Home > Books > The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois(133)

The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois(133)

Author:Honoree Fanonne Jeffers

At his apartment, I cuddled with Abdul naked in his double bed and watched television. That night, he and I made love twice. The final time, I was so close, as he went deeper. I wrapped my legs around him, and he whispered a growl as he ordered, call him by his line name, “Shotgun.” Say it for my man.

“Shotgun! Shotgun!” I gripped him tighter and rolled my pelvis: I was almost there. But then, the moment was lost for me, and I lay there, disappointed, while Abdul climaxed inside me.

“Ooh, girl! Ooh! I love you, Ailey!”

Afterward, he didn’t speak of feelings, but he told me he thought it was a good idea to meet my father. If Daddy wasn’t coming to the reunion next summer in Chicasetta, Abdul could meet him during this Christmas break. Abdul and I could drive up together, and then, for New Year, we would continue to Philly to meet his family.

“Are you saying we’re in a commitment? Like, boyfriend and girlfriend?”

“No, I’m not ready for that.”

“We’re not committed, but you want to meet my daddy? I don’t understand.”

“That’s because you’re not listening.”

I sighed and rolled over, settling into my spoon. “Let’s talk about this later, Abdul.”

“What? You don’t want me to meet your father? You just want to fuck?”

“Abdul, I’m naked. I don’t think it’s appropriate to talk about my daddy right this second, especially if we’re not in a commitment. You’re the one doesn’t want to be my boyfriend.”

“Ailey, you’re not hearing me. My parents never were married. I got a brother three months younger than me. My daddy married Gary’s mama, but that didn’t do him a bit of good. He’s in jail right now. Me? I was salutatorian, and my daddy wouldn’t even come to my graduation. You don’t understand what it’s like. You come from something.”

“Oh, sweetie. We’ll talk about it another time. Okay? Please.”

I rolled over on my side, and for the first time in years, I dreamed of the long-haired lady. I was walking through the field in front of my granny’s house, heading to the creek. I didn’t know the long-haired lady was beside me, until she touched my arm, asking me a question. But I couldn’t understand her words, as she kept tugging my sleeve. She turned impatient, shaking her head, as I told her I didn’t understand. The long-haired lady stopped walking and pointed to the bank. She spoke again, and this time, I knew she was saying, look. Over there.

Then I woke up.

Founder’s Day

Uncle Root didn’t like homecoming. To begin with, it was in October, when the nights started getting shorter. That meant it took place in the dark, and he’d been born during a time when Negroes didn’t drive through the country after the sun went down. And there was too much noise and too many people, and if he was going to sit for a long period of time, so that his joints creaked and popped when he finally rose, he wanted it to be worth the sacrifice of his time and cartilage.

Founder’s Day was different: it took place in March and during the daytime, so there was that. It was like a family reunion, too, because not everyone attended. Only the most devoted of alumni returned. And no matter how bourgie and accomplished they were, they were enthusiastic in their greetings. They repeated the sayings of their great-grandparents, those uneducated and hardworking folks who had suffered and worked and prayed to push their descendants forward.

“God is so good, isn’t He?”

“All the time.”

“I haven’t seen you since Hector was a pup!”

“I know! It’s been a month of Sundays!”

They hadn’t moved so far from their origins that they couldn’t enjoy the down-home repast, either, the one held each year in the faculty dining room. Fried chicken and greens and two kinds of quick bread. They tucked paper napkins into their necklines of the modest yet neat outfits they’d chosen for the day. There were no fur coats and tuxedos, as with October’s homecoming. No need for all that, as they leaned bodies away from their plates but kept on chewing.

Founder’s Day was the time for students to glimpse our future, or at least, that’s what administration informed us on the handouts placed in our campus mailboxes. Classes were canceled, though we students were required to be in attendance. Junior and senior snitches were positioned at the front and side doors of the chapel with sign-in sheets. These same students blocked the doors if anyone tried to leave the building and directed us toward the bathrooms at the rear of the chapel if we lied about a full bladder’s emergency.