You Can Go Home Again: Tales from Dave's Bar, Book Ii

By Fred “Max” Roberts

You Can Go Home Again opens with a story of growing up black in the hostile and segregated South, where even at nine years old, Dave already realizes a striking difference between how black and white people are treated.

Daves parents are law-abiding citizens and God-fearing Christians, but this is still the era of segregation with its rampant racism, and a time when a black boy faces a dismal future. Determined to beat the odds, Dave holds tight to his dreams even while chafing against his loving but strict upbringing. As soon as hes old enough, he joins the Marines and begins to discover the world. Upon his return from Japan, he moves to Philadelphia and begins to discover life and learns the hard way that dreams dont always come true.

You Can Go Home Again, Freds second book, is the prequel to his first book, The Delivery Man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 28, 2008
• ISBN: 9781477162941

Fred “Max” Roberts

Fred “Max” Roberts was born the youngest of three in Rowland, North Carolina, and attended the local public school. His father, a church deacon, and his strong-minded mother made sure their children learned to read and write. But young Fred did more than that—he learned to love writing. When Fred isn’t working on another book, he loves traveling, music, art and photography. The Homegoing of Howard Lee Johnson is Fred’s third book in the series Tales From Dave’s Bar. His first book, The Delivery Man, and second book, You Can Go Home Again, are the prequels.

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Copyright © 2008 by Fred Max Roberts.

ISBN:          Softcover                                 978-1-4363-1632-3

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4771-6294-1

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

For my father, Fred Roberts Sr.

I was glad when they said unto me, let us go into the house of the Lord.

Psalms 122:1

CHAPTER 1

In my thirty-four years on Earth, I had loved neither wisely nor well, and it seemed like I’d spent my whole life being pulled to and fro by my emotions. And now, I was about to have to admit this again, and face some devastating consequences as a result.

I sat down in the living room chair and faced Cynthia, placing my brown briefcase on the coffee table between us. She sat on the sofa and rocked our eighteen-month-old daughter, Jessica, across her knees. I took a deep breath and swallowed a lump in my throat and my heart raced within my chest. I dreaded telling her, dreaded bringing our lives to such a sad crossroad, but it had to be done.

I filed for a divorce, I said, opened the briefcase and withdrew a sheaf of papers. On the grounds of irreconcilable differences. Here’s your copy.

With disbelief etched on her face, Cynthia hesitantly reached for the papers, saying, I can’t believe you did this.

I’ll call the lawyer and cancel it, if you’ll come with me to North Carolina, I said. My father had just died, and my mother had suffered a paralyzing stroke. I was going home to help her. I had to. Cynthia knew this, but had fought me every step of the way. About that, and many other things.

Cynthia was a brown-skinned twenty-four-year-old woman, ten years younger than my thirty-four years. When we first met, I wanted sex. She wanted a place to lay her head. I thought that would be enough. I was wrong.

Cynthia flushed as she thumbed through the divorce papers, looking at each one but not really seeing them. This is cold-blooded, she said. After this, Dave… I… nothing surprises me anymore.

We shouldn’t have married, I said, surprised at how pleading my voice sounded. You should’ve left the morning after you stayed that first night, or I should’ve shown you the door. If there’s fault, it’s on both of us.

She looked at me with accusing eyes. You knew I could get pregnant, but you didn’t think about the consequences. So don’t try to blame me for what happened.

By what happened, she was referring to our daughter, Jessica. Jessica was what happened. And Jessica was the only victim here. True, I said, I have an Achilles’ heel in my groin area, and I’ve made a terrible mess of things. I apologize, but it’s time to move forward.

I want the house transferred to my name! she blurted.

I pointed to the papers she held in one trembling hand. I get nothing but my personal belongings. The house and everything in it is yours. I’ve paid the mortgage three months in advance, but I suggest you sell the property or find a roommate quickly to help pay the bills.

You have a responsibility to support your family.

I love my daughter and intend to support her emotionally and financially, but you’ll have to find a job. The party’s over. No more taking my generosity for weakness.

She rested the papers in her lap for a moment and squared her shoulders. The shock left her face, replaced by a familiar petulance. And a dawning rage in the big brown eyes I’d once adored. We’ll see about that, she hissed. I’m taking you to court for spousal support in… in the manner I’ve become accustomed.

Well, you know where to reach me, I said. I’ll be leaving town next week. And I’ll remind you, you still have the option of coming with me. I can’t afford to support two households, and I shouldn’t have to.

Why can’t you put your mother in a nursing home? she asked, ground we’d covered before.

Because my sister and I decided not to.

You’re crazy as hell, or tied to your mama’s apron strings. You… you need psychiatric help!

Well, I’m happy you’re concerned about my wellbeing for a change, rather than your own. I snapped the briefcase shut, rose slowly to my feet and headed for the stairs, doubting it was over.

*     *     *

That Monday morning, as the sun crept over the horizon, I leaped out of bed, shaved, showered, and began to dress hurriedly for work. While gazing into the bathroom mirror tying my necktie, I realized I still hadn’t heard a sound from Cynthia and the baby. By then, Cynthia and I slept in different bedrooms. Thinking, Better go check on them, I walked down the hallway to the master bedroom and stood in the doorway. Jessica slept peacefully in her crib. Hair disheveled, Cynthia lay sprawled across the bed, her nude body half-covered by the sheet.

I will surely miss them, I thought, but I couldn’t allow my thoughts, or my feelings, to travel farther.

I finished dressing and left the house. Outside, I waved to a neighbor across the street as I climbed into my automobile and drove to work. Even now, I didn’t regret my long-ago decision to settle in Philadelphia. It had led to one of the best jobs I’d ever had.

When I arrived at Palmer University’s urban campus and entered the Biology building, I saw several students milling around in the lobby. I climbed the stairs to the third floor, set my briefcase down and stared at the Building Manager’s Office sign on the door. I unlocked the door and entered the room. What usually brought me pride only brought despair this morning.

Nonetheless, I summoned the courage to do what I had to do. I sat down at my desk and typed my resignation. By nine a.m. I had revised the letter several times, and glanced at my watch. The department chairman should be in his office by now. I hadn’t seen him since I returned from attending my father’s funeral. I deeply regretted the circumstances of our meeting this morning.

Letter in hand, I went downstairs to the business office on the second floor. The lights were on and the glass doors were unlocked. The three female office workers were nowhere in sight. It was just as well they didn’t see my face at this moment, or the effort I was putting into keeping my head up and shoulders back.

The chairman’s door was slightly ajar. Dr. Harley was in his office. I raised my fist and knocked and felt butterflies racing around in the pit of my stomach.

Come in! came his Midwestern drawl. I pushed the door open and saw the man I so respected behind his desk.

Good morning, sir! I said, and entered the office. He pushed his lanky body to his feet, ran a hand over his blond hair and adjusted his glasses before saying, Good morning. Welcome back. He grasped my hand firmly, then sat back down.

Thank you for the flowers and cards of condolence.

I wish I could’ve attended the funeral, he said. How’s your mother?

She suffered a stroke, but she’s doing okay considering, I said. What point was there to tell him that her new definition of okay was that she would likely never walk again?

And you? His blue eyes searched my face.

I’m hanging in there, I said, and thought, As much as anyone who’s facing the toughest decisions of his life can, anyway.

Glad to hear it, he said, smiled and nodded to the full coffee cup on his desk. As for me, I haven’t had my first cup, and I need the caffeine to jumpstart my day, especially on a Monday. He cast a curious glance at me. Was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about?

Well, yes, sir, there is. I handed my letter of resignation to him.

He leaned back in his chair and read it slowly, and when he finished, he glanced at me with a stunned look in his eyes. Are you serious?

I’m moving back to North Carolina.

But why?

I love my job, and the department, but my sister and mother need my help. I took a deep breath and decided to tell the rest of what was happening back home. As I said, considering what she’s been through, Mother’s okay. But the stroke was worse than I let on. She’s going to need help just to get by. There’s no way she can handle Father’s affairs in addition. And Dee will have all she can do taking care of Mother.

He took a deep breath, blew it out, and cast his eyes around his office. I knew his thoughts weren’t there, but on the rest of the building, which I’d been charged with maintaining for years now. A job I’d done well and loved.

Finally he said, I don’t doubt your mother needs care, but wouldn’t all of you be better off if you paid someone to… provide watchful attention?

We decided not to put her in a nursing home, because she won’t live long since Daddy’s gone.

Dr. Harley’s eyes searched my face again, and I suspected he knew I hadn’t told him the complete story. Yet the rest of the story was too new, and too raw to discuss now.

I’d like to thank you again for selecting me as building manager, I said. Especially over the objection of some faculty members.

I believe in doing the right thing. He frowned, and asked, Please take this in the spirit, and all that, but… are you in some kind of trouble?

Not quite certain what my boss’s idea of trouble entailed, I said, No, sir. Why do you ask?

You look anxious… and confused.

He deserves to know the truth, I thought. Dr. Harley was a compassionate man who cared deeply about the students, faculty and staff, and always dealt with each individual fairly.

The only way I could tell him what was wrong was to begin at the beginning. I grew up in the segregated South, I said. I could hardly wait to become a man. I believed I could fight racial discrimination and live off the fat of the land much better than my parents. As a grown-up, I understand the awesome responsibility of being an adult and doing the right thing. Consequently, I’ve made some terrible choices in my personal relationships. Specifically, in my marriage. Perhaps I can go home to North Carolina, reprioritize, and turn my life around.

Dr. Harley considered this a moment, then said, I’m an Anglican Christian. I know for a fact meditation can change things, calm our troubled hearts and ease our minds. God is omniscient, all-knowing. He knows all things at all times. Nothing surprises God. God loves us and has the power to change any circumstance. Will you pray with me?

I hesitated. I knew Dr. Harley as a good man, a God-fearing man. But his request seemed out of nowhere. And, if I was willing to admit it, which I barely was, the last thing I wanted to do at that moment was pray.

He knows your situation perfectly, and you can pray about it confident you don’t have to give God information, he said, as though he’d read my thoughts.

When we whispered Amen and looked up at each other, he said, I think you’re having a grief reaction. Understandable. Your father recently died, and it’s clear you loved him very much. He held up the letter, opened his desk drawer and slid it inside, then closed the drawer. I suggest you do nothing. Sleep on it. Take a few more days off work. You’re a valued employee, and I’d hate to lose you. Even more, I’d hate to think you’ll regret quitting the job.

Thank you, sir, but my mind is pretty much made up, I said.

He hoisted his lanky body to his feet and stood erect as he extended his hand, saying, Continue to pray, and know nothing in Heaven or Earth can thwart God’s good purpose for you. He wants to give you the best.

I grasped his hand and shook it firmly.

I’m going to keep your letter and not mention it to anyone. In case you change your mind.

I should have repeated what I’d just said, and added that my mind wouldn’t change, but his return grip was as firm as the expression on his face, so I decided to let things lie. When I didn’t return, he would know.

When I came out of his office his secretary, a heavyset bespectacled Jewish woman, was typing at her desk. At my Good morning, she looked up, smiling, and said, Good morning. It’s good to have you back.

Feels good to be back, I replied, but didn’t smile as I thought, For now.

*     *     *

During the next seven days I questioned my sanity, wavering between remaining in Philadelphia and moving back to North Carolina. It was a known fact that I didn’t love my wife, and she didn’t love me. I wanted to make a fresh start. But the thought of leaving my daughter behind tormented my soul.

It took a week to take care of all the things one must when leaving a job and home and going to a new place to start over. It was a week of nearly unbearable tension between Cynthia and me, coupled with ripping open the fresh wound of regret every time I saw my smiling, giggling daughter or heard her yell, Daddy! whenever she saw me.

Somehow, that Monday at ten in the morning, I managed to carry my two bags containing everything I owned downstairs. The smell of Maxwell House coffee and bacon and eggs met me in the living room. I almost laughed aloud. On our final day together, I suffered from sentimentality and hunger pains. I wanted to eat breakfast with her. However, Cynthia didn’t offer me food, and I was too proud to ask for it.

Overwhelmed by sadness and despair, I deposited my bags near the front door and went back upstairs to the guest room, where I’d slept for the past year. I wanted to make certain I hadn’t forgotten anything; once I left, there would be no coming back.

I paused in the doorway and glanced at the rumpled guest bed, at the antique chair and dresser. The gloom I’d been fighting all week deepened, threatened to drown me. Desperate to find ease, I walked down the hallway to the master bedroom. Jessica lay in her crib, sleeping peacefully on her stomach, sweet and innocent as always. I leaned over her sprawled body and whispered, Goodbye.

She stirred in her sleep as if she heard me, and an eerie but not-unwelcome delight stole into my heart, fighting to override the shadows in my soul. Yet the joy and angst combined only increased the pain.

Look at her! I’m abandoning her. I’m no better than any other man who leaves his child for others to raise.

My knees buckled, and I had to grab the edge of the crib.

Maybe I should stay and try to save my marriage.

Just as quickly, the other, more determined side of me rebutted, No! It’s too late. Too much water passed underneath that bridge.

I longed to hold my daughter close to my chest, but realized I’d probably be unable to lay her back down. That instead, I might give into the urge to creep down the stairs and out of the door with her. Then where would we both be? Me, trying to raise her at the same time I was taking care of my elderly mother and trying to find a job in a place I’d abandoned years ago. And her, taken away from her mother and being raised by someone with no time to be involved in her life.

No. This was for the best. And, I had one hope to hold onto. Recently, I had noticed Cynthia appeared to be kinder, actually more loving. Had her personality changed, or had I imagined it? Regardless, perhaps her change would help both her and Jessica though what I knew would be a tough time.

I touched my daughter’s chubby little arm in a gesture of farewell, and said softly, Daddy won’t see you every day, but you’ll be in my thoughts and prayers and we’ll spend summers together. Mommy will take good care of you, but I do love you, and I promise to remain in your life.

Blurry-eyed, I wiped my eyes with my handkerchief and left the room. Cynthia waited for me at the bottom of the stairs.

Is Jessica awake? she asked.

No, I replied.

Her brown eyes followed me as I walked leisurely past her and placed my hand on the doorknob. Not looking at her, I said, What are you going to do with the house?

I’m planning on keeping it.

You won’t be able to keep it without a job. So when’s your boyfriend moving in?

Don’t start with me! she said, her voice a razor.

You’re right, I apologize. I turned and looked into her large brown eyes. When Jessica asks ‘Where’s Daddy?’ tell her in North Carolina with Grandma.

I’ll tell her the truth, you walked out on us.

I sighed. Come with me to Bradford. Dee and Mother would welcome you and Jessica with open arms.

Moving to North Carolina’s like going backward, she said. There’s nothing to do. A woman needs shopping malls and beauty salons. Why can’t you stay in Philadelphia? Let’s try and work out our problems. I’m woman enough to try if you’re man enough.

I shook my head. I already resigned my job and sold my car.

It’s never too late to change your mind, she said, eyeing me carefully.

Then can I expect to see you in North Carolina soon? I asked while I opened the door.

I’ll think about it, she said.

I picked up my bags, walked outside and stood on the sunny porch, turned and looked again into those big brown eyes, eyes that had helped get me into this situation. But I forced kindness into my voice as I said, Farewell, my love.

Goodbye, she said, and closed the door.

*     *     *

The transit bus took me to 60th and Market Street, and the elevated train deposited me at the 30th Street train station, where I bought a ticket to North Carolina. A one-way ticket.

By then, my guilt had grown that Cynthia wasn’t coming with me. And I felt more guilt because I was glad she wasn’t. I hadn’t been entirely truthful with her. True, I was returning to Bradford, North Carolina to provide care for my ailing mother. But for how long? A month? Six months? A year? I didn’t know. I only knew if I was unable to find steady work there and Mother’s health got better, I thought I might move on, to Atlanta, or maybe even California. I would return to Philly only to visit Jessica. Yet I was certain that, even if I landed a well-paid job, Cynthia wouldn’t join me, even to visit. She was a Philadelphia girl.

But no matter what happened, I would remain a part of my daughter’s life, stay in touch, and send child support regularly. No matter what. My father had been there for me, and staying in contact with Jessica was the least I could do.

So engrossed in my own sad thoughts, I never once suspected Cynthia had lied. In retaliation for me divorcing her, she vacated the house within 30 days, and left no forwarding address. Thirteen long, painful, agonizing years would pass before I saw her and Jessica again.

Perhaps it was for the best I didn’t know these things yet; I might have turned around, picked up Jessica and taken her with me anyway, probably starting a bitter, years’-long custody battle and complicating my life more than I could afford at that time. Instead, I bid goodbye