by Ann Barrett
I was standing by the sink when the truck rolled by my house, and I rushed barefoot into the snow-covered yard, trying to get the driver's attention.
"Wait!" I shouted. "Over here!"
I could see Olee's dark face through the windshield. Olee was the driver who had picked up our stuff in Miami. He was from East Africa and his partner was from the Bronx. Olee was such a nice guy. He and my husband had bonded in a big way, probably because they were both "legal resident-aliens." I just assumed that the same people that had loaded us would unload us, but Olee climbed out of the cab and introduced me to two local guys--Hal and Harv--both wearing flannel shirts and blue jeans.
"Pleezed ta make yer 'quaintance." Harv said as he tipped his tattered cowboy hat back.
"How d'ya do?" Hal asked. He smiled through crooked and missing teeth. "Where y'all comin' from?"
"Miami." I answered hesitantly.
"Miami. Now that's a big city, ain't it?"
"Too big," I agreed.
"Shoooot! Ah ain' nevah been to Miami." Hal's eyes were wide with wonder. "Well, 'scuse me," he said, and he followed Olee and Harv out to the van.
Soon, the three of them were busy bringing in our stuff. Box after box marched through the front door. "Where d'ya wan' dis', mam?" Hal asked. "Don't hardly feel like no mattress is in here."
I started to direct him upstairs, but then I realized that this was the painting--an oil painting of Tony and me that was as big as we were, life-size.
"Oh, that. It's not . . . a mattress, I mean. It's a painting that was too big for any of the mirror packs, so we put it in a mattress box."
I stood back and held open the door as I wondered what the life-size portrait of my husband and I might reveal to these beer-bellied musclemen who were carrying in our belongings. Olee had already seen it, but he was from New York. Hal, on the other hand, was covered in tattoos, tattoos and hair. I sized him up, trying to read the words hidden beneath the colorful graphics that decorated his arms, and my imagination began to do its thing. Maybe he was a product of incest; his eyes seemed unusually far apart. He spoke very rough English, so thick with that southern hill accent that I could barely understand him. Now here was a classic "yahoo." Then I began to worry. What if he really was a "red-neck," a "hillbilly?" It's okay, I reassured myself. It's in a box.
When Tony and I announced to our friends and family that we were moving to North Carolina, the most common concern was our wellbeing as a biracial couple in the South. I brushed aside most of the concerns. They didn't know what they were talking about. They had never been to Asheville.
"What about your children?" they asked with their eyes wide in horror, suggesting that it was okay for Tony and I to subject ourselves to the brutality of racism and prejudice, but to expose our kids was unforgivable. I knew that for the most part, they were simply reacting to the stereotypes. Sure, there were prejudiced people in the South, but they were everywhere. Tony and I would deal with them as we always had—we wouldn't. But how could I avoid dealing with them when they were standing inside my front door?
I was thankful that the kids were away, attending their first day at the new school, and that Tony was still in Miami finishing up some business; there was no evidence of the 'subversive' lifestyle that I was living.
"In the kitchen, put it there." I pointed toward the other mirror cartons.
"Here ya are, mam. Let me jus' git rid of dis here box fer ya. We'll use it agin and dat way y'all won' haf'ta pay fer it." In a quick motion, Hal flipped his hand out of his pants pocket, wielding a long, shiny blade. He jabbed the knife into the taped crease of the box and dragged it down the entire length to the floor.
"Wait!" I shouted. "Leave that..." but it was too late; Hal was already pulling the two pieces of the box apart.
There it was, in all its glory. My husband Tony is sitting down, his hands folded neatly in his lap, smiling. No...actually...he's leering. His lips are pulled back in a manic grin, revealing his teeth which look like they are glowing in contrast to the dark, scarlet color of his mouth. His grin looks like it was forced in order to placate some over-enthusiastic photographer who kept repeating the word "smile." On his head is that silly tam that he was so fond of wearing when he first left Jamaica and moved to the US--his Mary Tyler Moore hat. Next to him, standing in the traditional 'wife-dutifully-behind-the-husband' pose is me. I look petulant, as though I am about to cry. Tony and I actually posed for this painting. It took hours while my brother, the artist, furiously sketched and erased, stepping back every now and then and uttering profound monosyllables. Although I was wearing clothes at the time, the finished work left me naked with a body that was nothing more than a creation of my brother's overactive imagination.
Really, the painting is a study in contrasts. Tony is sitting; I am standing. Tony is smiling; I am frowning. Tony is wearing clothes; I am naked. Tony is black; I am white. Behind both of us there is a stretch of green grass outlined with gray sidewalk—the perfectly manicured lawn of the Miami townhouse that we were living in at the time, which probably explained my sad and depressed expression in the painting. I hated that place. I hated Miami.
"Whoo-wee!" Hal shouted in glee. "Iz that you?"
I didn't answer. I was having visions of his returning later, dressed in a white pointed sorcerer's cap and a long, flowing sheet that hid his primate-like body.
"Harv, come take a look at this," he called out to his partner. "Iz it? Shur do look like you," Hal said as he looked me up and down, perhaps comparing my body with the one in the painting.
"It's me," I admitted, hoping that the less defensive I was, the less explanation he would require. I was getting ready to tell him that my clothes had been on when I posed for it, but I decided it was none of his business. The damage had already been done.
"Whaell, it shur iz silly, if ya don' min' me sayin' so." Harv tipped back his hat and scratched his chin.
"Who painted it?" Hal demanded, and then added in a more gentle tone, "If ya don' min' me askin'."
"My brother." I was angry. I wished these guys would just get on with their business, and leave mine alone.
"Yer brother?" he repeated, looking at me in disbelief. "Wha-ell, if that don't beat all."
"Excuse me. I need to make a phone call." I hurried away, hoping that he would get on with his work.
The rest of the move went along uneventfully until they carried the armoire upstairs and discovered that it was too big to get through the bedroom door. Olee and his two hired hands struggled with the giant chest, turning it one way and then the other, standing it up and then laying it back down again. They worked like this for over an hour until, finally, Olee threw his hands up in defeat and informed me that it was simply too big, that it would have to stay in the hall.
Hal and Harv, however, were still busy at work, taking the doorframe apart and then removing the intricately carved trim off of the armoire. They pushed and grunted, working with the two extra inches they had gained from remodeling the house and massacring what was once a beautiful French antique. I was exhausted, and I wanted them gone. I told them not to worry but they refused to give-up, so I followed Olee downstairs.
Hal and Harv stayed behind, and I could hear their loud voices echoing off of the unfurnished hardwood floors. I wondered what was taking them so long and I worried about where I left my wallet. Finally, they came bounding down the stairs, big, satisfied grins on their faces.
"Ya got a hammer?" Hal asked.
"It's all right, really! You've done more than enough!"
I was practically pleading but I gave them the hammer hoping to speed up their departure. They disappeared, and minutes later I could feel the determined pounding vibrating through the house.
"Ma'am?" Harv called. "Jus' one more minute of yer time, pleeze."
I dragged myself up the stairs, visions of the armoire in a heap of kindling on the floor flashing through my head. As I reached the bedroom, I saw the armoire up against the wall, perfectly centered in the space I had hoped it would go. The trim was back in place and the door frame was neatly repaired with just a couple of chips of paint missing where the nails had been pulled.
"Wow! Thanks!" I gasped. Olee stood behind me, silent.
"Shoot, it warnt nuttin!" Harv smiled bashfully as he wiped the sweat from his forehead.
I found my wallet in the kitchen drawer, where I had left it, and I followed them to the door. I offered Hal a twenty-dollar bill, but he waved it away. "Ma'am," he began. "Welcum to Asheville! I hope ya grow ta love it here as much as ah do."
Hal shook my hand and Harv smiled and tipped his hat.
