The Rented Boy

Daddy’s blue-gray Chevy pickup

    bumped along the hard gravel road

        forking deeper into pines & oaks,

& then my boyish eyes ran up to the

    flickering wick of a kerosene lamp

        in the window of a small house half-

hidden on edge of a forever woods,

    the front porch leaning to the ground.

        This woman I’d never seen before,

granddaddy Gabel’s mama, Julia,

    stood, arms flung open, begging us

        into her big, strong embrace, a grin.

She said, J.W., I believe you done up

    & spitted out this boy & now I can’t

        tan your hide. Lawd, have mercy, ya

two done brought me good luck at dusk.

    J.W., ya still take your coffee black?

        Can I get ya a glass of lemonade,

Junior? If I knew ya was comin’ tonight

    I would’ve baked up a whole batch

        of black molasses tea cakes to break

your heart. Junior, if ya lived here,

    I already done put some true meat

        on your bones, she said, both hands

propped on wide hips. I said, I can help

    you Grandma, & then she said, Now,

        son, ain’t room here in my kitchen

for both of us. Anyway, I’m serving ya

    today. Ya serve me tomorrow. Someday

        ask your daddy what I’m talkin’ ’bout.

As he stepped inside from the porch,

    his hand flew up & slapped a mosquito

        at his heart, & on his white Sunday shirt,

it left a spot of blood. Mama Julia said,

    I was hopin’ ya’d roll in here when

        a half day still up in my country sky,

& you fix my broke-down screen door

    & prop up the front porch. Son, I just

        can’t risk my life doin’ this kinda work

no more. We sat there silent, staring at

    each other, & Daddy said, Grandma,

        I’ll be back on March thirty-first.

Her half-smile turned into a frown,

    & she said, That’s your birthday.

        Yeah, Daddy said, & you can bake

me a creamy, dark chocolate cake.

    She said, We’ll see J.W., you know,

        I’m countin’ up darksome days now.

My eyes kept going face to face, & then

    Daddy said, Grandma, does Aunt Ida

        come to see about you? A big laugh

leapt in night air, scented by strong coffee,

    & Grandma said, If she can break ’way

        a minute from block-headed Saul—

dat no-count, lazy man of hers. She workin’

    de fields, & he sittin’ in de backyard under

        his everlastin’ chinaberry shade tree, lost

in his half-white skin & his lowdown

    curly hair. Now, please, pardon me,

        Junior. Dat’s my confoundin’ mouth.

I smiled, but didn’t know exactly why,

    & then Daddy stood up, & he said,

        Grandma, I got to shoulder iron tongs

& walk logs in the millpond at 7 o’clock

    tomorrow morning. Now, don’t think

        I’m not coming back for chocolate cake

& a taste of moonshine you got hidden,

    & then he said, This boy reads everything,

        & got his eyes level with tomorrow.

She nodded her head, & said, Junior,

    boy, I got somethin’ here for ya

        when ya come again to grace my door.

She hugged both of us hard to her.

    As the truck bounced over the ruts,

        out to the highway, I could still smell

her lavender powder on my clothes.

    Daddy’s cigar smoke filled the cab,

        July whipping through the windows

of the old truck. I still think I heard

    him say, Grandma, I forgive you.

        He was speeding, & I wanted him

to slow down. Red & blue police lights

    flashed in my head, & a quarter moon

        in our rear window tried to keep up.

I glimpsed the old gristmill leaning

    on the other side of the highway,

        hemmed in by dying berry bushes.

Pines raced us. It was late December,

    a Friday, when Aunt Ida sent word

        Grandma Julia had a heart attack.

Daddy dressed in his blue serge suit,

    shiny shoes, & a cashmere overcoat,

        & drove into a cold Sunday afternoon.

If he had asked me, I would have shaken

    my head “no,” & looked at the floor.

        The end of the year slowed down.

As days erased each other, the years

    pushed through our doors, & a blues

        man leaned on a crooked oak cane.

Mama said, Son, when your daddy

    was alive did you meet your Grandma

        Julia? A whisper floated into the room,

& I said, When I was a boy. Just once,

    in a little dark house in the woods,

        lightning bugs everywhere, & cicadas

singing. I think she was lonely, I said.

    Good for her, Mama said, nodding

        her head. Did your daddy ever tell you?

I sat up, staring straight into my mother’s

    eyes, unblinking, & said, She was born

        a slave, & I almost understood her.

My mother shook her head, saying, No,

    please don’t try to understand her,

        how she farmed out your daddy—

only six—to a white sharecropper

    as some half-broken workhorse.

        He never did tell you, huh?

I could hear Dinah Washington’s

    voice in my mother’s as she spoke,

        lost love on the turntable, & I said,

But somehow the rented boy outfoxed

    the rabbit, almost had a photographic

        memory, & left the turtle dumbstruck.