Angela Flournoy - The Turner House

To her relief, someone was in the room. A son sat in her armchair. Dozing with his chin on his chest. Looking as old as his daddy when he died. Viola remembered something.

“You got three years, Cha.”

“What’s that?” He wiped his mouth with his hand.

“Your daddy died at sixty-six. Three years and you got him beat. Your granddaddy, too. Both granddaddies.”

She kept track of no child’s age except Cha-Cha’s. Her age minus eighteen. She could never forget that she had been eighteen, she and Cha-Cha sleeping in one bed in the living room of the shotgun house while Olivia and Lucille slept in another bed. She had been eighteen during those long months when she thought her husband was gone for good.

Cha-Cha shook out her pills, already sorted, into her hand. He picked up a glass of water from the nightstand and positioned the straw close to her lips. She looked him in the eyes, grateful, but he looked away. Viola remembered something else. A question he’d asked that she had not felt brave enough to answer. Sending him away with doubt in his heart. She kept the pills in her hand.

“Tina’s asleep?”

“Gone,” Cha-Cha said. “At Chucky’s. Not talking to me.”

“Oh.” She was afraid to ask anything else. She should just take her pills and banish her aches and let her mind float off, she knew, but guilt wouldn’t let her.

“She’s gonna be back,” she said after some time.

“Mama, maybe she shouldn’t come back. I don’t know.”

It was difficult, talking like this. They were not built for these roles.

“You remember that little farm your auntie Lucille and Olivia had back home? How we used to go down there in the summer sometimes?”

“Uh-huh,” Cha-Cha said. “I always tried to milk the male cows. Lucky I never got kicked in the head.”

Viola smiled. She would have liked to sit up high in the bed, but she couldn’t manage it. Keeping a tight grip on the pills in her hand took all of her strength.

“I want you to know that I never seen no haints, Cha,” she said. “Never in my whole life, but I do know folks see them.”

Her son looked doubtful, crestfallen.

“It was your daddy that seen them,” she added. “Not me.”

She considered telling him how she knew this. About her ride with Reverend Tufts the day she’d walked out of Ethel Joggets’s house and decided to be done with Arkansas. But she couldn’t tell him that story.

“If Daddy saw haints, why’d he say he didn’t?” Cha-Cha asked. “Why’d he look me in the face and lie?”

“Cause he wanted you to be satisfied. Your daddy tried to be satisfied his whole life. Oh, he was happy. He had all you children and him an only child. But somethin bout that haint messed up his spirit, Cha.”

Viola’s mouth felt dry. The pills in her damp palm stuck to one another. If she didn’t take them soon, Cha-Cha would have to throw them away. A waste she couldn’t bear.

“Your daddy loved everybody but himself. Never was content with his own self.”

She watched Cha-Cha’s face as he turned what she’d said over in his mind. If anyone besides her knew of Francis Turner’s melancholy ways, it would be her eldest son.

“You know I had an uncle named Friend?” she said. “That was his real name. You never met him. I never even met him. Folks say he had a haint follow him from Virginia before I was born. He was supposed to be riding his horse to Arkansas cause my daddy had a job lined up for him layin bricks someplace. Well, Friend must’ve owed the haint somethin when it was alive, like some work, or maybe he done somebody wrong back in Virginia and tried to run from it. They found him in a hole somewhere between Memphis and Pine Bluff. Deep as a grave. Looked like a horse had kicked his skull in, but his own horse was tied up a ways away.

“ That’s the kinda haint to be worried about, Cha. I think you and your daddy, whatever kind y’all got can’t hurt you unless you let it.”

Cha-Cha tapped the side of the glass of water and looked down at his lap. Viola knew he was deciding whether to let go, to let his haint continue to be a mystery but no longer a preoccupation, or to hang on. After about a minute of this he positioned the straw close to Viola’s mouth once more, and she swallowed her pills. There was always a period of anticipation before the medication hit Viola’s bloodstream, when the pain felt more akin to pleasure, because she knew it would soon be gone.

Cha-Cha left Viola’s room determined to hold one final vigil for his haint. He would not be its unwitting victim, as his great-uncle Friend had been, nor would he spend the rest of his life taking sleeping pills, or denying its existence as he believed his father had done. He would stay awake and demand to know what it wanted. Both Lonnie and Alice had suggested confronting it; Cha-Cha finally felt ready to do just that, without any beer muddling his perception. He adjusted the pillows on his side of the bed until he sat upright, turned off the lights, and waited, nodding in and out of sleep, for the blue light to appear around its usual time.

Two A.M. The man did not glow blue this time. It was very close to Cha-Cha, less than four feet away. Up close, Cha-Cha could see its features better. Its mustache extended past the corners of its mouth. It looked at Cha-Cha and showed teeth, but was it a smile? There was a gap between the front two. A confirmation.

“You’re not real, Daddy,” Cha-Cha said. “You’re not alive.” It was a statement for a third party. Surely the haint knew what it was and wasn’t.

The haint did not wear what Francis was buried in—an old blue pinstripe suit from Hudson’s with a garnet necktie and pocket square. He wore clothes that Cha-Cha did not associate with his father at all. A white T-shirt, an undershirt, really, which was tucked into his hitched-up, faded brown slacks. His chest sagged as an old man’s is wont to do, concave and thin, the shadows of his nipples visible through the cotton.

“Get out from under there,” the haint said. “You think you hidin, but I know you down there. I don’t never hide.”

Its voice was quiet but stern, more country than Cha-Cha remembered it. Its eyes focused below Cha-Cha, under the bed. Cha-Cha wondered what might be under there, but he once again had trouble moving.

“I need to know what you want,” Cha-Cha managed to get out. He thought the question silly now that he faced this man, a haint who looked as flesh-and-blood as he did, but he had no other plan for what to say.

The haint did not answer him. Cha-Cha noticed that it wore no shoes or socks.

“Come on out, now,” the haint said. “Don’t you have no pride? Look at you, down there like a possum. That’s what you doing, huh? Playin possum? I bet you is.”

The haint laughed and laughed, and for a moment Cha-Cha felt angry. Was it laughing at him? The face resembled his father’s, but Cha-Cha didn’t recognize the laugh at all. High-pitched and nasal. The haint leaned against the wall to steady itself and laughed some more.

“See now, I know you’re not real,” Cha-Cha said. “You’re saying what I wished you’d have said when I was up under that house.” He didn’t realize this was what he thought until the words were out.

“You knew I was down there, didn’t you?” Cha-Cha said. “You knew I was down up under that house, and you made a fool of me. Why?”

The haint reached down and scratched the bottom of its left foot. Its toenails were filthy. Its chest still heaved from laughing. Its eyes still focused under the bed.

“Boy, ain’t nobody thinkin bout you,” the haint said, almost tenderly. It shook its head. “Folks got their own business to tend to. So you just come on outta there like I say. It’s late.”