Believe (Brimmy)

Chapter Six (James Sullivan)

Father is having a night terror. I wake up in the middle of the night to him screaming, shouting all the way from his room. "Park! Parker, no! Please, Park, please!"

He is not pleading with Uncle Parker in his dreams. He's pleading with the people who burned him alive.

I shouldn't say people. They were animals.

I leap out of bed, rushing down the hall to his room. I yank the door open, running to his bedside, taking his shoulder and shouting, "Father! Father, wake up!"

He jerks his eyes open and looks at me. Terror is washed over his features. He begins to shake, tears welling up in his eyes, and I climb into bed with him. I pull him close to me and run my hand over his balding head. "There's a somebody I'm longing to see." I sang quietly in his ear. "I hope that he turns out to be, someone who'll watch over me." He takes a deep, shaky breath that rattles in his chest. The name "Parker" falls silently from his lips. "I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood. I know I could always be good," He mouths the words along with me as I croon, "To one who'll watch over me."

I hum the rest of the song softly, lulling Father back to sleep. When I'm sure he's resting, I slide from his bed. A sob escapes my lips. I don't know how much longer I can keep Father alive. I'm not Uncle Parker. I'm just Jimmy. I'm just his son, I'm just a boy, I don't know what to do.

I miss Uncle Parker so much my insides hurt. I can't remember a time before Uncle Parker. He was there for every Christmas, every Thanksgiving, every birthday. He was my second father. He taught me how to tie my shoes. He taught me how to make beignets. He taught me the importance of music, how to form a lyric to go with a riff. He and Father taught me how to genuinely enjoy life. They both taught me so much.

Now I'm crying. I'm out in the hallway sobbing on the floor, unable to stop the tears from falling. I don't have Uncle Parker anymore. I hardly have Father. For so long they had been everything to me.

I don't want Father to die. I wish so badly that Uncle Parker wasn't dead. I want Uncle Parker. When I was little and I had a bad dream, he would let me get out of bed and crawl into his lap, and he'd smoke his pipe out on the back porch and tell me stories.

Father always hated (or pretended to hate) when we did that. Bedtimes were (supposedly) meant to be enforced.

I want that right now, though. I want to smell the bittersweet of his tobacco, lean my head against his chest and listen to his heartbeat and stories of the plantation, of Louisiana and France. I want his voice to lull me to sleep. I want him to take me out to the barn and show me the stray cat that had kittens up in the loft in the middle of the night. "Don't you tell Father, now." He'd whisper, and I'd smile, shaking my head.

"'Course not, Uncle Parker."

"This is our secret tonight, hear me, young 'un? Father can wait til mornin' to see these here kits."

He'd let me hold one. Show me how to cradle it just right so it would feel safe and secure in my arms. Just the way I feel safe and secure in his.

That actually happened, though. My mind is replaying memories, wanting to relive them so badly. Dancing like mad in the kitchen while Uncle Parker pulls Father around, singing 'Honeysuckle Rose.' Going to the foreign market to buy spices that were French or Cajun, Father and Uncle Parker swinging me between them as we went. This is a bittersweet memory, though. Because as soon as someone approached us on our way, they would quickly set me down. Father would take my hand. Uncle Parker sometimes would walk behind us, or act like he didn't know us at all. I never understood that, then.

But now it is clear to me. It isn't like Father and Uncle Parker could be brothers. Father is almost as pale as I am. Uncle Parker is deep and rich, almost like coal, but not quite. He was the color of the chocolate he would press into my hand when he thought Father wasn't looking. He was the color of Marigold, our cow's sweet, tender eyes. He was the color of dark, roasted coffee beans that Father would grind in the morning to make his coffee. Growing up, I had thought nothing of it. My family tried their hardest to shield me from prejudice, from racism.

Even now, I don't see what's wrong with it. I don't see why some people hated Uncle Parker just for the color of his skin. Whenever we would go to get ice cream, we would have to eat it outside, because Uncle Parker wasn't allowed on the same side of the parlor as Father and I. In stores, there were separate bathrooms and drinking fountains Uncle Parker had to use, and they usually weren't as nice as the ones made available for Father and me.

It wasn't fair. It isn't fair.

I've stopped crying. I go into the living room, where a painting of Uncle Parker rests against the wall. Father did this one when he was happy, so it isn't strange and surreal. It's just the man I had grown up with, head tilted back in laughter, guitar held in his hands. He's in a bar or pub or someplace like that, but it's hard to tell because everything is blurry except Parker. Father called it "At First Sight"

I suddenly wonder if Brian knew how to play guitar.

I suddenly wish he knew Uncle Parker.

I suddenly want him to see Father's paintings. I want him to know about me. I want to know about him.

I am desperate for his approval. I want him to want me just as much as I long for him. I suddenly can't care less about what it would mean to the church, whether or not it was a sin. Father lived his best years in the arms of a man. Why can't I do the same?

I know I hardly know Brian, but we have this spark, I think. I'm drawn to him. He has the most wonderful smile I've ever seen.

Then I realize I'm thinking much too far ahead of myself. I don't know whether or not Brian is the way I am, and to reveal that fact about myself if he was against it would be tragic. He would avoid me like the plague.

I decide I won't rush anything. Maybe I can invite him over for supper. Hopefully our very modest lifestyle won't frighten him away. Hopefully the fact that it's just me taking care for Father won't make him upset. He'll think, 'How can Jimmy be a lover when he has to take care of his father all the time?'

I don't have the answer to that. I've never been a lover before. I've never felt like this about anyone else before. But I don't have to take care of Father all the time. I can afford to leave him alone for a few hours, if I leave him plenty of things to do, and a meal that is easily accessible to him.

I decide that next time I see him, I'll ask him if he wants to spend time with me. And I won't get nervous. And I won't back out of it.

I've made up my mind.

I'm not tired now. Even though I've cried and it's the middle of the night. I go to our vast expanse of records and pull out one of the Fats Waller records that Uncle Parker had graced us with.

I put it on, and listen to Fats' voice fill me up. I'm floating. He begins 'Honeysuckle Rose' and I'm tugged back to all the times we've sung this song together. Before we moved, before Uncle Parker died, Father was so filled with music. Uncle Parker ignited something in him. When I was a child, it seemed as though our house never stopped singing. Our house never stopped creating.

I guess I'm just hoping that maybe Brian can help me learn how to sing again.

Then again, maybe I'm just desperate.