The Missing Generations<\/i>
\nBy Aisha Rickford and Rowan Staley<\/p>\n\u00a0 Preface <\/h3>\n
For our collaborative project, we decided to further explore the stories of characters featured in the texts we read. Whether main or secondary characters, we felt that there were elements to them that had not been explored adequately enough in the text and we wanted to add color and context to their stories. We chose to write our own narratives in the form of short stories, both because we were inspired by the form of Uncle Tom\u2019s Children<\/em> and because we wanted to take the opportunity to challenge ourselves through creative writing. We also felt that in continuing the narratives of certain characters we were exploring modes of response to literature and immersing ourselves more fully with the content of the course.<\/p>\n We wrote our early drafts of the first two stories together at first, bouncing ideas off of each other and offering advice. Then we separated to write the remainder of the stories. We met five times between beginning the stories and submitting them to read over each other\u2019s, offering input and making edits to unify the narrative voice and the themes. We both knew that we wanted to focus on the themes of childhood and family, and loss and trauma, and how racism both informs those things and is informed by them, and so we drew specifically upon The Third Generation<\/em> and Uncle Tom\u2019s Children<\/em>. We were both inspired by particular passages in these texts and used specific quotes to frame our stories, similar to Richard Wright\u2019s epigraph at the beginning of Uncle Tom\u2019s Children<\/em>.<\/p>\n Once we had completed all four stories, we decided on the final order: beginning with Mrs. Taylor from The Third Generation<\/em>, then Will from The Third Generation<\/em>, then Peewee from Down by the Riverside<\/em>, and then Sarah from Long Black Song. <\/strong><\/em>This was not a random order; Mrs. Taylor is the only story that flashes back, while Will and Peewee flash forward, and then Sarah\u2019s story continues immediately after the end of Long Black Song<\/em>. \u00a0We wanted to create a narrative arc of moving from past to future, and then to present again. Sarah\u2019s story is about moving forward from trauma yet remaining in the present moment; it is imbued with the idea that life goes on, and so it felt appropriate as the final story.<\/p>\n \u201cShe had added to the story, enlarging and changing the parts she didn\u2019t like. The resulting story was that her father was the son of Dr. Manning and a beautiful octoroon, the most beautiful woman in all the state, whose own father had been an English nobleman. Her mother was the daughter of the song of a United States President and an octoroon who was the daughter of a Confederate Army general. At first it had been a childish game of fantasy. After having received several whippings for recounting it to her wide-eyed schoolmates she had kept it to herself, and in time had outgrown it. As a young woman she had felt a real sense of superiority which, in her home environment, had needed no support<\/em>\u201d (Himes 18).<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Lin had started the flower garden in February, on the weekend after officially moving in. It was the first time that Lin had ever felt that she\u2019d had something of her own. The garden, and the house as well. It was a tiny house, really, with peeling paint and gutters that hung halfway off the side of the roof. But by May, it was more alive somehow, the sun brightening the white exterior, which Lin\u2019s husband Charles had given a new coat of paint on the first day of spring. Now the children could run about in the yard, and the sounds of their cackling and the sight of them tumbling about in the grass gave Lin a warm feeling of contentedness each time that she looked out at them through the kitchen window, like she did now.<\/p>\n Tom and Charlie, her two older boys, were kicking a ball around the yard, while their younger sister Ella, only four, tottered about in their wake. Lin\u2019s hand found their way to her stomach; she was heavily pregnant, and due any day. Charles was hoping for another boy, but Lin felt for certain that this time, it was another girl. There was something soft about this pregnancy, light. The baby had hardly kicked, and her belly was significantly smaller than it had been with her boys or even with her youngest daughter.<\/p>\n The sound of glass shattering punctured the moment. She rushed outside to find Tom and Charlie standing in a patch of wildflowers a little ways out the backyard. The bottle they\u2019d been kicking around was in pieces – it had broken, evidently, from being kicked at a pipe that ran up alongside the exterior walls of the house. Lin scanned her children quickly; they all seemed to be alright, if not stunned. The shards of glass were scattered in the patch of bluebells that, back in February, Lin had slaved over on her hands and knees, digging deep in the ground to plant the bulbs. Her mouth set in a hard line.<\/p>\n Ella looked between her terrified brothers and her furious mother and started to cry.<\/p>\n \u201cMama, we didn\u2019t mean to -\u201d began Tom.<\/p>\n \u201cGet a switch,\u201d said Lin. Now Charlie started crying. \u201cI said get the switch!\u201d<\/p>\n Tom ran off to obey, Charlie crying in his wake.<\/p>\n Lin sank to her knees, her stomach swelling before her. It was a conscious effort not to let the weight of it pull her forward onto the dark, glass-strewn earth. She began the work of picking up the pieces of glass, placing those that she could into the front pocket of her apron. She then rose to her full height again.<\/p>\n Ella watched her, her chest heaving with little sobs too big for her body, the breath hitching in her throat and coming out of her mouth in labored intervals. \u201cMama, please don\u2019t hit them,\u201d she begged. \u201cMama, it wasn\u2019t on purpose -\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBe quiet now, Ella,\u201d Lin warned.<\/p>\n \u201cMama, please -\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI said be quiet now Ella, or you\u2019ll be getting the switch too.\u201d \u201cIt shouldn\u2019t be taking them this long,\u201d said Lin, scanning the grassy horizon for her sons. Surrounding the little house were green hills and fields, framed in the crisp and cloudless blue of a Georgia day in May. In the distance, Lin could see the tall sycamore tree that marked the edge of the property, branches swaying ever so slightly in the breeze. Past that was the railroad, the wind whipping up dust from it under the hot sun. She couldn\u2019t see the boys anywhere.<\/p>\n And then – two brown heads emerged from a dip in the hill, running with fervor. Towards the sycamore tree they moved, desperation in each stride.<\/p>\n \u201cTom! Charlie! Y\u2019all get back here this minute!\u201d bellowed Lin, even more enraged now that the boys had tried to escape from her.<\/p>\n They said nothing but kept running, and Lin felt her heart race with anger, for she knew they could hear her.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll get you! I swear it, I\u2019m coming after you!\u201d she cried, and she took off after them, barefoot in the hot sun.<\/p>\n Tom turned back and saw his mother, running after him with extraordinary speed for a woman nine months pregnant. Terror filled his lungs; he could feel it all the way through his body, prickly and threatening to rob him off his ability to stay upright.<\/p>\n The sight of Tom looking back and seeing her running after him, but not stopping, filled Lin with an uncontrollable rage, and she picked up speed.<\/p>\n At last, Tom and Charlie reached the tree, and just as Tom began to scramble his way up, his mother reached them. She picked up a branch from the ground with one hand and wrenched Tom down by the collar of his shirt with the other.<\/p>\n \u201cPull your pants down,\u201d she ordered.<\/p>\n \u201cMama, please -\u201d he begged.<\/p>\n \u201cI said pull your pants down, Tom,\u201d said Lin.<\/p>\n \u201cMama, please, we\u2019re sorry – \u201d Charlie tried.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t you start with me!\u201d Lin yelled. They fell silent.<\/p>\n Tom obeyed, sniffling pathetically, and Charlie followed suit. The sun fell on them through the canopy of the leaves of the sycamore tree, and then a cloud covered it, bathing the three figures in shadow.<\/p>\n Lin picked up the switch and grabbed her sons by the shoulders. Slowly, methodically, she beat them. With each hit, each boy would let out a cry of pain that would reverberate in Lin in days to come, when she recounted this story of her most unbridled rage. She would tell the story as though the boys deserved it, as though she couldn\u2019t control her emotions at the time due to her pregnancy, but secretly she felt ashamed. What she remembered most of all – the part she never told – was the baby thrashing away in her stomach, kicking and moving her fists against the walls of her womb, as if awakened by the rage, hot and unrestrained, that had began to run through her mother\u2019s veins.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n Soon after that, baby Lillian was born. But within a few years, Charles and Lin could no longer afford their Georgia railroad home. Lillian remembered the day her father turned to her mother and told her that they had to sell the house. She was only five years old, but she understood that this meant leaving the home she had only ever known.<\/p>\n So the newly-named Mannings picked up from rural Georgia and moved to Atlanta. After struggling to make ends meet there as well, they wound up back in the town of the plantation where Lin and Charles had lived before they were freed, in South Carolina. During their time in Atlanta Charles had fallen sick with tuberculosis, and upon his recovery he and Lin realized the best thing for them to do was return home and bring the children up in the church.<\/p>\n At first, the new home felt wrong and unfamiliar to Lillian, who, even at this early age, tired of the constant movement. From place to place they moved, never settling, no sense of permanence ever existing in this family that birthed a new baby what seemed like every year and was dealt difficult card one after the other. But something about returning to the place of their youth brought a new energy to Charles and Lin, and soon it was clear that the adversity they\u2019d survived in the years after being freed was going to remain in the past.<\/p>\n The difficulty of her early life had never seemed further away to Lillian than on the morning of her tenth birthday. It was still quite early – none of her brothers and sisters were awake, and if she listened closely enough, she could hear distantly the quiet breathing of her parents, the snoring of her father. She stood in the hallway bathroom, examining herself in the mirror. Her hair was wispy and reddish, wild with sleep, framing her face and neck. Her skin, a light, creamy brown, was almost translucent in the weak light that poured in through the curtains. Lillian stood there, only the top half of her face visible in the mirror that was high on the wall, and watched herself. She placed her hands on either side of her face and pursed her lips. She didn\u2019t feel any older, and she didn\u2019t look much older either, it seemed. Maybe it took time before you could tell the difference, she thought. After all, she\u2019d only been ten for a few hours – perhaps her body didn\u2019t realize it was older yet. It was still small and thin, and she still had to stand on tiptoe if she wanted to see herself while she brushed her teeth.<\/p>\n A little disenchanted with the lack of physical proof of her entry into the double-digits, Lillian turned off the bathroom light, went back to her bedroom which she shared with her sisters and brothers, and clambered back into bed. She was comforted by the fact that in a few hours, the rest of her family would be awake, and for once, she could be the center of attention.<\/p>\n It felt that she had only been asleep for minutes when she was awoken by the sound of muffled voices. Lillian opened her eyes to see her mother and father and her brothers and sisters surrounding her. Closest to her was her mother, holding a pancake on a plate with a candle sticking out of it.<\/p>\n \u201cHappy birthday, Lillian!\u201d they all shouted, and then began to sing. A huge smile flooded Lillian\u2019s face, and she soaked in each moment of the song, relishing in the moments that were just for her.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n Lillian\u2019s birthday was a Sunday, and so after breakfast the whole family made the journey down to church, wearing their Sunday best. \u201cYou look just beautiful,\u201d said her father just before they left, straightening the collar of her dress. Lillian beamed at him, and gave him a kiss, feeling his wispy beard, so like her own hair, against the skin of her cheek.<\/p>\n Lillian was especially excited for the end of the church service because Mrs. Jones, the Mannings\u2019 neighbor, had promised to take her to get ice cream in Greenville. Mr. Jones had permitted his wife to take their car for the occasion, a particularly nice one that they rarely used. Lillian was popular with much of the community, adored for her beautiful face and high self-esteem so rare in young black girls. Though she would never admit it, it gave Mrs. Jones such pride that a family that could easily not have to stay in their community, could pass for white, chose to remain and raise their children as black.<\/p>\n Mrs. Jones was a striking woman, tall, dark, and lean, and she kept her hair cropped short. She leaned against her blue car in the lot, finishing off a cigarette, and watched as the church doors burst open and out came a flurry of people. Lillian was one of the first out, eager for her trip into town, and hurried off to meet Mrs. Jones. Behind her, Bonnie Johnson, another little girl in Lillian\u2019s Sunday school, followed. She had heard Lillian going on about going to Greenville with Mrs. Jones, and was eager to join. She was a skinny girl, taller than Lillian, with lots of thick curly hair twisted into bunches.<\/p>\n \u201cGood morning!\u201d said Lillian brightly, reaching Mrs. Jones.<\/p>\n \u201cHappy birthday,\u201d said Mrs. Jones, dropping a cigarette on the ground and putting it out with the toe of her shoe. \u201cAre you ready?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh yes,\u201d Lillian said. \u201cI\u2019m so, so excited -\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWait just a minute,\u201d said Lin, walking over with the rest of the Manning children. Bonnie was with her.<\/p>\n \u201cLillian, Bonnie is going to come with you this afternoon,\u201d said Lin.<\/p>\n \u201cBut, Mama,\u201d Lillian began. \u201cI thought it was just going to be me and Mrs. Jones – \u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t be rude, Lillian, or you won\u2019t be going into town at all,\u201d Lin warned.<\/p>\n Lillian swallowed the rest of her words and crossed her arms. Her mouth set in a hard line.<\/p>\n \u201cBonnie has had you over her house after church a lot,\u201d said Charles. \u201cShe should come with you on your birthday.\u201d<\/p>\n Bonnie smiled at Lillian, but Lillian looked away.<\/p>\n \u201cYes, Pa,\u201d said Lillian, and she turned to get into Mrs. Jones\u2019s car. Bonnie followed after her.<\/p>\n The three adults watched the two children sitting side by side, Lillian with her head turned, face propped on an arm against the window. Lin pursed her lips.<\/p>\n \u201cWe should be back well before dinner,\u201d said Mrs. Jones.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n On the way to Greenville, Lillian was mostly silent, cursing her mother in her head. This was supposed to be her special day, and Bonnie had ruined it. Lillian loved Mrs. Jones – she thought she was a beautiful, poised woman. Something about the way she walked and talked made Lillian think about who and what she wanted to be when she was a grown woman. She wanted to spend time alone with her, soak in what she could.<\/p>\n The ice cream place was a fairly new one, that Mrs. Jones had taken her nephews to a few weeks prior. She found a place to park and the three women, two girls and one grown, walked around the black part of town, wandering into shops. She bought Lillian a new dress, and Bonnie a cheap little notebook.<\/p>\n \u201cMrs. Jones, when are we going to get the ice cream?\u201d asked Bonnie, after they had been walking around town for about an hour.<\/p>\n Mrs. Jones had not forgotten, but had simply been planning how best to go about it. The ice cream place, called Tom\u2019s, was located in the heart of the white section of town. At a glance, they did not serve Negroes, but Mrs. Jones had been a nanny for one of the white woman who worked there, and if she went to the back of the building she could be served. She would need at least three hands to carry all the ice cream, but did not want to ask either of the children to come with her and then have them asking questions about why they couldn\u2019t go in through the front way. It made more sense, though, to take Bonnie, as she was not anywhere near as passing as Lillian.<\/p>\n They came to a stop in front of a bench on a street corner a few blocks from the ice cream store. \u201cLillian,\u201d said Mrs. Jones, you sit here, since it\u2019s your birthday, and Bonnie and I will come back with ice cream for all of us.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut I want to come with you – \u201d began Lillian.<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d said Mrs. Jones. \u201cA birthday girl shouldn\u2019t have to get her own ice cream.\u201d<\/p>\n She and Bonnie walked off, and Lillian sat on the bench, pulling her new dress out of its bag that held her brand new dress. It was green with a white trim, and looked beautiful on her fair skin. She thumbed the fabric, and swung her legs over the side of the bench, taking in the sight of the quiet city street and the sun pouring down on her face.<\/p>\n A white man who looked like he was in thirties walked by, and paused at the site of the fair-skinned girl with reddish hair.<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s a pretty dress, there,\u201d said the man, removing his hat from his head.<\/p>\n Lillian said nothing at first, a bit afraid. She was taught not to speak to strangers, and rarely if ever did she come into contact with white people, let alone speak to them.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s alright, miss,\u201d he said. \u201cI have a daughter just about your age, I think she\u2019d love that dress. She looks just like you.\u201d<\/p>\n Lillian was puzzled. How could a white girl look just like her?<\/p>\n \u201cI got it for my birthday,\u201d she said shyly, at length.<\/p>\n \u201cWell it\u2019s just lovely,\u201d said the man. \u201cAnd it brings out the red in your hair.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThank you,\u201d said Lillian, feeling a rush of color to her cheeks.<\/p>\n The man looked at her for a moment and, seeming to assess that she didn\u2019t see him as a threat, sat down next to her. \u201cNow what is a little girl like you doing here all by yourself? Where\u2019s your mama?\u201d<\/p>\n Lillian was not sure why, but she was struck with the notion that telling the truth of where she lived would be very unsafe, and not just because of what her parents had always said about not talking to strangers. Something inside of her told her that if she told this man where she really lived, the way he was speaking to her would change.<\/p>\n \u201cMy mama\u2019s at home,\u201d said Lillian at once. \u201cShe\u2019s making a surprise for me and she told me to go and buy myself a dress.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s lovely,\u201d said the man. \u201cDo you have any guess what the surprise is?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d said Lillian, \u201cBut I know that my mother is preparing for my grandfather to visit for dinner tonight. He is from England, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWas he now?\u201d said the man. He removed his glasses and looked closely at her. \u201cWell, now! I suppose he was. I see it in you.\u201d<\/p>\n Lillian beamed.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd my pa – he\u2019s the son of Dr. Jessie Manning, he was born south of here.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, isn\u2019t that nice,\u201d said the man. \u201cIt\u2019s nice to know where you come from, isn\u2019t it? And how nice is it that everyone\u2019s coming together to celebrate your birthday?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, it\u2019s so nice,\u201d said Lillian. She sat up a bit straighter. \u201cOh, it\u2019s my favorite day of the year.\u201d<\/p>\n Just then, a couple of boys and a girl rounded the corner, kicking a ball.<\/p>\n \u201cPapa,\u201d said the older boy. \u201cPapa, who\u2019s this?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThis is a nice little girl I just met,\u201d said the man. \u201cAnd her name is – ?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLillian.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLillian. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.\u201d The man smiled, wiping his glasses on his shirt. He took her hand and shook it. \u201cNow, Lillian, you said you lived around here? What\u2019s your father\u2019s name? I\u2019m sure we must see you in church now and then.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLillian!\u201d called Bonnie\u2019s voice. \u201cLillian, we got you strawberry!\u201d<\/p>\n Lillian whipped around to see Mrs. Jones and Bonnie approaching, holding three cones of ice cream.<\/p>\n The man turned too, and stood up straight in surprise. \u201cWhat are you doing, girl, leaving Lillian all by herself?\u201d he said roughly, talking to Mrs. Jones. \u201cI\u2019m sure her mama told you to watch her.\u201d<\/p>\n Mrs. Jones was without words, watching the scene unfold in front of her. It made no sense, seeing Lillian there on a bench surrounded by white people. She looked too comfortable. She looked like she was one of them.<\/p>\n \u201cCome on, Lillian,\u201d said Mrs. Jones, outstretching her hand.<\/p>\n \u201cOh come, Mrs. Jones, say hello! He\u2019s a very nice man -\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLillian, I said come here now,\u201d snapped Mrs. Jones. Lillian obeyed, and when she reached Mrs. Jones and Bonnie, she took their hands.<\/p>\n The three white people said nothing as Mrs. Jones rushed them away, but as they began to round the corner, the man called out,<\/p>\n \u201cWell, have a nice birthday now, Lillian!\u201d<\/p>\n The sound of his voice sent fear through Mrs. Jones\u2019s heart, and once they reached her car she loaded up the kids and drove them home in silence. Lillian sat in the front seat, and she saw that Mrs. Jones\u2019s knuckles were almost white from how hard they were gripping the steering wheel.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n Mrs. Jones dropped off Bonnie first. By this time, twilight had fallen, bathing the streets of the small South Carolina town in gray light. Lillian was not sure what she had done wrong, besides talking to strangers, and talking to white people – but she didn\u2019t understand why she\u2019d never been allowed to before. After all, those people had been perfectly nice, and they didn\u2019t look very different from her either. The idea of the man having a little daughter who looked \u201cjust like\u201d her was one that she couldn\u2019t let go of, couldn\u2019t make sense of. What did that mean, if Lillian was Negro and that little girl was white?<\/p>\n They pulled up to Lillian\u2019s home. Mrs. Jones turned off the engine and turned to Lillian.<\/p>\n \u201cNow, Lillian, I need you to be honest with me,\u201d said Mrs. Jones. \u201cWhat did you say to that white man?\u201d<\/p>\n Lillian told her. Mrs. Jones took in a deep breath. It seemed to rattle in her throat.<\/p>\n \u201cStay in the car a moment,\u201d said Mrs. Jones.<\/p>\n Lin was sitting on the porch in a rocking chair. Mrs. Jones walked up to them, and Lillian watched from the car as they engaged in quiet, yet vehement conversation. They glanced back at Lillian a great deal. Lin stood up with her hands in the pocket of the apron, gave one grave nod, and beckoned with one hand.<\/p>\n \u201cCome here, Lillian,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n Mrs. Jones came back to the car and opened the door for her. \u201cHappy birthday, Lil,\u201d she said, coaxing the ten-year-old out of the car. \u201cHave a good night now, I\u2019ll see you soon.\u201d<\/p>\n Lillian walked over to her mother, feeling even smaller than she did this morning, which felt like a lifetime away. She walked over to her mother, who towered over her. Lin\u2019s eyes were glassy, full of concern, and her mouth was set. Her brow was furrowed in a deep worried line across her forehead.<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s go for a walk, child,\u201d said Lin, taking her daughter\u2019s hand. They walked through the back gate of their house, out into the wildflowers and under the sycamore and magnolia trees.<\/p>\n As they walked further and further from the house, Lin\u2019s grip on Lillian\u2019s hand grew tighter until it was almost uncomfortable. Lillian looked up at her mother. She looked lost in thought.<\/p>\n Suddenly, Lin stopped and squatted down, so that she and her daughter were eye-to-eye.<\/p>\n \u201cTell me, child,\u201d said Lin urgently. \u201cJust who do you think you are?\u201d<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n \u201cPractically overnight he\u2019d grown into a charming young man, quite different from his younger brother. He was poised in social contacts and talked with ease. No furtive compulsions harassed him in his associations with young women. He was gay and witty and quite frankly liked them all\u201d <\/em>(Himes 195).<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Will idly tapped the blunt end of his fountain pen against the mahogany of his desk, further chipping its already worn edge. This office had belonged to Mr. Danahy before him, and Mr. Lovell before that, and although the furniture wore its previous owners well nothing could completely halt the ravages of time and long days spent grading papers and conferencing with students. In fact, Samantha was still sitting across from him and interrupted his fidgeting with another question.<\/p>\n \u201cProfessor Taylor?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah?\u201d He replied, his thoughts still drifting. Although he didn\u2019t know what Samantha looked like, he could hear a Southern drawl in her voice and knew from her frequent visits during office hours that she had come to college in Cleveland from a predominantly black town in Alabama. She was bright, and they got along well. Will knew he could connect with all of his students in one way or another, but he most liked working with students who had followed a path similar to his. For them, academia offered an escape from a constricted family life and a future of working menial jobs in hotels or department stores. Being here, at the most prominent school for the blind east of the Mississippi — not that there were many to choose from — was a privilege, and students like Samantha rarely forgot that.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you think is the driving motivation of Achilles in the Iliad? Is he guided by his honor or his hubris?\u201d The Iliad was the next reading for their class on Homer and the Greek epics.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, what do you think Samantha? Could it be both?\u201d He queried in response. He\u2019d been teaching for three years now and had learned that it was typically best to answer a question with a question, putting the burden of analysis back on the student themselves. After all, how were they supposed to learn if all of the answers were given to them?<\/p>\n Samantha launched into a response, and he could hear the fervor in her voice as an argument came to her, could hear the rustling of paper as her reader, a young man named Mark who was new to the institution, relayed relevant passages of the Iliad. Truth be told, Greek epics weren\u2019t really his thing. He found the propensity for grandiose description and exaggerated emotional arcs exhausting and obtuse. Besides, he could never quite bring himself to emotionally engage with mythology anymore, although he certainly had loved the fantasy of it when he was young. Now he preferred the realism of more current literature, but Samantha wouldn\u2019t read contemporary works for at least another quarter or two.<\/p>\n Bringgggggg!!!! <\/em>The sharp sound of the bell permeated the air and stopped Samantha mid-sentence. The bell marked the time as 3:15pm, the end of the school day during summer session. He heard the scrape of the chairs against the stone floor as Samantha and Mark stood, and breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a long day of teaching and he was grateful for the day\u2019s close.<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s finish this conversation tomorrow Sammy. Perhaps focusing in on the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus might provide new insight into Achilles\u2019s character and motivations.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThanks Professor!\u201d Samantha chirped.<\/p>\n \u201cGood night, Mr. Taylor,\u201d contributed Mark, before shuffling out behind Samantha.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n On his way home, Will stopped at the Jackal, his favorite bar on the corner of Maine and Washington St., only a block or two away from the dingy but well-maintained apartment he shared with his fianc\u00e9 Annie. He used his cane to edge open the glass door at the entrance, and gingerly eased himself through the opening. He\u2019d injured his knee playing football with a few of the other professors and readers after school on Tuesday. He\u2019d tripped on a rock that had been covered by the newly cut grass and banged his knee forcefully on the ground. The others had swarmed around him immediately, offering sounds of concern and offers to take him to the local hospital. He\u2019d vehemently refused – hospitals left a bad taste in his mouth, and had since the accident that blinded him, despite the ridiculous amount of time he had spent in and out of waiting rooms over the past ten years as his mother took him from specialist to specialist. He had never complained because his mother\u2019s love could turn from comforting to terrifying without warning, but also because he too had hoped something, someone, might miraculously restore his vision. But he had long given up on that dream, and besides, his sight had been partially restored over the last five years or so. He could see in shades of gray now, could make out larger shapes and found he had an increasingly sensitive response to variations in light.<\/p>\n In fact, a large gray shape passed in front of him as he entered the bar and made his way over to his usual spot, a stool along the windows facing the bustling street. Although the dim lighting of the bar rendered his vision completely obsolete, he recognized the voice of his most devoted friend, Ramsey Douglas, immediately.<\/p>\n \u201cProfessor Taylor!\u201d Ramsey joked. \u201cWhat are you going to teach me about today? The inner life of Poseidon, that watery fucker? The sordid affairs of your highbrow colleagues? How about you teach me how to get a girl like Annie?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot sure anyone can teach you that Ram, women like a man with intelligence and sensitivity and you\u2019re about as sharp as you are handsome.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAh, so very!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSure, Ram, whatever gets you through the day,\u201d Will said. As they slipped into their familiar pattern of conversation, Will felt the tension of the day ebb from his limbs. He met Ramsey at the Jackal every day after school let out and Ramsey\u2019s shift at the bank ended, where they mulled over the intricacies of the day and relaxed before heading home for the night. Right now, Ramsey was nursing a dark ale while Will sipped only tonic and lime, the cold glass soothing against the sweat of his palm. Will had never really been one for alcohol; he didn\u2019t like feeling out of control and besides, adding poor motor functioning to impaired vision was clearly a bad combination. Plus he didn\u2019t want to follow in the footsteps of his father or brother, Charles. Although he had been off at school, Will distinctly remembered his father in the weeks before his death, remembered his whiskey-muted gaze, the half-smoked cigars. He had visited for an afternoon two weeks before he died and had been deeply shocked by the man he had seen before him. His father was a shell of his former self, so embroiled in his own tragedies and diminished by his mother\u2019s perpetual insults and biting criticisms that he had turned to alcohol and cigars to dull the emotion of daily life. And if that wasn\u2019t enough to stop Will from partaking in the casual drinking of his companion, the alcoholism had already passed from father to son.<\/p>\n Will had last visited Charles three years ago in Missouri – he\u2019d gone down for Charles\u2019s birthday, hoping for a brief reconciliation of their childhood bond brought on by a day of bar-hopping and an evening spent walking along the river or driving through the countryside. Instead, he\u2019d been sorely disappointed by Charles becoming blind drunk after their first bar stop, throwing back ten whiskey shots in the space of an hour. He\u2019d spent the rest of the day in the hotel room he\u2019d rented gently propping Charles on his side as he slept fitfully, vomiting on the sheets and crying about their mother\u2019s failure to acknowledged Charles\u2019s birthday that year. He\u2019d held Charles in his arms for five hours, worried he might choke on his own vomit and add to the Taylor family body count. When Charles had finally passed into a more peaceful slumber, Will had been left to pay the bar tab and slip the housekeeper something extra to clean up the mess. He\u2019d been disappointed, sure, but certainly not surprised by his brother\u2019s behavior. Finally, he\u2019d decided around midnight to slip away and catch the last train back to Cleveland. They hadn\u2019t spoken since.<\/p>\n \u201cHey, Will, you in there buddy? Where\u2019d you go?\u201d Ramsey\u2019s voice saying his name brought Will back to the present, and he guiltily looked at his friend, realizing he\u2019d completely forgotten the course of the conversation.<\/p>\n \u201cSorry, Ram. I guess it\u2019s been a longer day than I thought – what were you saying?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHow\u2019s Annie? You said yesterday she\u2019d been feeling kinda sick.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh yeah, no, we haven\u2019t figured that out yet – she threw up again this morning. Maybe one of those weeklong illness things? That\u2019s a thing, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSure? I don\u2019t know man. I work at a bank and you get all clammy and quiet around hospitals, I\u2019m not sure we know jack-shit about women or sickness.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHey! Watch it. I only get quiet because you get all loud and pretend to know doctor shit!\u201d Will said, re-entering the conversation with a new vigor. \u201cAnd I definitely know more than you do about women. Annie and I are working on four years now, and she hasn\u2019t gotten rid of my ass yet.\u201d<\/p>\n Ramsey\u2019s silence conceded the point, and the conversation moved on to other things.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n Annie had dinner waiting when Will got home, a full chicken taking up the center half of their tiny two-person dining table. The apartment was toasty from the fire, and the light appeared to Will as a flickering orange tint. He made his way over to their lumpy sofa, a holdover from Annie\u2019s mother\u2019s sister who lived down the street. He sank into the cushion and motioned for Annie to join him. She curled up next to him, nestling her feet under his leg and placing her head on his shoulder and softly kissing his neck. His hand worked its way through the tangles of her soft, fine hair as he thought back on when they first met.<\/p>\n She had been his reader in his last year of college, and he had fallen in love with her voice first, the gentle cadences of William Blake\u2019s poetry worming deep into his heart. Her voice was angelic, pitched low and expressive, warm in its empathy. They\u2019d soon moved past talk of fiction and he had shared memories with her he had almost forgotten himself. She\u2019d grown up in New York City to a middle-class white family, but had pursued a passion of literature that led her to the paying job in Cleveland where they\u2019d met. He liked that they were so different: she was quiet around new people, he could engage a crowd no matter the venue. She was introspective, he was charismatic but closed-off. She asked all the right questions – about his mother, his father, his brother. He\u2019d taken her to his father\u2019s funeral only a month after they\u2019d first met.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re late,\u201d Annie said, her voice a mild chastisement. \u201cDid Ramsey keep you again?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, he\u2019s still trying to steal you away from me,\u201d Will grinned.<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s going to have to try a lot harder,\u201d Annie joked, \u201cMaybe promise me a new collection of poems or something.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019d trade me for a book?\u201d Will said indignantly. \u201cWhat can poetry provide that I cannot?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cRomance,\u201d Annie proclaimed dramatically.<\/p>\n Will laughed as he got up, walking over to the counter to pour himself a glass of water. He didn\u2019t need a cane inside the apartment – after a year of living here he had memorized the layout and could have found the counter in his sleep. Annie had only moved in a month ago, and it was still a few weeks until the wedding. His mother had frowned on the propriety of it all, but he ignored her wishes as usual, and he knew his mother was secretly pleased he was marrying a white woman. She hadn\u2019t changed much from their childhood, and his love was forever intertwined with discomfort at her presence and a deeper worry that she found Annie threatening to their mother-son relationship. He wanted to be with Annie forever, he knew this, but part of him was dreading the wedding and the familial reunion the ceremony promised.<\/p>\n \u201cWill?\u201d Annie said. The tone of her voice had shifted; the pitch was lower and more tentative. He turned towards and her voice and his face shifted quizzically.<\/p>\n \u201cI have something I wanted to tell you,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n \u201cOkay? You know you can tell me anything,\u201d Will replied, now worried about what she might say. Did she want to call the wedding off? Had she finally decided his family was too much to handle? That he wasn\u2019t worth it?<\/p>\n \u201cI think I might be\u2026 don\u2019t get mad,\u201d she cautioned.<\/p>\n \u201cMad? Annie what is going on,\u201d Will said, his voice becoming more urgent.<\/p>\n \u201cI know you never really wanted\u2026 I \u00a0mean, I know your childhood had its problems\u2026 but I think this would be different\u2026 I mean, I think it could be better, you know?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnnie, I have no idea what you are talking about. What does my childhood have to do with anything?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI think I\u2019m pregnant,\u201d Annie finally blurted out in a muffled voice. Will heard her flop onto the couch pillow, and wondered if she had covered her face with her hands.<\/p>\n He didn\u2019t know what to think, and he could hear the pounding of his heart, loud and furious in his ears. Thoughts rushed through his head, and images from his youth flashed back in series. Playing with Charles in the fields outside of his father\u2019s classroom. Running through the woods at night \u2013 silently, so mother wouldn\u2019t hear them. The feel of the switch on his back. The sounds of his parents screaming at each other. The vacancy of Charles\u2019 expression whenever he overheard. Reading in the living room, Charles and Tom by his side, mother knitting in the corner and father reading a newspaper. The memories, good and bad, flashed faster and faster and he realized Annie was waiting for him to speak. He couldn\u2019t see her face but knew from experience that she was biting her bottom lip, her forehead slightly crinkled with anxiety, her nose scrunched up.<\/p>\n \u201cWell I guess that means we\u2019ve got to start thinking about names,\u201d he started. \u201cI\u2019m happy with anything other than Charles, Tom, or something stupid like Achilles.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLook, Pa!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cWhut?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cHush, Peewee!\u201d said Grannie.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cTheres lights, see?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cWhere?\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n \u201cSee? Right there over yonder!\u201d <\/p>\n When Peewee Mann woke up, his face was wet. He opened his eyes, and saw that he had been salivating in his sleep again, his head lying in a puddle of his own drool. He groaned, and extended an arm to cover his eyes. The light that was pouring in was all wrong – not morning light, but moonlight. Across the room, the lavender curtains undulated with the cool night air coming in through the cracked window.<\/p>\n Waking up with the moon. This was how Peewee generally found himself. He worked odd jobs in bars and jazz clubs, sleeping in the day and staying awake all night. He checked the clock. His shift at the club had started two hours ago.<\/p>\n \u201cGoddammit,\u201d he said aloud. He jumped to his feet, pulling on his pants and throwing on a sweater. \u201cGoddamm<\/em>it,\u201d he said again, as his foot got caught in the pant leg. He scrambled over to the other side of the room to pick up his glasses. He wouldn\u2019t bother calling the bar to apologize and let them know he was coming, that would take too long, and so he decided just to try to make it over there as quickly as he could. He already had a couple strikes against him and – Goddammit<\/em> – he wasn\u2019t sure if his boss would give him another chance.<\/p>\n Peewee raced outside into the night, straightening the collar of his shirt as he went, his eyes still heavy from sleep. But the cool night air shook him awake. It had rained today, it appeared, and Harlem\u2019s streets were decorated with puddles. An icy wind blew off the East River, cooling Peewee\u2019s hands and making his eyes water. The streets around his apartment were quiet, no sounds but the hum of the garbage truck and the distant sounds of traffic. He hurried into the subway, his throat full.<\/p>\n He emerged further uptown, the street bathed in light from the buildings and the streetlamps. The sidewalk outside of the bar was swarming with bodies as Peewee approached, and he pushed through them, into the doorway. The bouncer, Jimmy, gave him an indecipherable look as he approached.<\/p>\n \u201cHow\u2019s it looking?\u201d said Peewee, breathless.<\/p>\n \u201cNot good, Mann,\u201d said Jimmy, taking the cigarette from his mouth to exhale a cloud of smoke. \u201cHarry is pissed.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAlright, I\u2019m going in.\u201d<\/p>\n Peewee pushed his way through the people into the bar. It was dimly lit, and there was a young woman singing on the stage. Harry liked to get a new jazz act every Saturday night, and Peewee had never seen this woman before tonight. She wore a sparkly black gown with a slit up to her thigh, and under the lights, Peewee could see a sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead, the roots of her blowout becoming curly with the moisture. He headed to the door off to the side of the bar, where his boss Harry\u2019s office was, and shouldered his way in.<\/p>\n Harry was a stout, broad-shouldered man, who seemed to be perpetually sweating and continually wore button-down shirts that were too small for him. He swung around in his chair as Peewee entered.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t want to hear it, Mann. You\u2019re done.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHarry, please -\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLate at least three times every week, and this time you show up two hours into your shift? Unacceptable, kid.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHarry, you know how much I need this job – \u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t think I do, kid, because if you needed it, you would treat it like a goddamn job.\u201d Harry glared at him, taking the cigarette from his mouth and putting it out on the ashtray on his desk. \u201cGet out of here, or I\u2019ll make security do it.\u201d By \u201csecurity\u201d he meant Jimmy, so Peewee wasn\u2019t deterred.<\/p>\n \u201cHarry, do you want me to beg? Because I will.\u201d Peewee sunk to his knees, his hands folded together as if in prayer.<\/p>\n Harry stood up from his chair. \u201cGet up<\/em>, Mann,\u201d he said, so sternly that Peewee obeyed. At his full height, Harry was still at least six inches shorter than Peewee, but something about the way he filled a space intimidated him all the same.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve given you chance after chance, kid,\u201d said Harry. \u201cDo you think I\u2019m playing? Get the fuck out.\u201d<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n After leaving Harry\u2019s bar, Peewee wandered the streets, eventually settling in at a club on 126th street. There, he drank himself silly, snorted cocaine with a few people from a circle he frequently ran around with, and danced. There, Peewee found for himself a comfortable degree of anonymity, moving among other writhing bodies, catching only flashes of movement and of faces.<\/p>\n The lights, the dancing, the struggling bodies – it all conflated in his head, and the music stopped – now he could hear the thunder clapping, the water rushing around him, spinning the boat, the gunshots – No <\/em>– It was Ma, cold and dead on the hospital table – It was Pa, saying \u201cGood-bye!\u201d – It was the small disk of light, searching, searching, never finding – It was the gunshots –<\/em><\/p>\n Peewee found himself waking up in bed again. This time, morning light poured in through the curtains. His head was heavy and swimming, the bed damp.<\/p>\n He opened his eyes. In front of him was a worried face, and hands holding a cup of hot coffee. Through the haze of his hangover, Peewee recognized the face behind the glasses and the shock of curly dark hair.<\/p>\n \u201cHey there,\u201d said Allen.<\/p>\n Peewee moved to sit up, only to sink back down again, his head spinning too much to sit up properly. Allen placed the back of his hand to his forehead.<\/p>\n \u201cHey,\u201d he said. \u201cTake it easy. Drink some coffee.\u201d<\/p>\n Peewee took the coffee gratefully. Allen watched him.<\/p>\n \u201cSo how did you find me this time?\u201d asked Peewee.<\/p>\n Allen looked at him. Then he stood up, turning his back, and put his hands in his pockets. \u201cI just had a feeling,\u201d he said. \u201cYou weren\u2019t at Harry\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDid he tell you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat he fired you? Yeah,\u201d said Allen.<\/p>\n \u201cBet he was happy to tell you that,\u201d muttered Peewee.<\/p>\n \u201cNot really, actually,\u201d said Allen, turning to meet Peewee\u2019s eyes again. \u201cHe was pretty cut up about it actually. Said it was hard to do, but you gave him no choice. You know, he really does care about you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cObviously not enough.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou don\u2019t make it easy.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, don\u2019t you start with that shit again. The old, you-don\u2019t-make-it-easy-for-people-to-care-about-you-thing. The old, why-don\u2019t-you-just-let-me-in tirade. Whose side are you on, anyway?\u201d<\/p>\n Allen glared at him.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m here, aren\u2019t I? Obviously I\u2019m on your side.\u201d<\/p>\n Peewee softened. \u201cI know. You\u2019re right. I\u2019m sorry.\u201d He reached out a hand. Begrudgingly, Allen took it.<\/p>\n \u201cYou got a letter this morning,\u201d said Allen. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out an envelope. Peewee took it from him. The handwriting was unfamiliar, boxy, but the address was impossible to mistake. The town where Grannie lived, back home in Mississippi.<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d said Peewee.<\/p>\n **<\/p>\n Peewee couldn\u2019t believe it. Grannie, dead. Just like Ma, just like Pa. The letter was from a distant cousin, a girl a little bit younger than Peewee who had been living with Grannie and taking care of her during the last few years of her life. Two years prior, the frequency of letters from Grannie had slowed considerably, until eventually they\u2019d ceased altogether. Peewee had known that Grannie was dying. So why did this come as such a blow?<\/p>\n He felt as if the last thread holding him here had been snipped, and he hadn\u2019t even known it had been holding him. It was a terrible feeling, of placelessness, of homelessness even though he had a home.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you going to go down there?\u201d Allen had asked, and Peewee couldn\u2019t bring himself to decide.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d said Peewee, staring at the bedcovers. He looked up and locked eyes with Allen. \u201cShould I?\u201d<\/p>\n Allen said nothing, but what he thought was clear. \u201cI can hold the fort up here, as long as you need,\u201d he said, the corners of his mouth turning up just slightly. And Peewee knew he could: Allen\u2019s wealth was something they never spoke of, though it came up between them often, invisible and visible at the same time, like Allen\u2019s whiteness.<\/p>\n \u201cI love you,\u201d said Allen.<\/p>\n Peewee took his hand, used his eyes to say what he couldn\u2019t. \u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n Allen booked the flight. The last and only time Peewee had been on a plane was when he\u2019d first left Mississippi for New York, the summer after high school graduation. He had been planning it for months, but never told Grannie. He broke her heart that summer, leaving his bedroom bare of anything that belonged to him. He had never been back.<\/p>\n The Mississippi ground was foreign under his feet \u00a0– soft, green, and always retaining some kind of dampness. The air was wet too, humid. Peewee couldn\u2019t stand it, it didn\u2019t feel natural, moisture like this in November. He hated the harshness of it, the lack of cycles. The earth itself was unpredictable here, hot and uninhabitable, the ground always threatening to open up. It brought it all back, unprecedentedly vivid. The gunshots, his mother\u2019s body heavy against them in the back of the boat, dead but none of them knowing yet. Grannie\u2019s horrified cries when the doctor told them that Ma was gone. It rendered him speechless, unable to move.<\/p>\n But he had to move. He had to go home, at last. When he got to the airport in Natchez, he called Allen.<\/p>\n \u201cHello?\u201d said Allen, after the first ring.<\/p>\n Peewee said nothing for a moment, just listened to Allen\u2019s breath from the other line of the phone. \u201cI want to come back,\u201d he said. \u201cI can\u2019t do this.\u201d<\/p>\n A breath.<\/p>\n \u201cYou can,\u201d said Allen. Again, with conviction: \u201cYou can. You have to.\u201d<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n The night after he arrived in Natchez, Peewee took the bus to his grandmother\u2019s house. After the flood, they\u2019d been lucky enough to move in with Grannie\u2019s older sister, a widow who lived outside of the areas in danger of flooding. She\u2019d died a few years after they moved in, and they were able to live there in the house. Grannie\u2019s nieces and nephews were grown and, like Peewee, had chosen to leave Mississippi.<\/p>\n The house didn\u2019t look the same. The rose bushes had grown wild, thorny and making the path up to the front door hazardous. The wooden exterior walls were patchy from peeling paint. The gate made a loud screeching noise when Peewee pushed it open. The noise evidently startled whoever was inside, because a woman swung open the front door. She was about Peewee\u2019s age – maybe a few years younger – plump, with a kind face. She held a small child in her arms.<\/p>\n \u201cYou must be Peewee,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019m your cousin Mae. Well, just don\u2019t stand there,\u201d she added, when Peewee did not move from his place on the path. \u201cCome on in.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou must already know this,\u201d said Mae, leading Peewee inside, \u201cBut your Grannie was just a wonderful woman. So loving. She must have told you this, but she took me in a few years ago after I got pregnant. My folks kicked me out, but she couldn\u2019t bear to see me on the street. I used to come keep her company after\u2026\u201d she caught Peewee\u2019s eye. \u201cAnyway, she liked me a lot. And I loved her.\u201d<\/p>\n She shuffled into the kitchen, placing her child at a seat at the table. \u201cCome sit,\u201d she said. \u201cThis is my boy, Henry.\u201d<\/p>\n Henry was quiet. He gazed at the unfamiliar intruder without looking away. Peewee couldn\u2019t stand the feeling of the little eyes on his skin. Asking him, who are you? Why did you come back?<\/em><\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n Mae took him to the grave in the morning. It was three miles from the house – Mae left Henry with a neighbor when they set off. The walk was mostly uphill, and the graveyard overlooked the Mississippi River.<\/p>\n It didn\u2019t take long to find Grannie\u2019s gravestone. The earth was still wet and soft, still raised a bit off the ground.<\/p>\n \u201cDid she want to be buried here?\u201d asked Peewee.<\/p>\n \u201cOh, yes,\u201d said Mae. \u201cYour Grannie loved this part of town.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut by the river<\/em>?\u201d said Peewee, bristling. \u201cI have a hard time believing she\u2019d want to be buried here.\u201d Peewee was uncomfortable on the riverbank, the ground soft beneath him. He wanted to leave. He hated the idea of Grannie staying here, next to the river that had claimed his parents. The river that any time could burst open and swallow her grave, taking her body down in a flood –<\/p>\n \u201cPeewee, your grannie wasn\u2019t afraid -\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cObviously you don\u2019t understand,\u201d Peewee interrupted. \u201cOf course she was afraid.\u201d<\/p>\n Mae hesitated. \u201cMaybe she used to be,\u201d she said. \u201cBut she wasn\u2019t when I knew her.\u201d When Peewee said nothing, she spoke with new fervor. \u201cDon\u2019t you understand? She was tired of being afraid. And she didn\u2019t want you to be afraid anymore either. You\u2019ve lost so much. Don\u2019t rob yourself of what you still have.\u201d<\/p>\n Peewee looked at the gravestone, his grandmother\u2019s name etched in with a permanence he had not prepared himself for. There she was, dead in the ground. She had left him, like he\u2019d left her, like Ma and Pa had left both of them, and he was still standing. The only remaining member of his family, the only one who had seen, had borne witness – the only one who could carry the burden, remember that dark, dark night, and that cold, empty, lonely morning on the hills. Good-bye<\/em>.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n Peewee\u2019s tired eyes could hardly stay open, but he was comforted by the lights that filled the streets. He could not stand to be swallowed in darkness. The city held him by both arms, lifted him up, helped him walk. With that many lights, he would never be lost. He walked down to the park by the edge of the East River. Here, the concrete kept the water out. Here, there was no threat of being swept away. Here, light led him to safety, and not into danger.<\/p>\n He walked to the bench where he and Allen always sat, and he found Allen there, staring out on the water. This was the only way they could be out in the city alone together, in darkness.<\/p>\n When Peewee sat beside him, Allen did not ask him how he was, or how it went, or how he was feeling. He just said, \u201cI love you.\u201d<\/p>\n A broken streetlight near them flickered and turned on, bathing them in warm light. There, the two looked at each other, their clear faces exposed to each other on the empty footpath.<\/p>\n And Peewee said, \u201cI love you, too.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhite men killed the black men and black men killed the white. White men killed the black men because they could, and the black men killed the white men to keep from being killed. And killing was blood\u201d <\/em>(Wright 147).<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Blood may be red but ashes were grey, and ashes were all that remained. The smoke plumed up from the blackened and singed floor, spiraling and curving into ghostly facades, haunting Sarah as she slowly made her way through the wreckage. The weight of each step disturbed the mottled gray and black ash underfoot, creating a charcoal-filled haze that obscured the earth below. Part of her mind, disjointed, scattered, and filled to the brim with a dull ringing, felt as if she were walking on a cloud, hovering over the ruins of her house with Tom\u2019s comforting presence by her side. Was Tom still alive somewhere? He could\u2019ve saved her but he left her. Was alive but gone better than here and dead? <\/em>The ashen clouds offered her no answer. \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The gritty dirt scraping beneath her bare feet and the heavy weight of the child asleep in her arms snapped her out of her reverie and back to the destruction before her. The particle-filled air stung her eyes, but through the stars she could see the charred debris: the already-shattered gramophone scattered in opposing corners, a partially blackened and overturned tabletop, a scrap of cloth pinned to the pine beam from the hat of the white man who\u2019d lit the match. Silas would have hated the sight of the white men\u2019s flames shrouding the results of his own rage-filled carnage. <\/em>The silence was so loud it hurt, the ashes softening the crunch of her exploration and padding the walls with quiet. Even the crickets, with their perpetual background melodies, were suffocating in the smoke-laden air. White men killed the black men and black men killed the white, and the crickets were dead too.<\/em> Tom was gone, Silas was gone, gone-gone-gone. <\/em>Sarah was the witness. Sarah had seen, was seeing, would see.<\/p>\n A sharp putrid scent wafted towards her, and her nose instinctively crinkled up as she turned towards its source. The scorched shape of a body lay in the back corner of the cottage, covered in a thick layer of ash and rubbish, clothes darkened by soot and peeling off the curled figure. Silas. <\/em>A wail tore from her chest, guttural and thick, it filled up the silence of the room and Sarah felt Ruth stir against her side. She felt her body begin to seize, the cries pouring from her without control like a dam that once broken cannot be repaired. Her mind, partially detached from the scene, was a spectator to her own suffering, and she felt both at once entirely present and chillingly far away. She knew death. Everyone around here knew death of one kind or another. She\u2019d grown up on a nearby farm, known not to get attached to the creatures they raised with love and care once spring came. She knew human death too, her father passing away too young after his heart gave out from days working the land until the land could give no more, until <\/em>he could give no more. She knew pain. Everyone around here knew pain.<\/em> The memories of the hands of the white man fumbling around her hips came flooding back. Had they ever left? Would they ever leave? <\/em>She felt again the warmth moistness of his breath on her neck as he moved on top of her, and the bruises from fingers gripping her upper arm began to ache as her breath quickened into short gasps, as if the air was stopping just short of entering her lungs. As if God had decided he would no longer save her.<\/p>\n Still trembling, Sarah placed the newly awakened Ruth gently on the ground before kneeling to cover the body with her shawl. The dull purple of the woven fabric looked out of place with the solemnity of his figure, and the lower half his body stuck out from underneath the material in what felt like a perverse reminder of their mismatched relationship. A laugh ripped from her lips, punctuating the cries with a hiccupy whoop that sounded foreign to her ears. Have I gone mad? <\/em>Death made him look so small, child-like almost, as if the years of barely contained rage and the fear of never measuring up had melted away along with the top layers of flesh. Sarah rested her head next to his, shrouded in her last possession, and felt the weight of her body on the floor. What was she going to do? She had nothing, she had been left again with nothing. Why had she invited the salesman in? Why had she not spoken up and told him to leave? He might\u2019ve listened. She might\u2019ve avoided all of this, prevented Silas from entering one of his rages. <\/em>The thoughts raced into her mind, unbidden. What was she going to do? What could possibly be done? Everything always went wrong. Tom left, Silas died, and she was alone among the bodies that remained. <\/em>The stars in her eyes flashed red and the fear and sadness and hopelessness and rage and rage and rage finally swept her away into a sleep that had been escaping her for far too long.<\/p>\n Sarah woke to the piercing cries of her child and guilt swept through her at her inability to comfort the only family she had left. Her arm and cheek ached where they had touched the hard floor and when she stood she saw that her entire side was blackened with ash. Dusting herself off as best she could, she felt the nausea rising again at the sight of Silas, the bile in her throat threatening to release down her front. Darkness washed over as she shut her eyes once more, and she breathed deeply. The air was still heavy with fire and the stink of charred flesh but the crickets were back, and she focused in on the sounds of their soft chirps coming in through the window.<\/p>\n She must have slept for at least an hour, because twilight had come unbidden with its lavender and orange hues permeating the room with an apricot glow. The chill of the evening breeze raised bumps along her skin, and without her shawl she felt vulnerable to the waiting dangers of night. She couldn\u2019t stay here much longer, what if the white men came back? What if they wanted more, what if Silas\u2019s death hadn\u2019t been enough? What if the score still seemed uneven, the insult not yet revenged? Who knew what logic guided their actions, but she felt the urgency in her veins as she turned over the options she had left. She could go into town? The walk was over two hours and she would arrive with the darkness, but she had a childhood friend who lived on the outskirts near the post office. Would they take her in? They had to. They had to. They would. <\/em>Her mind made up, she began to gather the few items that had been, miraculously, relatively untarnished by the inferno. Sifting through Silas\u2019s jar of coins and pocketing the most valuable change, she spotted the broken clock that kept Ruth quiet and placed it in her infant\u2019s hands. The baby gurgled and spat, a smile stretching her chapped lips wide. Sarah lifted the baby, broken clock and all, into her arms and shifted the bulk of her weight onto one hip. Amidst the dimming sunlight, Sarah began to walk. Bang! Bang! Bang!<\/em> Ruth hit the broken clock with a charred stick she must\u2019ve found on the floor of the house while Sarah slept. The Bang! Bang! Bang! <\/em>echoed against the gone-gone-gone <\/em>still ricocheting in Sarah\u2019s head, and her feet fell into rhythm with the words as she moved farther and farther away from the plumes of smoke behind her.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The Missing Generations By Aisha Rickford and Rowan Staley \u00a0 Preface For our collaborative project, we decided to further explore the stories of characters featured in the texts we read. Whether main or secondary characters, we felt that there were elements to them that had not been explored adequately enough in the text and we […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":189,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[3,1],"tags":[4],"class_list":{"0":"post-185","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-3","8":"category-uncle-toms-cabin","9":"tag-4","10":"entry"},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/courses.bowdoin.edu\/africana-studies-2582-spring-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/185","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/courses.bowdoin.edu\/africana-studies-2582-spring-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/courses.bowdoin.edu\/africana-studies-2582-spring-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/courses.bowdoin.edu\/africana-studies-2582-spring-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/courses.bowdoin.edu\/africana-studies-2582-spring-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=185"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/courses.bowdoin.edu\/africana-studies-2582-spring-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/185\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/courses.bowdoin.edu\/africana-studies-2582-spring-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/189"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/courses.bowdoin.edu\/africana-studies-2582-spring-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=185"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/courses.bowdoin.edu\/africana-studies-2582-spring-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=185"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/courses.bowdoin.edu\/africana-studies-2582-spring-2018\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=185"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}(1) A Childish Game<\/h3>\n
\nElla let out one last frightened sob, then fell silent.<\/p>\nA Mind at Ease<\/h3>\n
By the River\u2019s Edge<\/h3>\n
\nMann looked, his chin over his shoulder. There were two squares of dim, yellow light…their soft, yellow glow was in his mind. They helped him, those lights\u201d<\/em> (Wright 77).<\/p>\nRed River\u2019s End <\/h3>\n