ship with huge, ragged sails. The ship approached, he saw the men wave from the deck, men with long hair and eye patches. The pirates were coming for him, not for Larry. They were coming to rescue him from the big bare house on the prairie.
Jerome did his best to forget the nighttime discussion in the hall between Grandma and Grandpa. But Daddy didn’t come back home. Nobody said a word during dinner the next night. They ate their yellow corn soup in silence. Then Grandma Elizabeth served up the roasted pig’s feet and the mashed potatoes and the gravy. The gravy glistened in the light of the lamp. Mama winked at Jerome from across the table while she fed baby Billy. Billy made a mess of his food. His face was yellow with soup. He swatted a spoonful of mashed potatoes out of Mama’s hand and the potatoes splattered on the wooden floor. Jerome held his breath. He hoped Mama would get up quick and wipe it up before Grandma saw it.
That night in bed he heard Mama and Larry talking. He pretended he was asleep.
‘He did it for us, don’t you ever forget that,’ Mama said.
‘Did he have a gun?’ Larry asked.
‘He had a gun.’
‘And a horse?’
‘No sweetie,’ Mama laughed, ‘he didn’t have a horse. Your Daddy’s not a cowboy.’
‘What happened?’
‘He wanted to earn money for us. So he could rent us a house.’
‘But we live here, don’t we?’
‘We can’t stay here.’
‘Why not? I like it here.’
‘The little ones tire Grandma out.’
‘Uh-uhh.’
‘Go to sleep.’
‘But what happened?’
‘What?’
‘With Daddy?’
‘Your Daddy would never shoot anybody. That’s why it went wrong. He’s not a robber. He’s a musician.’
‘Grandma says musicians are no good. She says: “Only thing black musicians do is drink.”’
‘Your father plays a mean trumpet.’
‘I never heard him play.’
‘When he gets back I’ll ask him to play for you.’
‘I don’t care if he does.’
‘Come on now, Larry.’
‘I’m tired.’
‘Your father loves you all. And so do I.’
Jerome heard the smacking sound of a kiss.
‘Night,’ Mama said.
Larry didn’t answer.
Then Mama kissed his forehead and left the bedroom. She left the door ajar and a stripe of yellow light from the landing fell exactly between his bed and Larry’s.
Grandma had a vegetable patch behind the house. She grew herbs and strawberries and tomatoes and potatoes. No one was allowed in her garden, not even Grandpa Willy. Sometimes, because Jerome couldn’t speak, it was as if Grandma forgot he lived there. He would creep outside and spy on her from behind a shrub, and he would watch her as she kneeled, picking herbs or weeding. Her large hands moved as though independently of her body: she was a statue, her back straight and head held high, and she mumbled to herself as though she were praying. Grandma Elizabeth had light-brown, coffee-colored skin, a narrow face, high cheekbones, and a hooked nose. She was half Cherokee. She came from Alabama. That was all Jerome knew about his grandmother. Mama never talked about her. As if it was taboo, as if talking about her was punishable.
‘Shouldn’t you be playing outside?’ Grandpa Willy asked one afternoon.
Jerome was sitting on the windowsill, looking at the sky. The clouds were thick and white and puffy. They looked like cotton balls.
‘I saw Larry go to the woods,’ Grandpa said.
Jerome could make out a face in one of the clouds. A face with eyes, a nose, and a mouth. It reminded him of Santa Claus.
‘Why are you always so serious? Come over here.’
Grandpa sat in the big armchair near the fireplace. A thick Bible lay open on his lap. Grandpa was always reading the Bible, he knew the book inside out.
‘I’ll tell you something.’
Grandpa seemed small and old, sitting there. His wiry, frizzy hair was almost entirely gray. His broad hands were wrinkly. Jerome stayed put on the windowsill.
‘You’re a sensitive child, I saw that right away. Not everybody understands that, now do they?’
Jerome nodded. He didn’t really understand what Grandpa meant.
‘I think you take after your father. Don’t let that worry you. Sonny’s a good boy.’
Grandpa’s words sounded sad and feeble. Jerome wanted him to stop talking like this. He slid off the windowsill and went to the door leading outside.
‘I pray to God those white devils don’t break him,’ he heard Grandpa mumble to himself.
Jerome may not have talked out loud, but there were plenty of words in his head. But as soon as he tried to get the words and sentences to come out, it was as if his tongue was too short and too thick, his throat cramped. All that came out were strange, harsh noises. So he kept quiet.
Sometimes Larry teased him. ‘Baby. You’re just a baby.’
Jerome let him do it. Even though he was smaller than his brother, he felt like the oldest. Larry never saw what happened to Mama. How Grandma treated her. Grandma acted as though Mama was invisible, and it made Mama look so sad. So he would climb onto her lap, which cheered her up right away.
‘Larry’s a real Huling,’ Grandma Elizabeth said. ‘Look how tall he is. Not so round and fat as Jerome. Jerome’s a Fuller.’ Grandma had it in for his mother’s family. She thought the Fullers were hicks. That they made too many children. Grandma never paid his little brother Chris or baby Billy any attention. Grandma said it was shameful that Mama had a fat belly again.
He tried to see Daddy’s face. He closed his eyes tight but all he saw was the outline of his hair, a thick round wreath; the face remained blank. Jerome lay on his back in bed. It was already late, everyone was asleep and the house was quiet. He could hear the wood creaking. He wanted to get up and go into the next room where Mama and the little ones slept, but he didn’t dare. He tried again. He didn’t see anything. He didn’t hear anything. His raw throat felt like it was burning. His head was hot, and it pounded. He opened his mouth. ‘Dhh,’ he tried. Larry turned in his sleep. ‘Dhh,’ he groaned as quietly as possible. If he could say Daddy’s name, maybe he’d be able to visualize him. He pulled the covers over his head. ‘Dhh.’ He nearly suffocated.
