Tietam Brown (18 page)

December 25, 1985

I heard my father leave the house at a little after nine on Christmas morning, the last of many sounds he had initiated since closing the door to my room and shutting out hope from my world. Sounds of bedsprings, and headboards, and small sobs, and loud cries, and cruel laughs, and hurried shameful steps, and a car's engine, and tires burning rubber on a cold winter night. But most of all, I heard my conscience scream, begging me to do something, anything, to make the madness stop.

Instead I did nothing. Just lay there in the darkness, cursing my cowardice and mourning my memories of happiness. I almost drifted off at 6 a.m., a time when overeager children would be waking up, tugging on their dads' pajamas, getting an early start on the best day of the year.

Sleep, however, didn't come. For as the first rays of Christmas morning came peeking through the window, I heard my father sobbing.

Three hours later, he was gone, in his crappy car with its music blasting, its dice hanging. Leaving me alone in a house I couldn't stand, in a world I couldn't change.

I took a shower in the hope that soap and hot water could wash off the sins of my father. It didn't work. I emerged from my room and took the steps in timid fashion, hoping against hope that it all had been a horrible dream, and that Tietam and Holly would be there, by the tree, with presents all around.

At least I was somewhat right. Presents were all around the tree. Still wrapped, waiting to be loved. All except my special gift from Holly, which was no longer there. Pictures hung from the tree. Pictures from a magazine, of a blond-haired girl, with a pretty but not beautiful face, having odd deeds done to her. Graphic things.

Oh my God, the girl was Holly. A few years younger, a whole lot blonder, but Holly nonetheless. And then it hit me. Where I'd seen that face. The Pussycat Cinema, where my feet had stuck to the floor.

Vomit came forth in violent bursts. Splashing the presents. Splashing the tree. Catching a letter beside a special delivery envelope. I picked up the letter, looked at it hard.

“Dear Tietam,” it read, “tell me what I'm doing to you . . . and tell me you love it.”

No name was signed, but no name was needed. Mrs. Baskin had sworn vengeance and now vengeance was hers.

I covered the three miles to Cortland in near record time. I'd wanted some music, but was in no mood for Nat. As a matter of fact, Nat and I would part ways for quite a long time. For the tape made me think of Holly, which I wasn't ready to do, and my mother's old album, well, I'll get to that soon.

But on this Christmas Day, I did think of Holly. Her saying “people can change” and “I'm living proof.” Confessing her past and declaring it dead. But sometimes old ghosts don't die as easy as that. Skeletons that bang on the closet door until they're let out. Because I know old bones sometimes follow me still.

As for Terri Lynn Johnson, I thought of her too. How just one day before, our love seemed so strong. Capable of conquering anything, except for the truth. If I'd just shut my mouth, she still would be mine. If I'd just nodded my head at the good reverend's words, we'd still be together—she'd be mine, I'd be hers.

I blamed myself for a lot of that night. Four drinks before going there—yeah I'll take the blame. Sporting a hard-on in front of her mom—guilty there too. But when it came to her father, well I'd just had to speak up. I just couldn't let him continue to foul the air with his words. So I'd spoken up and was glad. I had done the right thing. But when I looked at Terri for help, she just wasn't there. I had been right and she had been wrong.

That thought was of small comfort, but it would have to suffice. Besides, I hoped and I prayed that she might still come back. We'd see each other in school, and she'd fall into my arms. And we'd be back together, we'd be back in love.

What now seemed oddest of all was that when things were at their worst—at Terri's house, that is, because things certainly went downhill from there—I had thought of my dad. Like he was going to come riding in on a white horse and save the day for Andy. But maybe Andy didn't need to have his day saved. Maybe Andy could have saved it himself. He could have just gone into a rage and saved it himself.

I grabbed hold of my quarters and pictured the scene. Throwing my left with the change and the rage. Making beautiful contact with the reverend's big mouth. Seeing those white caps fly like pieces of Chiclets. Watching his wig fly off into the fireplace. Causing his wife to break into wrinkles that no surgeon could fix.

Now those were thoughts of comfort. And comfort me they did, to the point where I was actually smiling when I made it to work. Where no one was there except Mary and Frank. Who made me a waiter for the very first time.

A one-handed waiter, but hey, I did my best serving up Frankie specials and lots of desserts. A one-handed waiter with a crooked smile and a broken heart, gorging himself on slice after slice of Mary's homemade pumpkin pie.

I got off ten minutes early, with a ten-dollar bonus from Frank and a ride from a new Cortland teacher named Thompson, who dropped me off at the Seven Valley 12 after telling several stories about some guy named Bochco.

I bought a Coke and some popcorn, and took in
Rocky IV
amid families and young lovers, a group that only one night earlier I had been a proud member of. I was watching Stallone, but it just wasn't the same. He was once again fighting for democracy, but still, it wasn't the same. What was missing was Terri and her hand in mine.

I arrived home around midnight. A few cars were driving down my street, obviously looking for just one more evening of Nativity magic to celebrate the Lord's birthday. But the manger was empty.

I opened the door to find the Christmas tree still adorned with the various images of Holly. I looked once again at the empty place under that tree where her special present had been, and then I looked at the couch where only one night before, she had glowed with such beauty.

But now the living room was void of all the love that had, for too short a time, made the small house a home. In love's place there were beer cans and the fresh scent of sweat mixed in with new sex. But intermission was over and a new act had begun. An act that seemed almost tranquil when I got to my room.

I briefly considered playing the tape of Nat, but that would have made me think of Holly, which would have been too painful to bear. Maybe my mother's album. No, maybe this just wasn't a night for Nat. Not that I didn't appreciate “the dear Savior's birth.” I did. I just didn't know if I would feel like celebrating it ever again.

The tranquil act gave way to harsher things: the sighs that seemed vaguely familiar turning to labored grunts, my father's questions becoming demands. Amid this scene, I tried to sleep, but my conscience kept me up. I thought I heard some choking, then an anguished cry of “Stop,” and now my conscience screamed. My heart pounded, my adrenaline raced, and I realized I had to make a stand. I could not stay still while this scene played out. Could not just die inside while a braver man begged to be set free.

I heard her voice scream “Stop” one more time, and I heard Tietam let loose his laugh. And I sat upright, then sprang to life and bolted down the stairs. I thought of the basement and its rusty ax, but then grabbed the telephone instead. Dialed 911 while I slowly climbed the stairs.

I guess I could have waited, just sat back and let Cortland's finest handle things. But I heard him laugh, and I heard her scream, and I decided not to wait. I put my shoulder down like I'd seen TV cops do, and I charged at Tietam's door. It gave way and let me in, but not without some pain that caused the phone to drop and go skidding across the floor.

“It's over, Dad,” I said. “The police are on their way.” The words barely got out, but they felt so good to say. Letting him know that I couldn't be bullied, wouldn't give in to his crap, that I could stand up to him. I looked at him for some kind of sign. A blink or a shudder. Just one little thing. Any small sign to let me know he was scared. Instead he just smiled. On his knees, on his bed, naked and smiling.

“Hell, that's okay, son, let the cops come. Maybe Officer Charlie can be leading the charge. He can say hello to his wife, and then I'll play him a tape of her tongue in my ass. How does that sound to you, son?”

Gloria Sugling. The voice that I knew. She'd seemed so lonely last night, and now she lay naked before me, her face hidden in shame, her body shaking with sorrow. She'd had her three strikes and now she was back—my father relaxing his rules for the sake of exploiting more sadness.

“Is that what you want, Andy, or do you want something else? Don't you want to pick up that phone and tell the police it was all a big joke? Don't do it for me. Do it for poor Mrs. Sugling. Do it for her. Do it for the Halloween pumpkins. Or the scarecrow. Don't you want to see a scarecrow next door instead of a ‘For Sale' sign, which officer Charlie will surely put up if he finds his wife here.”

I dialed the number.

“Get out,” my dad said, when my short call was through. I started to leave, but then he snapped, “No not you. I was talking to her. You're going to watch while Miss Gloria leaves.”

She slowly sat up, her face full of black tears. A face that was equal parts sadness, pain, fear, and shame. She reached for her panties, but Tietam got to them first, saying, “I'll keep these here.”

Then Mrs. Sugling reached for her bra. Once again, Tietam was quicker, snatching it up and throwing it into the hall. “You can put on your clothes when you get back to your house. Now leave.”

Mrs. Sugling's knees buckled. I thought she might fall, so I rushed to her side, and helped keep her up.

This time he yelled, “I said leave! Get out! Get the hell out of my house. Take your fat ass, and your saggy little tits, and get out of my house!”

I walked her home. Against my father's demands, I walked her home. I draped a sheet over her trembling shoulders, and while my father showered me with insults, I walked Mrs. Sugling home. While I was walking, I looked up at the sky, and I wished that somehow, I could summon my rage. Wished that I could have it at my disposal to take care of my father. I didn't know just how useful it would be against Tietam Brown, but I grabbed hold of my quarters and opened my mind up to the fact that it might happen soon.

He was playing his tape when I got back to my room. Gloria Sugling. He was playing it. The whole ugly thing. Sang while he played it. G-L-O-R-I-A!

I listened to him play her mind like a maestro of frail psyches. Selling modern-day snake oil; his hairy ass as a cure-all for loneliness. Plotting a course from fun to brutality, and not allowing departures until the whole trip was through. Using her own voice as insurance. I lay down in my bed and wondered how the same guy who had sung Burl Ives a few short weeks ago could now be so filled with hate. In a strange way, I was thankful, for that hatred made it harder to think of Terri. Or Holly. As odd as it seems, my adrenaline rush had served to drown out my despair. And now, as that rush gave way to exhaustion, I simply could not fall asleep sad. For I had stood up to my father. Stood up to him twice. I'd seen the worst of what lurked within him, and I had faced it down.

I woke up a short time later feeling something wasn't right. Hot breath in my ear. A figure at my bed's right side. The breath came hotter still, right next to my stump, and suddenly I realized that my father had my arm hooked in a way that wasn't natural. His lips were now touching what was left of my ear, whispering, “If you ever threaten me again, I'll kill you. Do you understand?”

I nodded my head, for I was too scared to speak. Then slowly, deliberately, my father tore my shoulder from its socket.

December 27, 1985

I walked to the bus stop at 4:00 a.m., my right arm throbbing. No longer out of its socket, but still hurting like hell. The best I can figure is that sometime after I blacked out, my father must have popped it back in, an odd but useful talent he must have picked up along the way. I thought back to my father's visit from the detective, my father asking if “that big monster looked like he'd been assaulted.” The detective saying “not a scratch on him.” As if pain and suffering didn't exist without the benefit of evidence. No harm, no foul, as they say in pickup basketball.

I had stayed in my room for most of the twenty-sixth, while my father stayed in his. He went out about nine, in pursuit of yet another night of spiritual fulfillment, and I went downstairs to use the phone. The presents still lay unopened beneath the tree. The tree of Holly. She deserved better than to be on display this way. It was as if she'd been lynched and was hanging, left to rot. So I took her down. All nine pictures. I felt the sour taste of vomit race up my throat, but swallowed it down. There was something very odd about those pictures. I studied one. Her face. Especially her eyes. Despite her environment, Holly, I saw, still had the eyes of an angel. I tore the photos up. They had caused enough suffering already.

My finger had been trembling when I dialed New York City information. I didn't want to count on strangers, but I had nowhere else to turn. Somewhere deep down inside, my dad had snapped, and I longed to know what had caused it. I guess because I was full of fear, for both my father and his victims. Fear for my own safety, too. I think that fear was my biggest. God I dreaded the coming night, and what surprises it might bring. A guy like him could probably kill and not leave a trace of evidence. I guess I feared for my dad's soul too—I hope that doesn't sound too preachy. For although the decision isn't mine to make, abusing women didn't seem like the quickest route to heaven.

So I asked the operator if an Eddie Edwards was listed in New York. Not just one but three, he said, so I gave all of them a try. As the saying goes, the third time was a charm, and a warm laugh put my nerves at ease. He said that he'd love to see me, and that tomorrow would be fine. He even offered to wire me bus fare, but I said I had it covered.

I had saved up almost ninety dollars during my tenure at the diner, and I thought that if I could do without little things like food, I could just squeak by with that amount.

Mr. Edwards lived on 132nd Street, a real long walk from mid-town, where the bus had dropped me off. But I had no clue about the subways, and a taxi wasn't in my budget, so I walked almost ninety blocks. Ninety blocks to think about the cards the last few days had dealt me. Ninety blocks of Terri. Ninety blocks of Tietam. Ninety lonely blocks.

I wish I could say it didn't worry me when white faces stopped appearing. But uptown was a whole new world, even for a kid with a past like mine. Luckily I had one ace in the hole—a dad I thought might kill me. I slept next door to a monster, so why sweat a walk through Harlem?

Mr. Edwards greeted me with a big smile and a root beer. I liked him right away. He'd aged greatly since his picture, but still looked full of life. He may not have been quite the specimen I'd seen in Tietam's picture, but his handshake was firm, his shoulders were wide, and I thought that if the situation called for it, this guy could still kick some ass. I didn't know a whole lot about death, but Eddie Edwards did not appear to be residing on its doorstep, as Tietam's words had led me to believe.

His apartment was small, but tasteful and neat. A black-and-white portrait of a beautiful black woman hung over his mantel. The room's centerpiece. His wife, I guessed, but didn't ask. Two smaller black-and-white photos stood under it in wood frames.

One showed a group of soldiers, all black, with the exception of one white guy who I guessed must have been an officer. The other was Eddie Edwards, holding up his fists, his body lean and strong. He must have seen me looking, for he chuckled just a bit and said, “That was me in my prime, in '63, the same year I met your dad.”

I had thought of so many questions, but now none came to my mind. I had so many questions that needed answering, so many things I had to know. Finally all my thoughts produced one small word. I asked Eddie Edwards, “Where?”

“Down in Mississippi,” Eddie said. “Worked the territory there. All the cities, small towns too.”

Which cleared up . . . absolutely nothing. He might just as well have been speaking a foreign language.

“We once did twenty shows in eighteen days, not much time to rest. Long trips through backwater towns.”

I didn't want to insult him, but I got the distinct impression that he thought I knew a lot more than I did.

“Um . . . Mr. Edwards?”

“Yes, Andy, and call me Eddie.”

“Okay, Mr. Ed—uh Eddie.”

“Yes?”

“Uh, I don't want to sound naïve, but what is a territory?”

Eddie smiled in disbelief. As if he hadn't realized that I barely knew my dad.

“Jeez, I'm sorry, son, I guess that I forgot. You grew up without your dad. So you don't know what a territory is?”

“Not really.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“Besides the fact that he exercises naked with a deck of playing cards, no, not a whole lot,” I said.

My attempt at humor failed. I had been hoping for a laugh, but my remark hit Eddie Edwards like a big hook to the gut. It seemed to stop him in his tracks for just a second, then he said, “So he still goes through his deck?” I nodded in silence, not sure what it all meant.

“Do you know what your father used to do for a living?”

“No, to tell the truth, I still don't.”

Eddie hesitated just a bit, as if he didn't want to shock me. But at this point nothing Tietam did could shock me. “Well Andy, he and I were wrestlers.”

I was shocked. “Wrestlers?” I said, then breathed out a laugh—a laugh I regretted right away. I didn't want to insult Eddie Edwards, but damn. Wrestling?

“Wrestlers?” I repeated. “Like the kind that's on TV?”

“Well kind of,” Eddie said with an understanding smile. “Of course the business has changed a lot since then.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh, it's just that my father's just a little guy, I can't see him screaming, throwing punches.”

Eddie nodded in agreement with everything I said, then backed up his nods with words. “Well Andy, you're right on all counts. Your father was a little guy, at least by wrestling standards. He didn't scream, and in all the time I knew him, I only saw him throw one punch.”

I nodded in silence.

I felt ashamed of my presumptions. Eddie Edwards deserved better than to have me laughing at his life. He was about the nicest guy I'd ever met, I can't think of any nicer. But a certain sadness clung to him, maybe cancer, or his wife. I wondered if she was still alive and my gut feeling told me no. I took a swig of root beer and no longer laughed when Eddie talked.

“Well Andy, I came back from Korea with a purple heart and a court-martial. Not a whole lot of opportunities for a Negro with a court-martial back in '54. So when I got the chance to wrestle, I took it. Had already put in nine years when your dad came in from England.”

“England?” I said.

“Sorry Andy, I forgot, just thought he might have said where he came from.”

“I thought he came from Albany.”

“Yeah, yeah. I guess he did. But I think he moved when he was twelve, maybe thirteen, I forget, but it was with some guy his mother met. From what I remember Tietam saying, and your father never said too much, at least not about his past—the guy kind of promised wealth in London, and wound up mining coal in Wigan.”

“What the heck is Wigan?”

Eddie laughed. “It's not a real nice town. I'm not sure Diana's ever been there. But Wigan is the place where your dad learned how to hook.”

“Hook?”

“Hook,” Eddie confirmed.

“What is hooking?” I was wide-eyed and listening hard, hoping to latch onto something that could help me understand my father.

Eddie got real serious as I could sense him collect his thoughts. “Hooking,” he said, “is the . . . art of . . . causing pain.”

“And was my dad good at it?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.

“Yes . . . your dad was good. Pound for pound he may have been the best.”

Eddie Edwards, I sensed, wanted to talk, almost needed to, it seemed, and I was going to let him. He took a seat in an easy chair, one with a Bible on its arm, and he told me of my dad.

“Yeah, your father sure could hook. Practiced it, studied it . . . Kind of like a scientist, discovering new ways he could cause pain. Read books about the body. Big books. In the gym no one could touch him. But in the ring, in Mississippi, well that wasn't quite the same. 'Cause in the ring you're only as tough as the promoter lets you be. And lots of times, in the business, the promoters had a hard-on —'scuse the language—for a guy who could go for real. Wanted to teach them respect, which is really just a way of saying they treated him like crap. Until November twenty-second, that is, the day the president was shot.”

“You mean you wrestled the same night that the president died? Wasn't it canceled? Wasn't like it a national day of mourning?”

“In Mississippi?” Eddie asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Well, uh, yeah,” I shrugged.

“Andy, the only reason they would cancel is to have a celebration.”

“You're kidding,” I said, in a voice just above a whisper. But I already knew he wasn't. I had been raised in towns right outside of Richmond, where the Confederacy was based. I had seen the southern generals still standing tall on Monument Row. I had done my time in Petersburg, home of the famous siege. I even had a name to honor a man who'd shed his blood on southern soil. But I'd never even entertained the thought that the Civil War still lived and breathed in 1963 in the state of Mississippi.

“No,” Eddie said, “I'm afraid I'm not. Although I wish I was. No, the president wasn't too highly held by a lot of folks in Mississippi. Caused them a lot of problems about a year before down at the university.”

I nodded, but really didn't know what it was he was referring to, although I made a mental note to check.

“Most of the boys in the dressing room felt pretty bad, I guess. We all shared the same dressing room, all got along okay for the most part. Couple guys weren't shy about letting people know they didn't want any niggers in their business. On this night in particular, they were laughing about the president, loud enough to hear. Wanted me to hear. Called Kennedy a ‘nigger lover,' were glad that he'd been shot. Now, most black folks in the South loved JFK, ever since he'd called up Mrs. King while her husband was in jail. Personally, I thought he could have done a little more to help. Your father didn't even give him that. Said he was like Abe Lincoln with better hair, only acted 'cause he had to.”

I made another mental note.

“In spite of that, your dad got up, walked over to where I was. At this point I hardly knew him; and I sure don't want a problem, especially with him.”

“What did you do? Did he start a problem?”

“No, he asked me for a ride.”

“Was that a bad thing?”

“No, not bad, but kind of shocking. Colored folks just didn't ride with whites back then, at least not in the business.”

“Why do you think he asked?”

“Well to make a statement most of all. Didn't like the South at all, didn't like the people in it. But he later told me he just thought we were quite a bit alike. Read the Bible, didn't drink, didn't whore around.”

“Are you sure you're talking about my father?” I said, laughing.

“Yeah, that's the way he was back then. Changed, though, over time.”

“Did you give him a ride?”

“Sure. That night and then on. Got along real good. Stayed at the colored hotels, ate at colored restaurants. Was a hero to the black folks, once word got around. Black section would chant his name, white folks wouldn't make a sound. Didn't stop the promoter, though, from beating him all the time. With guys who couldn't lace his boots. Really bothered him.”

I felt lousy for my father. And touched by what he'd done. Despite what had happened since that fateful Christmas Eve, I was rooting for my dad.

“A promoter name of Fuller took a chance and brought us to Alabama as a team. Thought a black man and a white man preaching civil rights would draw some heat.”

“Did it, you know, draw some . . . heat?”

Eddie's face lit up. He sat forward in his chair and let out a hearty laugh. “Heat?” Hell, I guess it did. We had a riot in Montgomery. Our first town after television aired, when we wore our Dr. King shirts. Oh boy! That ring filled up with rednecks, and man, the shit was on—sorry 'bout that. I'm throwing wild punches, Tietam breaks a few bones, most of the boys run out to help. Old Man Fuller was there, even his nutty kid Robert, who'd been selling programs . . . Plug got pulled on our tag team, afraid someone would be killed. Come to think of it now, your dad took a knife in the thigh. Ugly wound too. So after that, things went back to the way they had been. I wrestled the Negro match and your dad never became the star he could have been.”

“Wow, that's a shame.” Maybe not the most insightful of comments, but it's the one I gave. It was a shame too.

“Yeah, after that, somewhere around '66, we went our separate ways. No hard feelings, just the way of the business. I went to work in Georgia, where I met my wife. Studying medicine in Atlanta. Tietam went north. Minnesota, New York, Indianapolis. But the knock on your father was always the same. Too small, no gimmick, wouldn't get blood, no good on the mike. Really bothered him, that he never made it up north. Finally I heard that he went to Japan.