They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel by Daniel Black

into one another, and the darkening of the sky together formed a tapestry of nature both exhilarating and soothing. In the midst of storms, I enjoyed watching the rain fall, imagining each droplet as a tear that fell from my own eye. That’s why I cried when it rained. The earth’s cleansing provoked my own and served as catalyst for the release of baggage and pain lurking in my soul. My friend George asked me, as an adult, why I liked rain so much. I tried to explain how it allowed me to purge my heavy heart and make room for a new day, but he said my explanation made no sense. George offered an argument about the depressing nature of rain and the cloud of gloom it left behind. Hence rainy days contributed nothing to the union of our brotherhood.
    I met George Thornton in New York City, and he quickly became my best friend. Our relationship was strange from the inception because we shared an intimacy unusual for black men. We wore each other’s clothes, wrote weekly letters—we lived in the same apartment building—and wept openly together without shame. We were definitely more than friends, although I never found the word or category to describe adequately the extent of our bond. We were committed to meeting each other’s needs and making sure nothing happened to each other. For a while, we were roommates, but the level of our comfortability often resulted in our insensitivity toward and even disrespect
of each other. So I got an apartment next door. It worked out really well. When I was broke, George fed me, and when he didn’t have food, I fed him. We nurtured each other through our relationship blues and retreated into our secret hiding place whenever our girlfriends pissed us off. George offered to go to Arkansas with me, but I refused him. “T., man, you might need some support from a brother after yo’ folks get through cussin’ yo’ ass out,” George said jokingly. I knew then not to take him. He clearly didn’t understand fully the seriousness of my return.
    George was an actor and a good one, too. He did mostly off-Broadway shows, although occasionally he landed a small part in a Broadway hit. Acting was his natural-born gift, but acting was also his problem. He feared reality. He didn’t know what to do with life outside of the theater. I was his closest friend, and even I didn’t know anything about his family. He simply wouldn’t talk about it. I asked him about his mother once and, through tearstained eyes, he told me never to ask him again.
    He kept a diary under his bed. I know because, well, let’s just say I know. I started to steal it and read it one day, but I decided against it. Any man who would reveal himself to a book before he would another human probably had some heavy shit to deal with, and if I read it, I would feel responsible for the truth of his life. Ain’t no way I was about to assume that responsibility. Yet, even with his idiosyncrasies, George Thornton was my dearest friend. It’s sad more brothers couldn’t hang like George and me.
    When I first got to New York in September of 1987, I bumped into George at La Guardia Airport.
    “Excuse me, sir,” I said shyly.
    “Sir?” he cackled.
    “Well … I mean … I don’t know your name … so …”
    “My name’s George Thornton Junior,” he stated abrasively, examining me from head to toe and laughing the entire time.
    “What’s funny, Mr. George Thornton Junior” I inquired curiously.
    “You must be from down south somewhere, huh?”
    “I am. Arkansas. How’d you know?”
    “Because nobody in New York would ever call me ‘sir.’ They hardly say ‘excuse me,’ either.”
    “Oh,” I returned, relieved that this stranger wasn’t laughing at me.
    “What are you doing in New York?” he went on.
    “I’m going to graduate school.”
    “Is this your first time in the city?”
    “Yeah, It’s my first time up north actually.”
    “Good! Welcome to crime and poverty and one-thousand-dollar