The Repast

 Globs of golden macaroni and cheese, brown on top with bits of black pepper, sat on the plate next to the collard greens, fried chicken, and sweet potatoes. The men, women and children, clothed in their somber attire found refuge and relief in this ritual. Aunt Azalea had just put her husband in the ground. She gasped at the sight of someone she had missed at the funeral. Smiles abounded. A hug and a slow, rhythmic rocking ensued.

“No, no, no. I remember always having the race car. Monica, you had the thimble, and Roget had the dog. Uncle Daxon was always the iron.”

“That don’t mean nothin’, the man is dead. He ain’t here no more to play these games. We might as well get used to it.”

They looked at the board and the half eaten meals on their plates. The food started to get cold.

“No, I remember…don’t y’all remember when he used to hum real low and get to tapping his foot when he had a property he wanted to buy?” I noted.

My cousins Monica Carlsdale and Roget Kimberton looked at each other. “I think you’re on another timeline, sir. I do not recall having to see, there is no God, but God rest the dead, Daxon Debeers doing all ‘at.”

“I distinctly remember it. It was when we were little but I still recall it vividly.”

“You must’ve dreamt it.”

“No, we were down here on this floor playing the game and Uncle Daxon would hum a blues tune and wait for his chance to play.”

“You know why he was humming?” Roget asked.

“Enlighten us,” Monica sighed.

“He was trying to keep the pain from his liver cancer at bay and to focus on the game. Instead of saying ouch or grumbling, he just hummed.”

“Damn,” Monica said and took a bite of the cornbread which matched the macaroni and cheese in color only.

“I see differently,” I declared.

“What do you recollect?” 

“It was like he was trying to tell us that he was slipping away. He’d often have breaks during gameplay.” 

“Where are you getting this from? That ain’t never happened!”

“Keep your voice down,” Roget admonished.

“You keep yours down, young man,” Monica riposted. She shot a wicked glance at the other two men. In between bites they rolled the die and picked up cards and snapped up properties. “I’m grown.”

“Uncle Daxon lived for this game. He had it in his mind that he’d be the banker every time, too,” I posited. Screw faces appeared.

“Naw, naw. That ain’t right either,” Roget observed. “As cousins, we gotta set each other straight…I was always the banker.”

Monica sucked her teeth. “Tuh. I’ve been the banker ever since we were little. I know my figures. That’s probably why I’m senior vice president at the largest bank in Delaware.”

“Oh, you and your credentials waving around like some puppeteer showing off a marionette. This is about Aunt Azalea. We’ve gotta be one for her,” Roget pointed out.

“I still don’t remember no Uncle Daxon tapping his foot and delivering the bank notes to anyone.”

“You must remember that we had games down here on this porch,” I suggest.

“Yeah,” Monica acknowledged. “But it ain’t the way you described it.”

“Uncle Daxon would be taking the whole side of the board. He’d collect in a minute, too!” Roget exclaimed.

I darkened a bit at that last comment. “I went broke trying to keep up with him.”

“Yeah, but I remember being the banker because I would always sit adjacent to the door just in case Aunt Azalea needed something. I had mastery over the notes and could easily put down the game and assist with anything,” Monica made clear.

I began to grumble a bit. I seethed with a pang of misrememberance. Why did they not recognize me as someone who could recall what our late uncle did? Inside, it felt like what skydivers must feel like with the parachute not opening until the specific time. It was like I had this gap from when I knew something to a blank space of air, drifting with ever so much heft of not really knowing. The memory glowed in my mind, nevertheless. It felt as if there had been a way for me to challenge them.

“Okay, you say that Uncle Daxon didn’t hum tunes or play the role of the banker. But do you remember that he had a winning streak that is undefeated.”

“I won a few games,” Roget replied.

“Yeah, I won some games, too,” Monica retorted. “So what?”

“So if you both remember that, then you have to remember the idea of Uncle Daxon always being the iron…said he’d straighten us out some.”

“Vaguely, do I remember that. His powers lay in the fact he had been ensconced in his own world, dreaming numbers and heavy dividends.”

I absolutely became infuriated at the level of either my own inability to remember things correctly or if my cousins had been working on a streak to conspire against me. A sense they participated in gaslighting me hung over my head like a noose.

“Okay,” I said. “But who remembers when he would get up and dance every time he’d pass go and when someone landed on his property?”

“Again, you’re too unclear in your speech. Make it plain!” Monica nearly jumped out of her seat and spilled some of her plate. Roget got up to get some yellow cake and ice cream. Once he returned, the game resumed.

“I don’t know….” Monica wondered as she rolled the dice. “You might be right. There’s a  chance you are. I don’t know how to put it exactly, but I just remember something totally opposite. We came down here and played for hours. Do you remember that? Huh?”

“Of course, but look who’s not being specific….” I challenged her. A simple grin curled around her mouth. She took a last bite of the dinner and then exited to get some sweet potato pie. I felt too stuffed for dessert. I just watched as my cousin scarfed down his cake and ice cream. He grinned.

“I tell you one thing…I do remember everything you’ve just put out there.”

I looked at him quizzically. 

“Why the hell you ain’t say nothin’?”

He shrugged. “I just wanted to see what Monica would say. Y’all are entertaining.”

“Goddamn, Roget. You could at least be honest,” I chastised him.

“Hey, this remembering thing is between the both of you. I’m just a casual observer and player in the game.”

Monica returned and started chomping on the sweet concoction. 

“What was y’all talking about?”

“The weather.”

“Uncle Daxon.”

We spoke in unison. Monica seemed unfazed. “That’s one thing he ain’t gotta worry about,” she thought aloud. “No more days or nights or rain or shine. He don’t have to worry ‘bout nothing no more.”

“He doesn’t have to worry about this game,” Roget replied.

I felt a brief period of nausea but it passed. I looked at the game board and thought of how to properly adjust my ratio of places I owned.

“If it’s any solace, dear cousin,” Monica started, “I do recall being able to win most of the times we played….”

“How is that any solace?”

“With whatever you felt when I said I didn’t remember anything, that’s what I meant.”

“Thanks, I guess.” She took a bite from the pie. She savored every morsel.

She cleared her mouth and dabbed it with a napkin. 

“I’m just trying to help you out and show that I’m not trying to use tricknology on you.”

“Again, I express my gratitude.”

Monica parked her tongue in her cheek. “Don’t get smart, now. This for Uncle Daxon. He would’ve loved knowing that we’re keeping the tradition of playing alive. You remember this now….The games of mancala were legendary.”

“That never happened,” Roget declared.

“Of course it did. You remember, right?” She looked in my direction.

“Yes, I do.”

“Anyway, with either that game or this one, we enjoyed the thrill of competition and the relaxed atmosphere that went along with it following each match.” Monica seemed melancholic when she voiced these words. Her soprano sound reduced slightly in register. I searched for the words and felt like carrying a single lit match through a bleak cavern. There seemed to be a way to get her to understand that what I remembered had to be in her mind as well. 

“Let’s say we keep playing until memory visits all of us….” Roget advised.

“I say so,” Monica replied.

I nodded my head in agreement. “But that’s still not how I remember it.”

“Then how do you remember it, sir?” Monica asked almost militantly.

“I just said it. He would stretch out, pop some peanuts in his mouth, sip some beer and hum the blues.” It was the ground on which I stood. I remained steadfast in my position as I recalled exactly what happened. I placed the dates just right and ordered them in my head. It felt almost unnatural; I recounted each detail like a robot.

“Hear me clearly, I don’t want to sound either cocky or coy, but maybe we should move on to reminisce on other occurrences that Uncle Daxon explored.”

“No, we should battle this out,” Roget suggested. “At the very least we can ascertain what happened when we played games as kids. Our generation is especially nostalgic for what happened to us in our youths, particularly because it was so well documented.”

“That’s right,” I added. “We should just see what happens when we piece together the mental fabrics of our memories.”

“Well, y’all go right ahead with your fairy tales. I’m getting some wine,” Monica announced.

“No, you’re staying here,” Roget retorted. He got up and locked the door to the porch.

“Don’t you know that’s false imprisonment to keep a noncriminal from moving freely?” She asked with concern coloring her voice. “Excuse you,” she said and he stepped aside. Monica unlocked the door and proceeded to the kitchen area.

“It’s gotta be a way to better understand all those times Uncle Daxon would sit down with a bottle of brew and tell ghost stories and the days of yore in Newark,” Roget mentioned, his voice trailing off in the end like wisps of smoke from an old locomotive. I shook my head.

“We should drop it, no? I mean we just buried the man and he would have had all the answers. His mind was a vault. With us just being kids, we didn’t form matching memories. We sort of invented things here, others there,” Roget's hand motions signified and bolstered his point. Monica returned with a glass of Chardonnay. She sipped it and assessed the whole situation.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you back there,” she declared. “I only needed to move with liberty. And this glass has already gotten me relaxed. So what we talkin’ ‘bout? We still on this Uncle Daxon coming down here trip?”

“Yes. I thought we should just end the conversation but someone’s gotta put a period on it,” I related.

“Okay, this is the last time even though I said it the last time, Uncle Daxon would be the  banker and I can still hear him humming or whistling….”

“That’s right!” I exclaimed. “That whistle is coming back. He would only whistle on the porch, never on the inside of the house.” The puzzle pieces of memory started to fall in place.

“No, no, no. Ain’t no whistling. The man just played the game like any of us and yes he always won because he wouldn’t let us win just because we were children. He was teaching a valuable life lesson in all of this. He wanted to ensure that we knew how to earn our place wherever we might find ourselves.” Monica sipped more wine.

“It’s two to one,” Roget remarked.

“That don’t mean nothin’. I would propose that we consult the widow of Mr. Daxon Debeers.”

The three of them got up from their seats around the game board and proceeded to where Aunt Azalea sat and smiled under the dining room light.

“Auntie, please settle this argument….” Monica intoned.

“We’re trying to piece together this memory we had of Uncle Daxon.”

“I already know,” Aunt Azalea spoke with a gentleness that befit a monarch, “I know for a fact your uncle played that game. He told me about his winnings. He said all of you would give him some competition but he won every time just humming or whistling as he did whenever he shaved his face.”

The three of us exchanged glances while reaping the blessings of our aunt’s words.

“That's all of it,” I stated.

“Thank you, Auntie,” We all chimed with sincerity. Monica still had some wine left and Roget and I grabbed some bottles of beer. We all journeyed outside with our potent potables and poured out a little bit on the concrete leading up to the house for our fallen uncle.