teenager who shared JJ’s horse jaw and curve of goatee sat spread-kneed in a lawn chair, pursing his lips to spit into a plastic fast food cup. A middle-aged man in an open Hawaiian shirt sprawled in the next chair, an arm’s length from an aboveground pool. The dad was the swarthy, 1970s version of handsome, with broad shoulders and a mustache. Lucius and I both thought of the rerun detective shows we’d watched while skipping school, guys like this, smart-talking ladies’ men who could take a punch. What would it be like to have a dad who checked out your girlfriends?
“What’s up, Dad? I brought some guests. They’re gonna crash here tonight,” said JJ.
“OK, then,” said Dad.
When he stood to shake hands, he tottered over the beer cans at his feet like a movie monster over a model city. He turned to JJ’s little brother and said, “You ain’t gonna say hello?”
The kid nodded, “’Sup,” the shadow under his ball cap shortening to reveal a constellation of zits.
“Aw, he’s mad because he’s grounded tonight and has to hang out with his pop,” said the father.
The kid’s brim went down and his face disappeared.
JJ made a couple trips to a pool house shed, passing out folded lawn chairs, then opening a mini-fridge and underhanding us beers. He opened the last one with the pointer finger of the hand that was holding it, then curled it up to drink as he hopped onto a red picnic table on the far side of the pool. A volley of pops filled the night as we opened our beers, too.
I checked for a text from Mona and the dad gave my phone a long look. I put it back in my pocket and he swept his eyes over us, “Y’all gonna catch some surf tomorrow?”
“We weren’t planning on it. Might hit the beach, though,” Mason said.
Dad nodded approval and burped into the top of his fist.
“You surf a lot, JJ?” I asked, and my voice echoed off the water in the pool between us. I’d never surfed before, and I live up to one black stereotype: I’m a horrible swimmer.
“When the waves aren’t too shitty,” he answered.
The kid piped up, “Imma go tomorrow. JJ, can I borrow your board? Mine’s cracked.”
“If you don’t get that thing fixed, you’re gonna sink like a nigger in the water,” rumbled Dad.
Father and sons had roostery southern drawls, mixed with a surfer’s long vowels. “Nigger” came out in three syllables, “Nee-yuh-gir,” and it traveled across the pool loud enough to knock me back in my chair.
After a whole life in the south, I was still shocked when I heard white people use that word. And this guy had said it loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Did the neighbors say “nigger” too? Casually, in small talk?
I could see them meeting on the driveway while picking up the morning newspaper.
“Good morning, Tom. Let’s see what’s happening in the world today,” the father would say.
“Mornin’. I wonder if there’s any nigger news in the Metro section,” the neighbor would answer, unsheathing the paper from its plastic sleeve.
“Must be. Niggers are always up to something,” the father would say, padding his way back into the house in black bedroom slippers with stuffed, red-mouthed Sambo heads over the toes.
The kid didn’t miss a beat and shouted, “Shit, Dad. I swim better’n a nigger, and you know it!”
Lucius was to my right, sitting stock still like a cat about to pounce. I hid my eyes by looking at the rippling pool water, feeling my bandmates’ attention turning toward me like it was my job to say something; seeing Tim and JJ fidgeting, probably worried that the cool out-of-town guys would tell everyone that their band was racist; JJ’s eyes shifting until he finally says, “Y’all. Come on.”
The dad looked up. “What? We boring you?”
“We’ve got guests.”
“Oh, we embarrassing you?” said the dad, belly straining his half open shirt when he leaned back to drain his drink.
JJ just sighed and looked down. I wondered how many years it took for him to realize it was wrong for his dad to say “nigger.” Or even how his pop explained to him that they could talk like that at home, but not at the supermarket. I doubted his dad was trying out the n-word for the first time this night.
I felt sorry for JJ. I also didn’t trust him anymore and set my beer down at the same time that JJ’s dad told the little brother, “And don’t think I didn’t hear you cussing. Watch your mouth, ’less you want another night at home.”
I was pissed off and scared at being stuck behind a tall fence with a couple of bigots, wondering what would change if I popped out of my chair and yelled, “I’m black, dammit. Where do you get off talking like that?”
If they said, “Sorry, we didn’t know,” it would make things worse. Then my suspicions would be confirmed; that so many white folks had a moment at parties when they scanned the room before getting all racial.
It would also mean that they couldn’t tell that I was black, which knocks the breath out of me whenever it happens.
If they could tell, it would be horrifying. Because then they’d be tempting Lucius and me with retaliation, waiting for us to jump up and start shouting or hit someone so they could fight back or call the cops.
If they said, “We’ve just realized the error of our ways,” I wouldn’t believe them.
And who was I to them, anyway? Just some guy in their yard tonight, down the interstate and probably getting pulled over tomorrow.
If they said, “Well then, get off my property, nigger,” I’d have to decide how much faith I had in my bandmates. Would they follow me to the van? But what would be solved then? We’d drive to an all-night diner, furious, and this family would kick back, enjoying the extra space in their backyard, and go back to filling the night with “niggers.”
Lucius alone would stand up and say something ultracool like, “Hope y’all little men are happy back here with your pool. I’ve got big things to do,” before disappearing into the dark. And I felt that same impulse, Lucius trying to take the wheel in my body, getting heated when I held on and sat there, having these thoughts, taking a deep breath and realizing I couldn’t sleep in that house.
Just like that, the moment passed and it was too late to yell. I hated myself all the more for being so gutless. Maybe when I got home, the used classic rap CDs I’d bought a couple years after the fact would be gone, and my father would be blond.
Lucius sat in the shadow of the safety light, his white-and-orange basketball shoe tapping in the grass. Father and sons kept on, but all I could hear coming from their mouths was the word “nigger.”
“Nigger nigger nigger?” JJ asked his brother.
“Ha, nigger,” answered the young guy.
“Now, nigger nigger,” the father chimed in.
I
