Gumbo: A Celebration of African American Writing Part 6

Sutekh glanced over at his father. "No."

"No what? You didn't start school?"

"No."

"What?" Genevieve's voice grew serious. "Why not? Didn't your father take you to school? I can't believe this. You should be starting school. You're going to be behind already. Let me speak to your father."

Sutekh shook his head. He looked over at his father, who was watching him. "No. It's okay, Aunt Gen. Right? I don't want to go so much."

"Well, of course you don't, but that's just because it's something new. Once you try it you'll like it fine. And anyway, you have to go. It's not a choice. Let me speak to your father."

Sutekh turned toward the wall. "I have a book-"

"Sutekh, honey," Genevieve said, her voice both gentle and commanding, "put Eldon on."

The boy turned back to his father and held the phone out toward him. The corners of Eldon's lips dipped, but he grasped the phone. "Yeah?"

Sutekh walked back to the kitchen table and sat down, book balanced on his knees.

"Gen . . . I'm taking him. You just don't know how things are. It's not easy . . . He's been coming to work with me . . ." He listened for some time. He nodded, and when he spoke his voice had softened. "I don't know. It's just been these last nine months. I'll take him, but sometimes I'm afraid to have him out of my sight. Other times . . ." He ran a hand up over his hair. "Other times I just don't know. Anyway, f.u.c.k it, Gen," he said, not angrily, but with an exasperated sigh. "I'm hanging up now. You should watch what you ask for. Some day I might drop him on your doorstep for good." He hung up the phone and stood leaning against the wall for a few moments, one hand in a fist that slowly rapped against the wall.

He turned around.

Sutekh didn't look up at him, but said softly, "I just said I had a book."

Sutekh's bedroom was a small s.p.a.ce, cluttered by articles of clothing, toys, and books. A single bed ran the length of the wall, its crumpled bedspread trailing across the floor. The walls were painted a thick, innocuous yellow, and were bare except for a poster of the Earth viewed from s.p.a.ce and a calendar featuring football players frozen in motion. The room's one window opened onto the wall of the next row house, just below an opposing window.

Sutekh walked in, clothed in light blue pajamas, his bare feet padding lightly across the hardwood tiles. He tossed his book down on the floor and stood still in the center of the room. His eyes drifted up to the window across the alley. The light was on, and a person's vague shadow moved across the scarlet and gold curtains.

He took a few steps toward his bed, then jumped as he approached it, landing with a bounce on the mattress. The jostling of the mattress and sheets tossed several objects into the air: two Star Trek action figures, a miniature automobile, a small bra.s.s elephant figurine. The boy picked up the Star Trek figures and stood them face-to-face with each other, controlling their arms with his fingers. One figure gently touched the other on the forehead. Suddenly they began to wrestle, their bodies pushed clumsily together. Then Sutekh picked up the elephant and tilted it upward. A faint sound escaped his lips, a high-pitched, somewhat horse-like whine.

"You call that an elephant roar?" Eldon asked. He stood leaning against the doorframe.

Sutekh stopped moving. The bra.s.s figurine fell from his fingers.

"That's no elephant roar. That sounded like a mouse roar or something." He entered the room and sat down on the corner of the bed. He placed a hand on Sutekh's back.

The boy didn't move, his eyes fixed on a wrinkle in the blanket.

"If I was an elephant, I'd roar like this . . ." He let out a roar, a guttural cry that went from low pitched to higher pitched, ending with an expulsion of air somewhere between a laugh and a cough. "Well, something like that." He swiped in the air with a hand. "Something like that . . ."

The humor with which he had just spoken faded quickly, his expression changing to one of exhaustion. The bags below his eyes were more p.r.o.nounced than usual, with a bluish tint to them. His gaze drifted around the room, over his son's back and shoulders. He moved his hand from Sutekh's back to his head and stroked his hair. When he spoke again, his voice was limp, each word falling heavily from his lips. "Have you ever seen an elephant? You never have, have you?" He stretched out on the bed beside his son.

Sutekh squirmed away a few inches and rolled over on his side, facing his father. The man's breath carried the stale scent of alcohol and onions.

"I went to see the elephants with your mom, at the circus," he said. "She didn't like the circus, but she liked the elephants. She talked about Hannibal and how he rode elephants across the mountains and fought the Romans. That must've been something . . . Anita could tell such good stories. I'll tell you about Hannibal sometime. But I can't tell it as good as her. I can't do anything as good as her." Eldon exhaled a long breath and looked past Sutekh at the wall. He closed his eyes and inhaled. "Sutekh, your dad's going crazy," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "He's going crazy, and he doesn't know what to do." With his eyes still closed, he reached out and felt for his son.

Sutekh moved back a little, but let his father grasp him around the arm. The man's fingers were firm in their grip, but still gentle. The boy watched his father's face, the lines around his mouth, the flutter of his eyelids, the movement of his lips.

"She shouldn't have gone. You didn't have to, Anita. You didn't . . ." He pulled Sutekh close to him. "I would have fought the snakes with you. I wouldn't have let them get you, never. We could have fought anything together. That's all I ever wanted. To fight back the world with you. To make a place for us."

Eldon opened his eyes and liquid burst forth from both of them, lingering momentarily on the rim of his eyelids, then sliding over the bridge of his nose, down his cheek, and falling onto Sutekh's head, which the man held under his chin. He closed his eyes again and rubbed Sutekh with comforting gestures, his hand making gentle circles on the small of his back. He said, "Shhh," softly, as if it were the boy who was crying. "Shhh." It was only very gradually that his own body began to move, that his comforting gestures became caresses, and he began to rub the boy's body against his own.

Eldon drove the car slowly down Frederick Avenue, a quiet street of lumpy asphalt, shaded by tall gum trees and an occasional pine. Sitting among the trees were houses of varying sizes and designs. Some had the aged look of antebellum estates, with large porches and fold-out windows. Others were modern structures, small houses of simple geometry, in pastel shades of light blue and mint green, with plaster shingles and fake shutters. They sat quietly among the trees, with the silence of a ghost town. Behind the houses on the right, the surface of a small harbor sparkled with the auburn shades of the setting sun.

"Hey, little man, remember you stayed down here last summer?" Eldon asked. "You do a lot of fishing then?"

Sutekh slipped his seat belt underneath his arm and pressed his face close to the car window. His eyes floated slowly over each object they pa.s.sed, lingering on the wake left by a slow moving boat in the harbor, following the flight of a flock of ducks. The houses to the west momentarily thinned out, and the glow of the sun lit Sutekh's face. He watched his image reflected in the gla.s.s and saw his lips move. "Some," he said.

"Yeah, that's your granddad," Eldon said. "I guess he's got to do something with himself. I don't know why it's fishing, though. I never really liked fishing that much. Maybe it was the getting up early." He reached up and turned the rearview mirror toward his face. He looked at himself, drew his lips back from his teeth. "Your granddad will probably complain that I'm depriving you by not taking you fishing and stuff. I don't know if I would know how anymore." He moved the mirror back to its original place. "Like fishing really matters."

Eldon slowed the car down and pulled over in front of a small, single-level house. "Here we are." He turned off the car and reached into the backseat for a duffel bag. "Go on, get out."

Sutekh untangled himself from his seat belt and climbed out of the car. He stood on the concrete walkway and looked at the house. It looked back silently, a white, flat-faced facade, with two front windows set on either side of the door. The three steps leading up to the door stuck out like a protruding tongue. There was a light on near one of the windows, it cast a corrugated glow through the blinds. The only noticeable decorations were the three plaster kittens that clung to the roof's green shingles.

"Come on." Eldon nudged Sutekh forward.

Just as he began walking, the front door opened and his grandmother, Rosella, appeared silhouetted within the door frame. "Sutekh! Come here to your grandmother," she said. She pushed open the screen door and extended her arms toward him.

Sutekh walked steadily up the pathway, the stairs, and, when he reached her, was engulfed by her arms, pressed into her torso. She took his face within her two hands and looked at him for a long moment. Her face was pale and covered with delicate wrinkles. Her cheeks had the soft quality of half-baked dough, and her eyes were a deep brown, flecked with bits of yellow. She kissed him on the forehead.

"It's so good to see you. Every time I see you you've grown a few inches." She backed up and motioned for them to enter. "Hi, Eldon. Come on in. I've just about got dinner ready."

The interior of the house was cluttered with furniture: a couch, numerous chairs and endtables, and lamps. The walls were littered with plaques and awards from various clubs and organizations, framed photographs, and several aged needlework pieces. Each flat surface was occupied by something, an ashtray or magazines, wooden figurines and other items, the various knickknacks collected over a lifetime. The television was on, tuned to the news, and the scent of fried chicken was thick in the air.

"No dinner for me, thanks," Eldon said. "I'll just drop Sutekh off and get going."

"You sure?" Rosella asked. She leaned forward when she spoke, and furrowed her brow with a look of concern. "Your father isn't home yet, but he should be any minute. He just went to the store."

"Yeah." Eldon plopped the duffel bag down in a chair. "I have to meet someone in a little bit."

He looked from his mother to Sutekh, puffed up his cheeks and exhaled. "Hey, Sutekh, what do you say I just take off? Your grandmother will take care of you. All right?"

Sutekh sat down on a chair in the living room. He looked back at his father and shrugged. "All right."

Eldon's eyes flicked up to Rosella. She was watching the boy, her head tilted slightly to the side, her face fixed in a smile. "Okay," he said. "Um . . . So what, I'll be back Sunday night?"

"Sure," Rosella said. "Whenever. We'll be here."

"Okay. See ya, Sutekh. Have fun, right? Remember what I told you." He walked back to the front door and paused there a moment, looked back. Rosella watched him. "Okay," he said. "Bye."

"Bye, Eldon. We'll look for you on Sunday."

He stepped outside and shut the door behind him.

Rosella turned back to Sutekh. "I'm making your favorite-fried chicken for dinner. I should go check it. I'll just be a minute." She shuffled from the room toward the kitchen.

Sutekh turned and looked through the blinds, out the window. His father stood next to the car, saying something to Norman, Sutekh's grandfather, who had just pulled into the driveway. Norman held a grocery bag to his chest with one arm. He walked around the front of his car, as Eldon walked to the driver's side of his. They got no closer than this, and after exchanging a few words that Sutekh couldn't hear, Eldon waved and Norman turned toward the house.

Sutekh released the blinds when he heard Norman open the door. They snapped back into place.

Norman's skin had a smooth texture, a hue like raw sienna, marked by deep lines that etched his features. The edges of his forehead extended far up into his thinning hairline. He held up a spoonful of b.u.t.tered corn and paused, leaning his elbow on the table. "So, you're ready to get up early, right?" he asked. His tone was serious, as if conducting official business. "You know that's when the fish are hungry. Early in the morning. If you go out much past sun up you're not gonna get much. It's the early worm that catches the fish." He smiled, slipped the fork into his mouth, and chewed rapidly, his thin, gray-flecked mustache jiggling up and down like a living creature.

Sutekh sat across from him at the dinner table, next to Rosella. He held a chicken leg in his fingers. He nodded and took a bite.

"Is that all you can talk about?" Rosella asked. "You'd think you fished for a living."

Norman wiped his mouth with a napkin, which he held crumpled in his hand. "That's why I retired, isn't it? A man's got to do something with his time. Can't just sit around doing nothing. Right Sutekh?"

Sutekh nodded. He wiped his hands on the napkin in his lap.

"That's why you work your whole life," Norman said. He pointed at Sutekh with his knife. "You work your whole life so that one day you can stop working and retire. Buy yourself a house by the water and do some fishing with your grandson. That's what it comes down to in the end. That's got to be what it comes down to, because thirty years spent working behind a desk, handling other people's money, ain't much of a life. But you've got to put in the time. Lord knows I've done mine and now-"

"Norman, don't lecture the boy."

Norman scowled. "I'm not lecturing. I'm talking to my grandson. Somebody has got to educate the boy. I'm just telling him what work is about. Figure Eldon don't tell him nothing."

"Norman-"

"Don't say you think Eldon knows anything about work. You know he doesn't. Never did. That boy never had an ounce of backbone in his body, not from day one. He's got a spine like one of them salamanders." He raised a forkful of corn to his mouth, but pulled it away, spilling a few kernels back onto his plate. "But Sutekh, you're gonna do better, aren't you? You know what you are, son?"

Sutekh looked up at him. He shook his head.

Norman leaned forward. "You're the hope of this family. You know that? You're the only one left to carry on for me. You're my only grandson, my right-hand man. The only one I'm ever gonna have." He lowered his voice. "You know why? Because your Aunt Genevieve only likes women. She's what they call a 'female f.a.g.'"

Rosella's knife and fork clanked down against her plate. She watched Norman with her lips puckered, her cheeks drawn in.

"What do you think of that?" Norman asked. "My own daughter. Your own aunt. A woman's woman." He began to put the fork in his mouth, but, seeing it was almost empty, he put it down and picked at his chicken breast. "The hope of the family."

"Norman, give it a rest and let Sutekh eat."

Norman spoke while still chewing. "I'm not saying anything but the truth. Did everything I could in this world and I still ended up with two messed-up kids. If I had my way I would send them back and start over again. Just start from scratch."

"Thank the Lord you don't have that option," Rosella said. She turned toward Sutekh. "How's everything, Sutekh? Save room for dessert. Norman got some ice cream for you. See, when he's not in a grumpy mood he's really pretty nice."

"I'm not grumpy," Norman said. He wrung his hands on his crumpled napkin. "Not really. You hear, Sutekh? How could I be grumpy when I'm going fishing with my grandson in the morning? To tell you the truth, I'm feeling downright pleasant. Grumpy is another thing entirely."

Sutekh and Norman sat together on the pier, with fishing rods and hooks and worms. A steady flow of waves pa.s.sed beneath them. Moisture from the chill air clung to their clothes, tickled their skin. The garbled hum of a clam boat crept across the surface of the water; the blanket of morning mist softened the sharp-edged cries of gulls. A pelican flew out of the void and glided low across the water. Its head was stretched intently forward and its wings were held still in motionless speed. "Well, look at that," Norman said. "That's a pelican. He's a fisherman, too." As quietly as it appeared it was gone into the distance.

Sutekh held his fishing rod between his legs, one thumb pressed against the fishing line. His feet dangled off the pier. On the surface of the water, the gray sky seemed to heave and undulate. Minnows swam beside seagulls through the clouds.

"Look," Sutekh said. "There's fish in the clouds."

Norman watched the water for a moment. He stroked his mustache with the tips of his fingers. "Well, yeah, I guess you could say that. You've got a funny way of saying things though."

Sutekh looked up at his grandfather. Norman looked down and slowly the crevices of his face stretched into a smile. He adjusted his hat and was about to speak when he suddenly jerked backward. "Hot d.a.m.n! I got ya!" he yelled. He struggled to rise as his fishing pole bent and jerked. Sutekh put on the rubber glove from the tackle box and felt the metal spikes of its palm. He stood, holding his fishing rod in one hand and the glove in the other, watching the old man struggle.

Norman turned to him. "Come here. Stick that away and take this here."

Sutekh jumped, secured his fishing pole in a crack between the boards, threw off the glove, and took the man's fishing pole carefully into his hands. Instantly, he felt the vigorous tug of the fish shooting through the line. He wound the reel, bending forward and back. His heart pumped furiously, aroused both by the tugging and the fear of being pulled from the pier.

"It must be a big one," Norman said. He stood protectively close, slapping his hands frequently on his legs.

The boy's hands began to falter, barely able to turn the reel. Norman pointed over his shoulder and there it was, the fish surging against the string in a wide arch, a streak of silver in the water. "Keep her steady," the grandfather said. "Bring her in slow." Eventually, the boy slowed so much that Norman reached over and helped him bring the fish up.

The fight ended, but now began the futile flapping. The fish sparkled with tiny scales. It still tried to breathe. The mouth opened and closed rhythmically, showing rows of small teeth, sharp like bits of gla.s.s.

"Careful of her mouth. If she gets a grip on your finger, she'll take it," Norman said. He grabbed the fish with the glove. There was a crunch as the spikes dug in. The fish tried to wiggle free, but Norman yanked at the wire going into its mouth. The hook wouldn't come out. "It's a bluefish. Probably a foot long." He reached down into the tackle box and pulled out a tool the size of a screwdriver, a short pole with a corrugated bulge at the end, for extracting hooks. He shoved it down the fish's mouth and twisted. "Yeah, this'll be good eating," he said. Then he yanked out the tool, bringing with it the hook and pieces of gill and blood. The fish stopped fighting, only tried to breathe a little longer, then went limp.

"That'll do it," Norman said. He tossed the fish into an empty bucket. Its tail peeked over the rim. "What do ya say? You caught a real blue, boy. Catch another one like that and we got dinner."

Sutekh nodded. He looked at the pier, toward the bucket, at his grandfather. "We're gonna make you a fisherman yet," Norman said. "Check your line."

Sutekh turned slowly, as if he didn't understand, and pulled his fishing rod from the crack. As he reeled it in he looked back at the bucket, at the fishtail.

The kitchen's fluorescent light sputtered on. Sutekh and his grandfather walked in and set their things down; the fish by the sink, tackle box and rod on the floor.

"Your grandmother must be at Helen's," Norman said. He leaned back against the counter. "Okay, now comes the dirty part. I ever teach you how to clean fish?"

Sutekh said, "No."

"I haven't? Seven years old and you never cleaned a fish? It's your daddy's fault, you know. He's been in the city too long is what it is. He hasn't been out here in years, has he? He just comes and drops you off and is gone like a flash." Absently, he added, "Ain't been no good since your mother pa.s.sed. That's got him messed up in the head."

Sutekh looked as if he was about to say something, but the words evaporated before they escaped his lips. Instead, he just looked up, his eyes searching his grandfather's features.

Norman motioned for Sutekh to pull a stool up to the counter, and dumped the bucket of four fish into the sink. "Now, you have to be careful with the knife or you'll take off a finger. Hear?" He turned the water on and let it wash over the fish, pulled a long, thin knife out of a drawer and dipped it under the stream. He put a fish on the counter and grabbed it by the tail. "Now, first you got to scale it." He sc.r.a.ped the blade up and down fish's side. Scales flaked off on the knife or popped onto the counter. He flipped the fish over and did the other side. "See, you gotta get these off. You wouldn't want to eat them." He put the blade of the knife behind the fish's gills and leaned down. The creature's head dropped into the sink with a dull thud. A rich maroon substance oozed from the hole where the head had been. He slit the fish's belly open and pulled out its insides with his fingers. He flicked them into the sink with a quick snap of his wrist. "You see what I been doing? Just slit it down here and pull out the mush." He turned the fish around and sliced the tail off with a quick thrust. "And there you go. Clean and ready for the pan." Norman held the fish up and smiled at Sutekh. "You ready to try?"

Sutekh stepped down from the stool and backed away a few steps.

"Whatsa matter, son?" Norman asked.

Sutekh looked him in the face for a moment, but then leaned back against the counter, with his head down.

"Son? Don't you want to scale your fish?"

Looking down, Sutekh saw the man's shoes, dock shoes, dirty from salt and fish and use, against the swirling pattern of the linoleum floor. "Granddad," he said. Sutekh closed his eyes and spoke without lifting his head. His voice was pained like bending wood. "Sometimes I think that's not supposed to happen."

"You think what's not supposed to happen? What are you talking about?"

"Daddy."

Norman stood up straight and cleared his throat. "What's wrong with your father?"

"He rubs on me," Sutekh said.

"What? You're not making sense."

"He rubs on me."