Caught Behind the Door (Part One)
January 14, 2010
My brother, Carey called
me this morning with the news that my favorite teacher, Mrs. Little had passed
away. I reacted with both surprise and scorn. Surprise because her passing had
come quite unexpectedly. I had been sitting down in the middle of my kitchen, a
yellow-and-white room with a small, round table in the middle and two chairs,
one that sat empty, and the other, with a dirty black pillow, made especially
for my behind. I remember sitting there, smoking a cigarette, eating my usual
and customary breakfast of dry cereal and black coffee, no cream, no sugar. I
had been trying to eat healthier, but smoking was my pleasure of choice.
Carey’s pleasure was women, sports cars and golf magazines. I hadn’t seen him
in nearly six months. The last time that we had gotten together, we had stood
on my screened- in back porch, sharing a cigar that he had bought in some
foreign country, and watching an antique show on television. Carey always
prided himself on being old-fashioned. He smoked cigars, preferred to play golf
over basketball, and wore suspenders if even it was out-of-season. Still, we never
really had much in common. For one, he was twelve years older than I was. Two,
I was the more responsible one. I had a house that I was renting in a dilapidated
neighborhood. You know, one of those just-around-the- corner, on the verge of
becoming the places to live. That was my neighborhood. It was a small home. On
the outside, it was a slightly faded brown color, a Tudor-style home with an empty
front lawn except for one, recently planted evergreen tree that stood out in
the middle of a vast wilderness of bright, newborn grass. I relished in the
fact that I was renting to own the place, had already made two down payments,
and that I lived away from home. My brother had been the one person that had
been the most skeptical of me leaving. I was employed down at the post office.
Despite what most folks thought, I liked my job. Got to drive the mail truck
around town while everyone else stayed inside. Worked regular hours and then
came home to my house. Always parked my truck on the side of the house,
slightly toward the back. Went in through the side door, next to the milk
chute. After I came in, sometimes I went downstairs to my basement, and played
pool or did laundry. But mostly, I went into my kitchen, cooked a small dinner,
grabbed a comic book and sat out on the back porch. I loved sitting back there,
even in the wintertime. If I had been sitting there when Carey had called me, I
probably wouldn’t have answered the phone. But I did, and his phone call to let
me know that my favorite teacher had passed away, came as a surprise. I hadn’t
really done that well in school. Made decent grades, but I preferred to spend
my time after school working, doing odd jobs, saving for my house. When Mrs.
Little had asked us what were our future goals, the only thing that I could
think of was owning a home: Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, middle-of-the-street,
paved driveway, fireplace, back porch and a basement to do laundry. She had
encouraged me by giving me my very first job: double-checking her graded
papers, and typing out her lesson plans. She only paid me five dollars an hour,
and I had worked three hours a day for ten weeks before I finally found another
job paying me three times as much. I had graduated from high school with no
plans on doing anything, and I didn’t. My brother Carey was different. A lawyer
by trade, he taught business law by day, and pro bono cases for hip, white
folks that lived in a city called Ann
Arbor at night. Neither one of us lived at home. But
he subscribed to the newspaper, and read the obituaries every week to see if he
ever recognized a name. Me, personally, I always thought it was a little
strange, but that never bothered Carey. I didn’t have a newspaper on me. I
actually hadn’t been watching the news.
Posted by Jasmine Marie.