“No offense to anyone,” I said, “but that's just not a road that I've ever wanted to travel.”
“None taken,” she said.
“Besides,” I said, “my heart has always belonged to Omenita. And it always will. Going away to school didn't change that.”
“Well, she's a lucky girl.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“And I wish you two the best.”
“I appreciate that.”
“But I still think you should speak to Father.”
“No,” I said, “I've made my choice. I don't see any reason to waste your father's time. I know he's a busy man, but I do appreciate your interest.”
“Well, alright,” she said, “but if you change your mind, please let me know.”
“Okay,” I said. “I will.”
I saw her look back toward the parlor.
“Mother Audrey sure seems angry.”
“She doesn't like my decision,” I said. “She doesn't like it at all.”
“I sensed that,” she said.
“And, to be perfectly honest, she doesn't like Omenita.”
“I sensed that as well.”
There was silence.
“Are you sure that she's the one?” Danielle asked.
“I'm positive,” I said.
“You're giving up a lot,” she said.
“I know.”
“Is she worth it?”
“She is to me,” I said.
There was a moment of silence then she spoke again.
“What about your cousin?”
“I don't know,” I said, then I paused and sighed heavily. “I just don't know.”
“Well, I thought that one of the primary reasons you wanted to go to law school was to eventually help him,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “It was. I guess I'll just have to find another way.”
“Perhaps Father could help,” she said.
“Do you think he would?”
“I don't see why not.”
“Really.”
“Yes,” she said. “I'll speak to him.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You're welcome,” she said, then paused and looked back toward the parlor. “I better go back in there,” she said.
“Okay,” I said. “See you later.”
“See you later,” she said.
She turned and walked back toward the parlor and I went out to the truck, started the engine, and waited for Mama.
Chapter Twenty-eight
F
rom behind the wheel, I watched Mama amble out of the house and climb into the truck beside me. And as soon as she was inside, I backed from beneath the carport and guided the truck down the driveway out into the street. From the corner of my eye, I saw Mama sitting with her hands resting across her lap and her eyes looking straight ahead. And though I was not looking at her directly, I could tell that she was perturbed no doubt at me, but perhaps even more so at the way things had gone at the Davenports. Her anger made no sense to me. For I had informed her of my decision, and like it or not, that decision had not changed; nor would it change. Omenita would be my wifeâthere was no doubt about that.
And so, I retreated to that quiet place within myself, and drove on, guiding the truck along the road toward the busy intersection just west of the Davenports' house. And as I did, I regretted nothing about my situation except for the way my mother was behaving toward me and the woman I loved. Her behavior concerned me, for I sensed that it was causing to rise in me certain feelings of resentment that I feared threatened to tear apart the beautiful relationship that she and I had forged over the course of our lives. I stopped at the intersection and Mama broke her silence.
“Talked to Miss Hattie,” she said.
I remained quiet.
“I think you making a big mistake not talking to Mr. John,” she said. “He was wanting to talk to you about a job in his old firm. When you finished law school of course.”
She waited. I remained quiet.
“Ain't you got nothing to say?” she asked me.
I did not look at her, but I could feel her eyes on the side of my face.
“I just wish you wouldn't tell Miss Hattie my business,” I said, still looking far up the road. “She doesn't have anything to do with this. None of them do.”
“They just trying to help you,” Mama said. “God knows you need it.”
“I've made up my mind,” I said. “Like it or not, I'm going to marry Omenita, and there is nothing anyone can do or say to change my mind.”
“I don't understand you,” Mama said. “I don't understand it at all.”
“Nothing to understand,” I said. “I love her and I'm going to marry her.”
“Love,” Mama mumbled.
“Yes, ma'am,” I said. “Love.”
“One of these days you gon' find out what love is,” she said. “And when you do, you gon' realize that this ain't it.”
“Mama, please,” I said, “could we just talk about something else?”
“What you want to talk about?” she asked. “The weather?”
“Anything,” I said. “Anything but this.”
“You hardheaded,” Mama said. “And mark my words. That's gon' be your downfall. You just wait and see.”
I didn't say anything.
“You don't have to say nothing,” she said, “but one of these days you gon' remember this conversation. And when you do, you gon' wish to God almighty you had listened.”
“I am listening,” I said. “I just don't agree with you.”
“You don't, huh?”
“No, ma'am,” I said. “I don't.”
“What if you wrong?” she said. “You ever thought about that?”
“I'm not,” I said.
“But what if you are?”
“Then I'll live with it,” I said.
“That's your answer,” she said. “You'll live with it.”
“Yes, ma'am,” I said. “That's my answer.”
I heard Mama sigh. Then I saw her look far up the road.
“Hope you know what you doing,” she said.
“I know,” I said.
“Naw, you don't,” she said, “because if you did you wouldn't do it.”
“I'm not afraid to marry Omenita,” I said, “but I am afraid not to.”
“Look to me like you afraid of the wrong thing,” Mama said. “Ought to be afraid of losing out on a chance to further your education. That's what you ought to be afraid of. And if that gal cared anything about you, she'd be afraid of that too.”
“She cares,” I said.
“Sho' got a funny way of showing it.”
“You just don't understand,” I said.
“You right,” Mama said. “I don't.”
“I love her,” I said again, “and that's all there is to it.”
“That's it,” Mama said. “That's your explanation.”
“Yes, ma'am,” I said. “That's it.”
“Well you need to think about what you doing. You need to think about it long and hard.”
“I have thought about it,” I said.
“Well, then you need to think some more.”
“There's nothing else to think about,” I said. “She makes me happy. And that's what's important to me.”
“Maybe right now,” Mama said. “But what about down the road?”
“I'll see what's down the road when I get there,” I said.
“Might be too late to see by then,” she said.
“I don't want to talk about this anymore.”
“Not talking about it won't make it go away.”
“I've made up my mind,” I said.
I heard Mama sigh again.
“That girl gon' ruin your life.”
“Well, it's my life,” I said.
“Now you getting smart with me,” she said. “I guess that's what that gal teaching you, how to get smart with your mama.”
“I'm not getting smart,” I said. “I'm just telling you how I feel.”
“How you feel or how she feel?” Mama said.
“She doesn't have anything to do with this,” I said.
“You ain't never acted this way before.”
“I'm just tired of this,” I said. “That's all.”
“Ought to be tired of her. She the one mistreating you. Not me.”
“She's not mistreating me,” I said.
“Well if she ain't mistreating you, I guess I don't know what mistreating is.”
“She's a good person,” I said. “And if you would just take the time to know her, you would see that.”
I paused and waited. Mama remained quiet.
“Mama, Omenita's just scared,” I said. “That's all. Her life has been hard and full of disappointments. And she's just scared.”
“That's just an excuse. Life's hard for everybody.”
“Harder for some than for others,” I said.
“That's just an excuse,” Mama said again.
“I've made up my mind,” I said. “Why won't you accept that?”
“Because I can't accept her.”
“Well if you can't accept her,” I said, “I guess you can't accept me.”
“What you mean I can't accept you?” Mama said. “You my child. What you mean I can't accept you?”
“I'm nobody's child,” I said. “I'm a grown man.”
“One of these days that gal gon' show you who she is,” Mama said. “And when she does, you accept that, you hear?”
“I know who she is,” I said emphatically.
“No,” Mama said. “You know who you want her to be.”
“I don't want to talk about this anymore,” I said.
“You just remember what I told you,” Mama said. “She gon' show you who she is, and when she do, you just be man enough to accept it.”
“Mama, please,” I said again. “I don't want to talk about this anymore.”
“You don't need to talk,” Mama said. “You just need to listen.”
“I am listening,” I said.
“Naw,” Mama said, shaking her head. You hear me. But you ain't listening.”
“Maybe you're right, Mama,” I said. “And if you are, I guess it's about time.”
“And what's that supposed to mean?”
She looked at me and I could see that she was becoming angry.
“Just that ever since I was a kid you've been telling me what to do. And all of my life, I've listened. But not this time,” I said. “Now, I don't know what you got against Omenita, and right now, I don't care. This is my life. And I'm telling you I'm going to marry her.”
“Then God help you,” Mama said.
I didn't say anything. I clutched the wheel and stared at the highway.
“Never thought I see the day you'd talk to me like this.”
“I don't mean any disrespect,” I said, “but this is how I feel.”
“Feeling or no feeling,” Mama said. “That gal's wrong for you.”
“I don't think so,” I said.
“Well, I know so.”
I turned and I looked at her.
“Mama,” I said, “please accept this! Please!”
“I can't,” she said.
“Why not?”
“I just can't accept a girl like that. Not in this family.”
“A girl like what?”
“Like her.”
I felt myself becoming angry. “She's going to be my wife,” I said.
“I can't accept her.”
“Can't or won't?” I asked her.
“Won't,” she said. “I won't accept her.” She paused. “I just wish she would've left town with that boy then all of this would have been over.”
I turned my head, stunned.
“You'd wish for that?” I said. “Knowing how I feel about her?”
“Everybody would have been better off,” Mama said.
“Not me,” I said. “And I think you know that.”
“She not right for you,” Mama said again.
“Mama, who are you to judge her?”
“I'm your mother,” she said.
“But you're not God.”
“I never said I was.”
“Then why are you acting like it?”
“Since when have you talked like this to me?” Mama asked me. “You the parent now? You the parent and I'm the child?”
“I just want you to respect my wife.”
“The way you respecting me?”
“You're not being fair to her,” I said.
“That girl's not right for you,” Mama said.
“Well, that's for me to decide,” I said. “Not you.”
“Since when have you talked to me like this?” Mama repeated her question.
“I'm just getting tired of you telling me what to do,” I said.
“And I'm getting tired of you sassing me,” she said.
“Well, if that's the way you feel,” I said, “then maybe it's time for me to get my things and go,” I said.
“That's up to you,” Mama said.
I slowed the truck and turned off the road into the driveway. I heard the seashells beneath the wheels as I pulled next to the house and stopped.
“I'll pack my things,” I said.
I got out and went inside and gathered my things. When I emerged from my room, I heard Mama moving about in the kitchen. I went to the door. She was at the sink. Her back was to me.
“Tell Daddy that his truck will be at Grandpa Luke's.”
“Uh-hunh,” she said.
I turned and left.