one else did. After I’d moved to Big Mama’s, Carl was supposed to do the weekend-dad thing with regular visits. Every Friday night, I’d sit expectantly by the front window, watching for his green 1972 Gran Torino. I’d eagerly count down the hours until he was due to arrive. But, sometimes, he didn’t come. Or, if he did show up, it would often be late on Saturday rather than Friday evening and he’d be drunk. On at least one occasion, he was so intoxicated when he took me to his place that we had to pull over on the side of the road because he was hallucinating and knew it wasn’t safe to drive. We just sat there until it passed.
I didn’t mind when he was drunk. I just wanted to see him, even if all I’d get to do was hang out at his house while he slept it off. When he showed up, his drinking didn’t make him abusive or unkind toward me. I never attributed any particular effects to it at all. However, I distinctly remember Big Mama getting on his case more than once, describing how I sat and waited so hopefully when he was late or didn’t show, and telling him it was disgraceful to treat a child like that by setting me up for such disappointment. It was unusual to see an adult take my side. It stuck with me.
But while Big Mama was smart and strong-willed, she also had some strange ways about her. Like Grandmama, she played favorites. She was intensely loving toward Brenda and me. However, she barely spoke to our other siblings. Indeed, she simply ignored them. In the same way that I reminded Grandmama of our dad, I think my sisters other than Brenda reminded Big Mama of our mom. And that wasn’t good: just as Grandmama saw Carl as abusive and not good enough for her daughter, Big Mama saw MH as irresponsible and unfaithful to her son.
Consequently, she was cold, even indifferent to my other sisters. When they came around, like all the other kids I knew they would say hello to the adults as they walked in. This was a nonnegotiable sign of respect. But sometimes Big Mama wouldn’t even look up, let alone respond kindly and welcome them. The only reason they wound up going to see her at all was that, later in their teens, they wanted to stay out late and not catch hell from MH. They knew all too well that Big Mama wouldn’t keep track of their comings and goings.
Big Mama also kept an unusual home. She owned one of the largest houses in Carver Ranches, a black neighborhood in Hollywood, Florida, just north of Miami. The sprawling, three-thousand-square-foot residence had at least six bedrooms. Her husband, my grandfather Gus, had built it for her. It was, in fact, one of the first houses to be built in that community. However, rather than provoking envy, as such a fine, spacious home might otherwise have done, instead her house inspired fear.
Big Mama’s place was known as the hood’s “haunted house.” It got much of its creepy reputation because essentially, no one had done any maintenance on it—internal or external—since Grandpa Gus died of a brain tumor in 1958. Family stories had it that he’d died slowly and painfully and something in his wife was lost along with him when he finally passed.
When I moved in, although she had three of her adult children living with her—Ben, Norman, and Millicent—only rarely did anyone lift a hand to clean the house or maintain the yard. Ben had an excuse: he was slow and may not have known what to do.
Outside, the lawn was brown and dead. In Florida, the sun burns through and destroys anything you don’t diligently tend. On one side, the yard was much bigger than the front lawn, which added to the house’s eerie, off-kilter look. Right in the center of that side yard was a massive sapodilla tree, untrimmed and wild. (It grew large brown fruits that were fuzzy like peaches but tasted like sweet cinnamon pears.)
Inside the house wasn’t much better. It was infested with scorpions, spiders, and rodents—so much so that no matter how badly you had to
I didn’t mind when he was drunk. I just wanted to see him, even if all I’d get to do was hang out at his house while he slept it off. When he showed up, his drinking didn’t make him abusive or unkind toward me. I never attributed any particular effects to it at all. However, I distinctly remember Big Mama getting on his case more than once, describing how I sat and waited so hopefully when he was late or didn’t show, and telling him it was disgraceful to treat a child like that by setting me up for such disappointment. It was unusual to see an adult take my side. It stuck with me.
But while Big Mama was smart and strong-willed, she also had some strange ways about her. Like Grandmama, she played favorites. She was intensely loving toward Brenda and me. However, she barely spoke to our other siblings. Indeed, she simply ignored them. In the same way that I reminded Grandmama of our dad, I think my sisters other than Brenda reminded Big Mama of our mom. And that wasn’t good: just as Grandmama saw Carl as abusive and not good enough for her daughter, Big Mama saw MH as irresponsible and unfaithful to her son.
Consequently, she was cold, even indifferent to my other sisters. When they came around, like all the other kids I knew they would say hello to the adults as they walked in. This was a nonnegotiable sign of respect. But sometimes Big Mama wouldn’t even look up, let alone respond kindly and welcome them. The only reason they wound up going to see her at all was that, later in their teens, they wanted to stay out late and not catch hell from MH. They knew all too well that Big Mama wouldn’t keep track of their comings and goings.
Big Mama also kept an unusual home. She owned one of the largest houses in Carver Ranches, a black neighborhood in Hollywood, Florida, just north of Miami. The sprawling, three-thousand-square-foot residence had at least six bedrooms. Her husband, my grandfather Gus, had built it for her. It was, in fact, one of the first houses to be built in that community. However, rather than provoking envy, as such a fine, spacious home might otherwise have done, instead her house inspired fear.
Big Mama’s place was known as the hood’s “haunted house.” It got much of its creepy reputation because essentially, no one had done any maintenance on it—internal or external—since Grandpa Gus died of a brain tumor in 1958. Family stories had it that he’d died slowly and painfully and something in his wife was lost along with him when he finally passed.
When I moved in, although she had three of her adult children living with her—Ben, Norman, and Millicent—only rarely did anyone lift a hand to clean the house or maintain the yard. Ben had an excuse: he was slow and may not have known what to do.
Outside, the lawn was brown and dead. In Florida, the sun burns through and destroys anything you don’t diligently tend. On one side, the yard was much bigger than the front lawn, which added to the house’s eerie, off-kilter look. Right in the center of that side yard was a massive sapodilla tree, untrimmed and wild. (It grew large brown fruits that were fuzzy like peaches but tasted like sweet cinnamon pears.)
Inside the house wasn’t much better. It was infested with scorpions, spiders, and rodents—so much so that no matter how badly you had to
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