luck at dusk.
J.W., ya still take your coffee black?
Can I get ya a glass of lemonade,
Junior? If I knew ya was comin’ tonight
I would’ve baked up a whole batch
of black molasses tea cakes to break
your heart. Junior, if ya lived here,
I already done put some true meat
on your bones, she said, both hands
propped on wide hips. I said, I can help
you Grandma, & then she said, Now,
son, ain’t room here in my kitchen
for both of us. Anyway, I’m serving ya
today. Ya serve me tomorrow. Someday
ask your daddy what I’m talkin’ ’bout.
As he stepped inside from the porch,
his hand flew up & slapped a mosquito
at his heart, & on his white Sunday shirt,
it left a spot of blood. Mama Julia said,
I was hopin’ ya’d roll in here when
a half day still up in my country sky,
& you fix my broke-down screen door
& prop up the front porch. Son, I just
can’t risk my life doin’ this kinda work
no more. We sat there silent, staring at
each other, & Daddy said, Grandma,
I’ll be back on March thirty-first.
Her half-smile turned into a frown,
& she said, That’s your birthday.
Yeah, Daddy said, & you can bake
me a creamy, dark chocolate cake.
She said, We’ll see J.W., you know,
I’m countin’ up darksome days now.
My eyes kept going face to face, & then
Daddy said, Grandma, does Aunt Ida
come to see about you? A big laugh
leapt in night air, scented by strong coffee,
& Grandma said, If she can break ’way
a minute from block-headed Saul—
dat no-count, lazy man of hers. She workin’
de fields, & he sittin’ in de backyard under
his everlastin’ chinaberry shade tree, lost
in his half-white skin & his lowdown
curly hair. Now, please, pardon me,
Junior. Dat’s my confoundin’ mouth.
I smiled, but didn’t know exactly why,
& then Daddy stood up, & he said,
Grandma, I got to shoulder iron tongs
& walk logs in the millpond at 7 o’clock
tomorrow morning. Now, don’t think
I’m not coming back for chocolate cake
& a taste of moonshine you got hidden,
& then he said, This boy reads everything,
& got his eyes level with tomorrow.
She nodded her head, & said, Junior,
boy, I got somethin’ here for ya
when ya come again to grace my door.
She hugged both of us hard to her.
As the truck bounced over the ruts,
out to the highway, I could still smell
her lavender powder on my clothes.
Daddy’s cigar smoke filled the cab,
July whipping through the windows
of the old truck. I still think I heard
him say, Grandma, I forgive you.
He was speeding, & I wanted him
to slow down. Red & blue police lights
flashed in my head, & a quarter moon
in our rear window tried to keep up.
I glimpsed the old gristmill leaning
on the other side of the highway,
hemmed in by dying berry bushes.
Pines raced us. It was late December,
a Friday, when Aunt Ida sent word
Grandma Julia had a heart attack.
Daddy dressed in his blue serge suit,
shiny shoes, & a cashmere overcoat,
& drove into a cold Sunday afternoon.
If he had asked me, I would have shaken
my head “no,” & looked at the floor.
The end of the year slowed down.
As days erased each other, the years
pushed through our doors, & a blues
man leaned on a crooked oak cane.
Mama said, Son, when your daddy
was alive did you meet your Grandma
Julia? A whisper floated into the room,
& I said, When I was a boy. Just once,
in a little dark house in the woods,
lightning bugs everywhere, & cicadas
singing. I think she was lonely, I said.
Good for her, Mama said, nodding
her head. Did your daddy ever tell you?
I sat up, staring straight into my mother’s
eyes, unblinking, & said, She was born
a slave, & I almost understood her.
My mother shook her head, saying, No,
please don’t try to understand her,
how she farmed out your daddy—
only six—to a white sharecropper
as some half-broken workhorse.
He never did tell you, huh?
I could hear Dinah Washington’s
voice in my mother’s as she spoke,
lost love on the turntable, & I said,
But somehow the rented boy outfoxed
the rabbit, almost had a photographic
memory, & left the turtle dumbstruck.
