Nigger in the Window

African American Review, Spring, 1996 by David Wright

"I'm Darryl Young," Darryl said. "Your son."

They faced each other, frozen still.

A sculpted mahogany mask appeared from around the corner. "Who?" she said.

"This is my son," Cameron Young said, "Darryl." Then to Darryl, "Come in." He waved toward himself.

Darryl stepped inside.

"Sit down." Cameron Young - Freddy . . . Dad? . . . - pointed to a sofa against the wall. "I knew I'd see you someday," he said. The electricity began to flow through his body again. "You look just like the pictures your momma sends." Freddy Young wore charm in his smile and intelligence in his eyes and seemed like the type who was capable of disguising any other trait with those two features. "She sends a school picture religiously every year, you know." And he was so tall; Darryl wasn't that tall. "Sends them to my momma's address, to make sure I get them, I guess."

The woman whose face was like Africa emerged from the other room, her body a flow of green and blue in a wide-legged jump suit. "Hi. I'm Emma Rose Martin," she said, extending her hand.

Darryl had already seated himself on the sofa so he rose to take it, but he wasn't sure what to do with her hand once he'd done that, and it seemed like an eternity that they stood there, their hands clasped but still.

"Good, Emma Rose Martin," Freddy Young said. "Now if you don't mind getting lost for awhile."

"I was just on my way out," she shot back. Removing her hand from Darryl's -

"Take care, honey" - she grabbed her bag, which rested beside the sofa, and disappeared out the front door.

Darryl sat back down, and it was silent.

Freddy Young stared at Darryl. "She's just a friend," he explained. "She comes by when I need her to. Let me get you something to drink."

"No." Darryl motioned with his hand. "Thank you," he said. "I'm fine. Thank you."

Cameron Young asked, "How you been?"

Starting from when? . . .

"I've been fine."

"You graduated from high school," Freddy said. "That's good."

"Yes. Yes, I'm a freshman. This year. In college." The silence was too loud, a clumsy third presence. "I'm on my way home." It bumbled in and around Darryl's speech. "Home to Texas. For the summer." And that was uncomfortable.

"First year of college?" Freddy smiled. "That's good."

"Yes."

"Where at? Up here? . . ."

"No, no," Darryl said too quickly. "Not here. In Minnesota. Up north."

"Huh," Freddy said. "You like it up there?"

"It's uh . . ." And his hands looked ridiculous folded across his stomach. "It's good, uh . . ." So he rested one on each thigh. "It's a good school." They looked ridiculous there, too.

"Minnesota?" Cameron Young laughed. "They got niggahs up in Minnesota?"

"Sure," something from somewhere inside said, too quickly. "Lots." But, of course, this wasn't true.

The silence changed tones then, stretched away from around Darryl to encompass the whole room when Cameron Young asked: "How's your momma?"

The discomfort of this new silence startled Darryl - he felt himself pulling his whole self in tight - but he focused only on the question, because he had to find the right response. "Fine," he said.