baby, ain’t you? You here about that call. You watch too much of this thing, honey,” he said to Sweet Thing as he walked over to the television and switched it off. “The Man feed you all kinds of shit on this goddamn thing. You can’t trust nothing he got to say. Don’t you know that by now?”
“How did you know about that? About Thelma Lee?” Sweet Thing asked, as perplexed as I was.
“I know everything that affects you, baby. Everything,” he said with a tender smile, and kissed her on top of the head. He was roughly the same age as Sweet Thing but built like a boxer, with broad, thick shoulders and a muscular chest. He walked like a young man, too, a strong one, with a bouncing swagger and no hint of a stumble. He had the look of a Masai warrior—sharp cheekbones, pretty lips that curled slightly, a scar on his cheek as angular as a tribal mark. I could feel the hard calluses on his palm when he grabbed mine and shook it. A workingman’s hand, like my father’s had been.
“Jimson. Jimson Weed. That’s what they used to call me, the same way I call her Sweet Thing, ’cept she never called me that ’fo’ I told her to.”
“Nice to meet you, Jimson.” I couldn’t bring myself to say Mr. Weed.
“Jimson Weed Carter, to be exact.” He winked naughtily, as if it were a dirty joke. “You don’t know what jimsonweed is, do you, girl?”
“I’m afraid you’ve got me there.”
“That’s what some folks used to call marijuana back in the day. I used to smoke so much of it, weed that is, when I got out of the service back in ’67, the name stuck, like a lot of other stuff that never leaves you. But they all dead now. All of them.” He pulled a folding chair in from the dining room and sat down next to us.
Too close,
I thought.
“Funny how things come back, ain’t it? They called it pot in the fifties, smoke in the sixties, grass in the seventies, now it’s back to weed. Shit don’t never go nowhere. Just back to where it come from when you don’t expect to see it.”
I smiled agreeably like I knew what he was talking about.
“You want some breakfast?”
“No, thank you.”
“I work late. Night shift. Just got home. I’m eating breakfast when most people be eating lunch. What you want to know about that baby?” As he finished up his bacon and gulped his coffee, I told him what I’d told her. He leaned toward me, listening intently.
“I don’t want nobody making trouble for Sweet Thing, you hear me?”
“And not for Thelma Lee, either. Not for Thelma Lee,” Sweet Thing added.
“I didn’t come to make trouble for anyone, but Thelma Lee is not the baby’s mother, and she has no custodial rights,” I said, shifting my attention away from Jimson Weed and back to Sweet Thing.
“That damn Lily ain’t fit to be nobody’s mama,” said Jimson Weed.
“Don’t you talk about my Lily like that, Jimson. It ain’t her fault what happened! Don’t you ever, ever talk about my Lily like that!” Sweet Thing spoke softly, but anger bubbled underneath the sweetness.
“I ain’t talking about your Lily,” he said, suddenly meek. “That is over and done with.”
Lily, I assumed, was Lilah Love. Changing your name appeared to be a family trait. I recalled what Lilah had said about them: my crazy aunt, that nasty old fool, my no-count baby sister. Except for Sweet Thing’s half-assed defense of Lilah, there seemed to be no love lost between any of them.
I thought about my own family then, my quick-to-strike mama and drunk of a daddy, my shot-himself-through-the-head brother, and Pet, running for cover from the whole damn lot of us. What would my dead people say about me?
“I’m not representing Lilah Love but the grandparents of the baby,” I said, quickly coming back to the here and now.
“She talking about Treyman Barnes,” Sweet Thing whispered.
“I know who she talking about.”
“I don’t want to tangle with Treyman Barnes, Jim,” Sweet Thing said, her voice
“How did you know about that? About Thelma Lee?” Sweet Thing asked, as perplexed as I was.
“I know everything that affects you, baby. Everything,” he said with a tender smile, and kissed her on top of the head. He was roughly the same age as Sweet Thing but built like a boxer, with broad, thick shoulders and a muscular chest. He walked like a young man, too, a strong one, with a bouncing swagger and no hint of a stumble. He had the look of a Masai warrior—sharp cheekbones, pretty lips that curled slightly, a scar on his cheek as angular as a tribal mark. I could feel the hard calluses on his palm when he grabbed mine and shook it. A workingman’s hand, like my father’s had been.
“Jimson. Jimson Weed. That’s what they used to call me, the same way I call her Sweet Thing, ’cept she never called me that ’fo’ I told her to.”
“Nice to meet you, Jimson.” I couldn’t bring myself to say Mr. Weed.
“Jimson Weed Carter, to be exact.” He winked naughtily, as if it were a dirty joke. “You don’t know what jimsonweed is, do you, girl?”
“I’m afraid you’ve got me there.”
“That’s what some folks used to call marijuana back in the day. I used to smoke so much of it, weed that is, when I got out of the service back in ’67, the name stuck, like a lot of other stuff that never leaves you. But they all dead now. All of them.” He pulled a folding chair in from the dining room and sat down next to us.
Too close,
I thought.
“Funny how things come back, ain’t it? They called it pot in the fifties, smoke in the sixties, grass in the seventies, now it’s back to weed. Shit don’t never go nowhere. Just back to where it come from when you don’t expect to see it.”
I smiled agreeably like I knew what he was talking about.
“You want some breakfast?”
“No, thank you.”
“I work late. Night shift. Just got home. I’m eating breakfast when most people be eating lunch. What you want to know about that baby?” As he finished up his bacon and gulped his coffee, I told him what I’d told her. He leaned toward me, listening intently.
“I don’t want nobody making trouble for Sweet Thing, you hear me?”
“And not for Thelma Lee, either. Not for Thelma Lee,” Sweet Thing added.
“I didn’t come to make trouble for anyone, but Thelma Lee is not the baby’s mother, and she has no custodial rights,” I said, shifting my attention away from Jimson Weed and back to Sweet Thing.
“That damn Lily ain’t fit to be nobody’s mama,” said Jimson Weed.
“Don’t you talk about my Lily like that, Jimson. It ain’t her fault what happened! Don’t you ever, ever talk about my Lily like that!” Sweet Thing spoke softly, but anger bubbled underneath the sweetness.
“I ain’t talking about your Lily,” he said, suddenly meek. “That is over and done with.”
Lily, I assumed, was Lilah Love. Changing your name appeared to be a family trait. I recalled what Lilah had said about them: my crazy aunt, that nasty old fool, my no-count baby sister. Except for Sweet Thing’s half-assed defense of Lilah, there seemed to be no love lost between any of them.
I thought about my own family then, my quick-to-strike mama and drunk of a daddy, my shot-himself-through-the-head brother, and Pet, running for cover from the whole damn lot of us. What would my dead people say about me?
“I’m not representing Lilah Love but the grandparents of the baby,” I said, quickly coming back to the here and now.
“She talking about Treyman Barnes,” Sweet Thing whispered.
“I know who she talking about.”
“I don’t want to tangle with Treyman Barnes, Jim,” Sweet Thing said, her voice
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