Nigger in the Window

African American Review, Spring, 1996 by David Wright

Cameron Frederick Young didn't attend Darryl's graduation, but after the Tammy thing, more than ever before, he was present in Darryl's thoughts. And he remained so throughout Darryl's first year at college. Because Darryl just wanted to know. He remembers: Just the year before, on a sleepless night during the still falling snows of late March, he'd decided that soon he would know . . . . Exactly what he would know, Darryl hadn't been sure, but he would know.

Darryl thinks that he knows it now, sitting sideways in the chair opposite his bed, gazing again at still falling snows in late March, gazing around his room, gazing into the bright stillness on his bed. But the year before, his ignorance was just one more monkey he lugged around and could not shake. And the monkey made that first year away from home nearly unbearable.

Darryl's freshman year had been hard on him in so many ways. To begin with, it snowed here in Minnesota, a lot. It was crisp and cold and white - everything - even Darryl, who became pale like a plate because he seldom got outside and when he did, so much cloud and clothes separated him from the sun it was like there was no sun at all. To make things worse, college work was difficult, college people were different, and he was so, so far away from home.

Winter turned to summer without much spring, and the school year ended. He decided to take the bus home, partly because the price of the ticket was much cheaper than flying and better suited his debilitated bank account. But also because the thirty-six-hour ride involved two layovers, one being in Kansas City. He'd decided to use the layover there to meet his father. He would stop by 1013 Locust Avenue, say, "Hello, this is me," then leave. Just like that. Then he would know. On the third Saturday in May, he'd boarded the red Jefferson Lines bus southbound.

Through the frame of the bus window, Darryl watched Iowa go by. Iowa was unending. It was long and flat, it all looked alike, and as each passing meadow yielded its place to an exact copy, Darryl became increasingly convinced that the bus wasn't really moving at all, but just seemed to be; that, in fact, the bus was really rolling in slow circles around the same stretch of languid field, the same barren tree, the same writhing creek; that this must be some sort of cruel hex that a weird other force was enacting upon him; that some god or witch or warlock had jinxed him and tethered him here, between states, because he was so anxious to get home, too anxious, and because he wanted to meet the father he'd never known. Inside himself, Darryl knew that there was nothing wrong with wanting to meet his real father. Yet his jaw was clenched and he was agitated and his back was wet with sweat against the seat. Too much was happening too fast - Kansas City approached so rapidly, without the bus ever seeming to get any closer - so Darryl knew that it must be something more powerful than himself that was controlling it all. He was just along for the ride. And Darryl didn't like this feeling. Sure, it'd been itching on his inside for more than a year, but it just wasn't that easy: What would he say to the man whose smile he flourished when he smiled? whose ears he wore although he had never laid eyes on the originals? what would he do?