Percival Everett - I Am Not Sidney Poitier

I did not beat around the bush. “So, you think I’m too dark for precious little Maggie?”

“Now I dislike you,” she said.

“So, you care.”

She put down the last plate at the head of the table. “As a matter of fact,” she said, then without saying another word walked back into the kitchen.

I followed her. “As a matter of fact what?” I asked.

“Listen, boy, Mister and Missus have worked too hard,” she said.

“Too hard for what?”

“To have a black boy like you come around Miss Maggie.”

“Listen to yourself, Violet. Mister and Missus and Miss Maggie. This is not the antebellum south and you’re not a house slave.”

“Why, you nigger,” she said.

“Violet, you and I are pretty much the same color,” I said.

“No, we’re not,” she snapped. “I’m milk chocolate and you’re dark cocoa, dark as Satan.”

I was stunned. Saddened perhaps, somewhat frightened, but mostly just stunned.

Maggie came into the kitchen, surprisingly cheerful in a dark blue dress that made me somehow think of the Pilgrims. “Everything smells great, Violet. What kind of pie this year?”

“Pumpkin.”

“You haven’t had pie until you’ve had Violet’s,” Maggie said to me.

Maggie took me by the hand and led me out of the kitchen and away from the burning gaze of Violet into the living room to make introductions. I was presented rather ceremoniously to Reverend Golightly, his wife, and their grown son. I nodded to each one in turn and was sickened that I had been so influenced by my experience in this household that I caught myself gauging the skin tones of the guests. Large Reverend Golightly was the color of coffee with a generous helping of cream. Slightly more cream had been added to Mrs. Golightly. Thirty-year-old Jeffrey was an albino. Jeffrey was also mentally challenged. He shook my hand too vigorously and for too long, prompting the Reverend to say, “Let go, Jeffrey.” When he did let go he smiled a genuine smile and became the first person I’d liked in days. I sat in a straight-backed chair next to him.

“So, how do you like Washington?” Reverend Golightly asked me.

“I find it interesting,” I said.

“We haven’t had a chance to do much,” Maggie said. “We arrived just yesterday.”

“Well, you must take him to the Mall,” Mrs. Golightly said. She sipped from her little glass of sherry. “The monuments, the Smithsonian, all of it. Maggie, you must take him.”

“I will,” Maggie said.

“I like Lincoln,” Jeffrey said. “He freed the slaves.”

“A lot of good that did,” Ward said.

The rest laughed.

It was all so absurd. I expected the walls to wiggle in and out of focus and change color at any second. Yet I couldn’t seem to rise to leave. Big fat Reverend Golightly, a mound of yellow Jell-O on the davenport and human stick-figure wife stuck into the cushion beside him stared at me, smiled. And there was Jeffrey, whom I liked immediately — sweet, innocent Jeffrey, completely lacking pigment and outside the bizarre game altogether.

Then Agnes came into the room wearing a red skirt, the hem of which was as far from her knees as her knees were from her red pumps. Maggie was immediately furious and gave me a look before stomping out. I sensed that I was expected to follow, so I stayed.

The Golightlys, Reverend and Mrs., cleared their throats. Jeffrey simply stared at Agnes’s legs and said, “Legs.”

“You look nice,” Ruby Larkin said, with unsubtle sarcasm. She nudged Ward with her elbow. “Doesn’t your daughter look nice?”

“Yes, nice,” Ward said.

Ruby stood and walked toward the door to the dining room. “Agnes,” she said. The come with me was clearly implied, and so Agnes complied. Ruby closed the pocket doors behind them.

We sat in an awkward silence that was interrupted by the loud voice of Agnes saying, “It’s just a skirt.”

“You’re right about that,” Ruby snapped back. “It is just a skirt, just barely a skirt.”

Jeffrey looked at me, smiling, and repeated, “Legs.”

“That will be enough, Jeffrey,” Reverend Golightly said.

Jeffrey sat back straight in his chair, gave me a covert nod, tapped a finger on his leg, and mouthed “leg” to me.

We sat at the table. Ward sat at the head. At least he called it the head of the table. His exact words were, “I’ll take my usual place at the head of the table.” If that were so then I understood Ruby to be sitting at the foot. I sat in the center of the table, Maggie to my left and Agnes across from me. Jeffrey was at my right. Mrs. Golightly was on Ward’s left, and there was an empty chair on his right. That chair was for Robert, who had not yet arrived. There was an empty seat beside Agnes that was supposedly for Violet and the Reverend Golightly was on the end beside Ruby. All of this matters little except for the fact the Agnes was near enough to me to attempt a game of footsie and far enough away to mistake Jeffrey’s foot for mine. Agnes wasted no time. Jeffrey paid no attention to the candied sweet potatoes, green beans, and dressing being heaped on his plate by his father, but sat there with his eyes rolling up into his head so that only the whites showed.

“What’s wrong with you, Jeffrey?” Reverend Golightly said. “What are you doing with your eyes?”

I looked across at Agnes and offered a weak smile that I think led her to believe that I was enjoying the foot rubbing.

Ward Larkin carved the enormous turkey on a side cart beside his station at the table. He did so ceremoniously and placed the meat on a platter being held by Violet, still wearing her apron.

“I love this,” Ward said. “I feel like the king of a pride of lions.” I imagined the large feline head on his study wall.

“Jeffrey has a preference for dark meat,” Mrs. Golightly said. “He’d like a leg, I believe.”

“A leg for Jeffrey,” Ward said.

Jeffrey’s knee was bouncing wildly beside me, and there was a faint rumble of a moan in his throat. I could see the concentration in Agnes’s eyes, and every time I glanced at her, made eye contact, she became more focused on whatever it was she was doing to what she took to be my foot.

“I forgot the cranberries,” Violet said.

“Agnes, run into the kitchen and get the cranberries, please,” Ruby said.

“They’re on the counter,” Violet said.

“Send Maggie,” Agnes said.

“You’re closer to the door,” Maggie said.

“Yes, you’re right there,” Ruby said.

Agnes gave me a sidelong glance, more side than long, and broke tarsal connection with the albino. Jeffrey whimpered. At least I thought I heard a whimper. Just as quickly as he had been transported he returned; his eyes fell back to center as his attention turned to the food on his plate. I believe Agnes worked her foot back into her red high heel and after that rose and walked into the kitchen with some indignant stomping.

Agnes returned with the cranberries, and all plates became full. Ward took his seat, and the Reverend Golightly cleared his throat to announce the saying of the Thanksgiving prayer.

It was not until this moment in my life that I realized that I did not believe in a god. My mother had talked quite insultingly about Christians and Christianity, and I had listened well enough to know what she might say about a number of things, including the forthcoming prayer, but I had never, I guess, cared enough to contemplate the question or, in my case, the lack thereof. At any rate, the most striking thing to me at that moment was the fact that Violet did not sit but stood by the kitchen door, her hands reverently pressed together in front of her closed eyes.