Don Keith - Mattie C.s Boy: The Shelley Stewart Story

The real estate agent was having a difficult time keeping up with his client, a tall, well-dressed black man.

Mr. Stewart! Mr. Stewart! I wanted to first show you...

But Mr. Stewart was already at the far end of the huge, wall-less office space. Straight off the elevator he had made a beeline for the northwest corner of the swank buildings second floor. He stopped there, hands resting on the dusty windowsill. He stared through the smudged window past his own reflection, gazing down at the parking lot below, the ornate landscaped entranceway coming from the street, and a stand of trees.

When the agent caught up, he was surprised to see that his client was crying. Big tears rolled down each cheek. The agent paused, cleared his throat, and finally spoke.

I am so sorry, Mr. Stewart. Did I do something wrong?

Stewart touched the glass, pointing.

There used to be a lake down there way before you were born, right below where we are standing, the tall man said, speaking so quietly the agent had to strain to hear the words. Edgewood Lake. There was a cable somebody had hung in a big tree over yonder and you could swing across the lake to get to the other side if you wanted to. Bubba and I, we used to catch catfish right down there. Not for fun, mind you. We caught them because we were hungry and we didnt have anything else to eat. We fried those fish up and ate them, sitting right over yonder next to the highway. Took some back for our younger brothers, Sam and David, too. They were hungry as we were. See, I was born just over that hill there in a white familys house where my momma worked.

The agent did not know what to say. He stood, uncomfortably rocking from heel to toe.

Ill take it! Stewart said, so firmly and suddenly it startled the real estate man.

But Mr. Stewart, we havent even talked about build-out or...

Ill take it! Stewart turned to face the agent, unashamed of the tears that still fell from his eyes. And my office will be right here, this corner, where the lake bank used to be.

Most potential lesseesespecially big and powerful ones, like Mr. Stewarthaggled over every nuance of a deal, and the bigger the space, the larger the deal, the more detailed the negotiation. This was the first time the agents client had been to this property. There had been little discussion of terms.

Then well firm up the details and get the agreement drawn up, sir, the man told Stewart. Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.

Stewart stood there a few moments, dabbing at his eyes with a well-used tissue he had retrieved from his jacket pocket. He again surveyed the view below.

No, I want to thank you, young man, he finally said. Now I have to go over to Grace Hill. I got to tell Mattie C. something. You know what I got to tell her?

No, Mr. Stewart. I dont.

The tall man smiled.

Momma, the circle is finally complete.

Wide-eyed and helpless, the boy watched his daddy murder his momma with an ax.

The boy and his older brother cried, begging their daddy not to hurt her. Slim Stewart was drunk, though. He paid no attention to his boys pleas. He did not care that they were watching. It happened so quickly, and he was so strong and mad and mean, it was over in only a few minutes.

At first, the fight between their parents seemed no different from all the others the boys had witnessed. It was a regular thing. They were outside playing when they saw their daddy striding purposefully up the hill toward them. As usual, he was weaving a bit, talking out loud to himself. They knew he was most likely coming from Miss Marthas shot house down on the corner. The joint sold untaxed and illegal homebrew whiskey by the drink. That was Huell Slim Stewarts beverage of choice. The boys had seen their daddy down there plenty of times, usually as they walked alongside their mother on her way to her maids job at the white folks house. Other times, too, when the brothers wandered the neighborhood seeking adventure. If Slim ever noticed his wife and sons passing by the joint or his other two baby boys tucked into the carriage she pushed, he gave no sign.

The boys knew, though, that if he was coming from Miss Marthas, he would be in his usual foul mood. That also meant he was dangerously, violently drunk.

Shurley, the younger boy, looked at his brother. Bubba was seven and often took charge in such situations.

Shurley, we better go tell Momma Daddys coming, the older brother said. They ran to the house as quickly as they could.

Mattie C. was inside the airless little shack, cooking Sunday dinner, ironing clothes, working as usual. Also as usual, as she worked she loudly and proudly sang her favorite gospel songsPrecious Lord, Take my Hand. Were You There when They Crucified My Lord? Will the Circle Be Unbroken?in a clear, pretty voice.

She hushed her singing when her boys burst through the door.

Daddys coming up the street, Bubba told her. Hes drunk.

A cloud passed over her face as she set her jaw. Slim Stewart did not often show up at their home anymore. He usually hung around the alleys and streets within a few blocks of where his wife and kids lived. Even so, days would pass without him coming home. When he did, it was typically a Sunday, after he had drunk up or gambled away his odd-job wages.