November 4th, 2008
by Donnie Moreland
They’d been in that room all evening. Patricia arrived around six and didn’t know if she’d even stay half an hour. It was five past nine in the evening now. They’d been moving furniture, and boxing up everything else, to store away so Marlon could finally get some sleep. It had been three years since David transitioned, so the room had become a museum of sorts. The boy’s belongings were suspended in dead time.
Marlon went through David’s CD collection. Big Pun. Wu Tang Clan. Mobb Deep. Biggie Smalls’ Ready to Die caught his eye a little more than the others. It was the last album of his he let David have. A few months before he took off for school, David was down Marlon’s neck about keeping the record since it wasn’t being put to much use on a workbench, in the garage. He was nostalgic for these albums, given how much Marlon played cats like Biggie when David was a child, but not so much when David’s ears aged to find interest in words and not just high hats, kicks, snares and sample loops.
“Pop, you gotta let me have this Biggie, man.”
“I gotta let you? Try again, son.” Marlon hollered.
“But it’s right here! And you don’t even like rap like that no more.” David begged, widening his arms around the CD cases, indicating the lack of reason in his father’s resistance.
“You telling me what I don’t like?” Marlon walked past the boy, looking for something in the garage he’d not found before and certainly wasn’t going to, with his son’s badgering.
“C’mon, Pop. You said it yourself. The only reason you keep these CD’s is because if you start recycling one thing, you gotta recycle all the other stuff mom said you don’t use. If anything, me holding onto them is doing you a favor.”
“The only favor either one of us ever did for the other was me giving you life and you wasting some of it, in my face right now.” Marlon said, walking to his son and softly landing his fist on David’s chest.
He let him have the album. He let the boy have anything, really. The hardest lesson learned for Marlon, as a father, was how to say no with conviction. That was his baby. He understood refusing a lover, but how do you refuse your baby?
Marlon put the CD’s into a box and went to the kitchen to get some more tape. He passed Patricia, without a word, as he had all evening. She was still going through David’s shoes. It wouldn’t have taken her that long to sort them, and box them up, had she not insisted on cleaning them, first. Purification, before burial, one might guess.
Marlon forgot where he put the tape, as he rummaged through the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink before looking over at it, sitting on the right arm of the living room couch. He grabbed it and was then caught up in Wolf Blitzer’s nasally, “Clark Gable” like impression coming from the television.
“We’re almost seven minutes away from some polls closing on the West Coast.”
CNN’s election coverage had been the soundscape of an otherwise muted evening. Footsteps, boxes dropping, and faint “excuse me’s” being the only other signs that the house wasn’t empty.
“Potentially we could be making some major projections, at the top of the hour. We also have views from around the world and around Washington, watching this. There is a lot of excitement around the world right now. Take a look. They are watching us in Sydney, Australia. They are watching what’s going on here, in the United States. Nice time difference. Good morning, Sydney.”
Marlon shook his head. It never made any sense to him, all those countries so riled up for American politics. Wasn’t as though he knew what the hell was going on in Sydney. He doubted Wolf did, either. He may not have understood but he knew the first Black President of the United States was something he didn’t expect anyone to know how to reckon with, aside from what was happening around the world-theatrics, pomp and circumstance. He walked back into the room, put the tape down and finally worked up the stomach to start up a conversation with his ex-wife.
“Looks like he’s gonna win.” Marlon announced, halfway through the door.
Patricia chuckled.
“I guess we’re supposed to celebrate?” She said, scrubbing away at another pair of tennis shoes with some dingy old toothbrush.
“I don’t see why not. I got a bottle of moscato in there and if anything, we could use a break. Been going at this for a good little while.”
“What kind?” She asked with familiar reservation. They both knew the answer.
“You and this damn pink moscato.” She laughed.
“Look, it was on sale.” Marlon shouted, though snorting, his hands up as though caught in a heist.
“No it wasn’t, Marlon. You ain’t got to lie. You know you the only reason anyone still sells that mess.”
“So you’ll take a glass?” Marlon’s eyes widened, his cheeks flared, begging through his puppy dog whimpering that she’d oblige.
“Yes, Marlon.” She said, them both chuckling as he left the room. She genuinely hated the wine. Had since he introduced her to it, some twenty-odd years ago.
“Last time he’d been out that way to visit his Daddy in ’06, he had to have seen about twenty seven confederate flag decals along the interstate. ”
Marlon grabbed the bottle and two glasses before catching another glimpse of the election coverage.
The screen read: Obama wins Virginia.
Something funny about those three words together. Last time he’d been out that way to visit his Daddy in ’06, he had to have seen about twenty seven confederate flag decals along the interstate. He brought everything back to the room, as Blitzer was saying something about how historic the night was. He put the glasses on the floor and poured the wine as Patricia carried on about the election.
“What is it that I am supposed to believe this brother is going to do? Fix up Bush’s mess? I don’t have that much faith in Jesus Christ.”
“Bush shit the bed, like there was a toilet under him. You can’t expect a brother, especially one with his name, to do anything more than spray it down with some Febreeze.” Marlon responded, attempting to sit cross legged, but immediately self correcting at the thought of his poor knees.
“I wouldn’t if he wasn’t so heavy on change. Hope. Just waves these words around like goddamn foam fingers.” Patrica responded, rolling her eyes and grimacing through another hard swallow.
“Well hell, at least Colin and Condoleezza will get the time to go find them a backroad, Mississippi church somewhere and explain to God why they lied for that white man, for so long, like they were doing us a favor just taking up a seat.” Marlon smirked, raising his glass.
They both laughed at that, their lips - like feet - remembering the rhythm, the swing, folks who were married for twenty one years never quite forget, completely. They talked a bit more about politics, what life has been and other incidentals before finishing their glasses.
“I hope it’s not too late for you, with your classes and all.” Marlon said, setting down his glass.
“I’m taking off tomorrow.”
“That so?”
“It isn’t worth the headache. Supposed to be some on-campus blackout….”
“A blackout?” Marlon interrupted, taking another sip.
“Some foolishness where the white kids are gonna show up wearing all black to recognize some symbolic death of America.” Patricia scoffed.
“Sounds like the nonsense I keep hearing on Opie and Anthony. Had to stop listening to those clowns. Admins can’t be alright with all of that?” Marlon inquired, with genuine fret, as the news cycle of the Virginia Tech massacre replayed behind his brow, as Patricia spoke.
“I sent an email to my department chair. Don’t even think he opened it. Only thing I did was tell my students to stay safe, and in general, don’t act a fool.”
“How did you find out?”
“A Filipino girl in my 10 a.m. let me know. Said she was scared and wanted to let somebody know what was going on in the dorms because she wasn’t sure where they might take it. I don’t either, so I’d rather be in bed if those idiots start losing their minds.” Patricia said, wincing from the sweet odor in her glass.
“I’m glad you are.” Marlon responded with genuine reprieve, as his shoulders began to fall, having risen at the thought of anyone offering harm to Patricia.
Quiet survived for a spell - both maneuvering around the harder questions.
“How are things here? How are you?” Patricia managed.
“I’ve been alright. I think we might be merging soon, with a Chinese company. Don’t really know what that might mean, for us in human resources.”
“You sound concerned.”
“Well, the writing has been on the wall for a little while now. Been thinking, for the last few months, that I might need to consider some changes. Not just with work. Neighborhood’s changing a bit. You remember James and Cheryll, right?”
“Of course, I do. I still see Cheryll at the salon.”
“They talking about moving to Houston, soon.”
“Really!?” Patricia hollered, with earnest surprise.
“Yeah, he was talking about how they couldn’t keep up with mortgage payments, her out of work. And you could probably buy up a neighborhood down there, how cheap things are now. Jeffrey and his kids went on to Denver, for his job, last month. I won’t lie, I really don’t want to be the last brother on this block.” Marlon stood up, which was a signal for Patricia to do the same.
“Everything just has me thinking about what to do next.” Marlon continued.
“You thinking about moving?” Patricia asked, being helped to her feet.
“I don’t know. I just wish I could see some of what time has in store for me, y’know.” Marlon picked up the glasses, hoping to simmer the burning in his chest from where they were, to who they seem to be now. Him missing the privilege of her hands against his cheek, in moments like this, when he felt the floor sinking below.
“Damn, I think the wine might be talking now.” Marlon exhaled something between a loud sigh and a chuckle, hoping to redirect the energy of his anxiety back to the task at hand.
“Well I’ll say one thing. When the time comes, you’ll make the best choices for your needs. You’re good at that.” Patricia reassured.
“I believe you.” Marlon nodded, turning for the hallway, as he responded. He was so open. Both hollow and hot, wishing he could say so much more. Wishing he had nothing to say, at all. Might she wish the same? Might she really know him, still?
“I don’t want to keep you much longer, so I'm going to go ahead and get some more of them boxes downstairs.” He shouted from the kitchen, washing out the glasses.
Patricia started going through a pile of books in the corner. She noticed a few David kept, from years ago, when she’d read to him at night. She felt her skin crawl and told Marlon she was going outside for air. Marlon understood and started moving the next round of boxes to the basement. His hand on the light switch, he took a moment to prepare himself for the tomb they made for the boy. He turned on the light and there was his baby’s life, at least as it had been before David became the David that studied Pre-Law at The University of Maryland. This was Marlon’s baby, long before the boy began doing social justice work around the country, finally landing in New Orleans in ’05. It was all there. The bed, debate trophies, dumbbells, his PlayStation and all those loud ass games Marlon would yell at David for playing on school nights.
Marlon put down the box of CD’s and went to grab another from the hallway. He must’ve tripped on something, because he fell over on the steps. He just fell over and wept for his boy. Laid out over those steps, he did his best to keep from alarming Patricia, as she had come back inside the house. He couldn’t reconcile that - whatever she’d do, finding him like that. He just couldn’t reconcile it. He got himself together before managing to get up, tottering up the stairs and into the hallway.
Patricia was in the living room, staring at the television screen, as he made his way up and that’s when he heard it: “That’s what we project. He has more than enough Electoral Votes. 270. More than enough to become the next President of the United States.”
The words barreled into Marlon, who grabbed onto the couch, forcing a proper walk. He read the words, coming from the telecast: Barack Obama Elected President. They both stood there before Marlon finally uttered, “he did it.” It was in a tone somewhere between disbelief, and uncertainty. Neither of them thought anything of the man’s character. They just didn’t want, nor could they, believe that this brother was going to be their great Black hope. The negro savior who would finally acknowledge what happened to their son, where others had brushed the boy off as what Hurricane Katrina took back to sea with her. They knew better.
They knew better on August 28th, 2005, when they stood in the exact same spot and watched their son wading through torrential downpour, behind some CNN anchor. They knew better when they couldn’t get a hold of their child, for days, until they discovered that he was one of the missing. They knew better when the boy’s body was found, with a bullet hole behind his ear. They knew better when they found out former military personnel were taking pop shots at Black folk on the Danziger Bridge in New Orleans. They knew better when only two deaths were reported, on that bridge, but their boy’s murder was getting the run-a-round by the NOPD. They knew better when, after hiring a private investigator, they discovered their boy’s murder was below low priority for the department.
They knew better when come ’06, national coverage was taken away from the tragedy of Hurricane Katrina and put back on Iraq. They knew better when, by January of ’07, their son’s murder had officially become a cold case. When by June of ’07, their marriage couldn’t sustain the unanswered questions. When by a late morning sometime in October of ’07, Patricia filed for divorce. When by November 1st, 2008, Marlon finally took Patricia up on her offer to help move the boy’s things into the basement, to which she understood, and despite that being a Tuesday-and how busy the streets would be that particular night- she agreed.
When by November 4th, 2008, having almost cleared their son’s room, they were watching the first Black President be elected. The first Black President of the United States of America. The same America that they knew stole away their boy. And this man, who they were told was the best of them, was going to ask them to put in his hands something they couldn’t afford to give over. They knew better.
As they finished moving everything into the basement, Patricia with a few items stored in her Sedan, they realized this would be the last time they were going to be in that room together. They could hear the cheering coming from houses all through the sleepy suburb. By this time, Obama was giving his victory speech and all they could do was stand in the middle of that room and listen. It wasn’t long before they both were in tears, on the floor and in each other's arms. It was like his words were pushing them into each other. But in a way only folks who knew their longing could understand.
“What began twenty one months ago in the depths of winter cannot end on this autumn night. This victory alone is not the change we need, but a chance for us to make that change. But that cannot happen if we go back to the way things were. It cannot happen without you. It cannot happen without a new spirit of service. A new spirit of sacrifice. So let us summon a new spirit.”
Her face shining wet, Patricia pulled away from Marlon and began to rub the tears from his face.
Her thumb, brushing against his cheek like a still tide against a storefront.
“I should be on my way.”
Donnie Denkins Moreland Jr is a Houston based health educator and multi-disciplinary artist. Donnie holds a Master’s Degree in Film Studies from National University and a Bachelor’s Degree in Sociology from Prairie View A&M University. Donnie’s work centers cultural healing, black masculinities and film criticism. Donnie has contributed to Black Youth Project, RaceBaitr, Root Work Journal, A Gathering of the Tribes and Sage Group Publishing.