Read They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel for Free Online

return, trying to buy time.
    “Yes, why? You hadn’t needed to befo’.”
    “True”—I was beginning to stammer—“but I needed to now. I didn’t want to live the rest of my life estranged from my own family.” I hated how I sounded, and I wished to God I hadn’t said “estranged.”
    “You came to start confusion.”
    “No, Momma, I didn’t come to start confusion. I came—”
    “Did you take the bus?” Momma cut me off, not wanting me to explain myself clearly. Clarity left no room for conflict.
    “Yes, ma’am. I stepped off the Greyhound bus about an hour ago.”
    “Dat’s good. Come on in de house and set yo’ bags down.” She turned and led the way with an amazing lack of sincerity.
    I followed Momma into the house. The tension was so thick it made me restless. I set my bags down in the living room, noticing Momma’s rearrangements over the years. The piano, which she had hoped Sister would play, faced the wall opposite the front door. As far as I know, Sister never touched the thing. I was the one who played it, much to Momma’s chagrin. I was a boy, and boys who played the piano were usually “funny,” she said. I knew what she meant, but I didn’t care. The piano was fun and therapeutic for me. I ended up being the musician for a number of local churches and made some nice spending change playing for weddings and funerals. The piano soothed my troubled soul, although Momma often tired of hearing me practice. Some days, she wouldn’t let me play at all.
    I noticed there was carpet on the living room floor. Folks in Swamp Creek didn’t have carpeted floors when I was growing up. I
also noticed it was a little—and I mean a little—cooler inside because of the fan Momma had running in the living room window. This didn’t feel like the house I remembered. I felt like a guest who knew his days were numbered.
    I went into the kitchen, where Momma was cleaning fish in the sink. The house was totally silent.
    “What’s been up, Momma?” I said, leaning on the countertop casually, hoping to initiate a healthy dialogue.
    “Nothin’,” she offered coldly.
    “Everybody round here doin’ all right?”
    “Yeah,” Momma said, expressionless.
    “Why aren’t you glad to see me, Momma?”
    “I am glad to see you,” Momma lied as she wrapped fish guts in newspaper and placed them into a nearby plastic garbage bag.
    “You could have fooled me,” I said sarcastically.
    “Well, you fooled me ten years ago,” Momma said, gaining the upper hand.
    “Momma, you know why I left. Don’t act like you don’t.”
    “Yeah, I know why you left, but I don’t know why you stayed gone so long.”
    “What would I have come back to? What was here for me?”
    “Your sister,” Momma said with a demeaning smile. I couldn’t say anything to make her understand.
    “Where is that girl anyway? I know she’s grown,” I said in an effort to lighten the mood.
    “She’s out back,” Momma said, scaling more fish. “She’s been waitin’ on you a long time.”
    Momma was not going to let up, so I decided to go see Sister. When I exited the back door, I immediately saw the tombstone:

    Cynthia Jane Tyson
1970-1987
“loving sister and daughter”

    I fell to the ground in shock and horror, screaming at the top of my lungs, “Sister! Sister! No!” I rolled on the ground with snot pouring from my nose and tears streaming from my eyes. “Oh God! Sister, no! Please, Sister, no! Oh God, no! Not you, Sister! Please, Sister, not you!” I was slinging my arms, kicking my feet, and throwing my head from side to side, bellowing, “Sista! No! God, no!”
    I heard Momma come from the house and say, “She’s been waitin’ on you. You were the last person she asked for. We had nothin’ to tell her, although whatever she wants to know, you can tell her yourself. Now.” She turned and reentered the house.
    My heart was pounding like I had run a marathon. “Oh my God, oh my God!” I kept mumbling. “What