Toni Morrison’s Latest Novel, Home: A Road to Bittersweet and Back
If I didn't know better, I'd swear that Toni Morrison must have written the Bible. Her voice has such authority and command. And this is evident in her new novel, Home. No, this isn't from the Book of Proverbs, but maybe it could be:
"Misery don't call ahead. That's why you have to stay awake – otherwise it just walks on in your door." And walk on in it did.
His name is Frank Money: "Women are eager to talk to me when they hear my last name. Money! They snigger and ask the same questions: Who named me that or if anybody did. If I made it up to make myself feel important or was I a gambler or thief or some other kind of crook they should look out for? When I tell them my nickname, what folks back home call me, Smart Money, they scream with laughter and say: Ain't no such thing as dumb money, just dumb folks." But Frank isn't one of those.
Morrison's story is set in Georgia, and Frank Money is an African-American vet returning from the Korean Conflict. Frank has seen the horrors of war up close and can't get them out of his head, or heart. The things he has witnessed and participated in play on a continuous loop in the movie of his memory, no matter how hard he tries to stop the images. And the horror doesn't end on his return to Georgia. "An integrated army is integrated misery. You all go fight, come back, they treat you like dogs. Change that. They treat dogs better."
And in 1950s Georgia, that type of treatment isn't reserved for Vets, but all people of color. In Frank's absence, his sister Cee has gone to work for a white country doctor who fancies himself a scientist, though a sadist is more like it. The doctor experiments on Cee with disastrous results, almost killing her, until Frank saves her and brings her home to heal.
It is the women in their hometown who attend to her as they would a sister, or a daughter. Cee heals, and we can heal. A life lived well can be a life redeemed. Sometimes it doesn't take a hero, just a man, and no matter how tough life and love can be, there is forgiveness -- in Toni Morrison's new book, one can always be welcomed home.
They rose up like men. We saw them. Like men they stood.
We shouldn’t have been anywhere near that place. Like most farmland outside Lotus, Georgia, this here one had plenty scary warning signs. The threats hung from wire mesh fences with wooden stakes every fifty or so feet. But when we saw a crawl space that some animal had dug—a coyote maybe, or a coon dog—we couldn’t resist. Just kids we were. The grass was shoulder high for her and waist high for me so, looking out for snakes, we crawled through it on our bellies. The reward was worth the harm grass juice and clouds of gnats did to our eyes, because there right in front of us, about fifty yards off, they stood like men. Their raised hooves crashing and striking, their manes tossing back from wild white eyes. They bit each other like dogs but when they stood, reared up on their hind legs, their forelegs around the withers of the other, we held our breath in wonder. One was rust-colored, the other deep black, both sunny with sweat. The neighs were not as frightening as the silence following a kick of hind legs into the lifted lips of the opponent. Nearby, colts and mares, indifferent, nibbled grass or looked away. Then it stopped. The rust-colored one dropped his head and pawed the ground while the winner loped off in an arc, nudging the mares before him.
As we elbowed back through the grass looking for the dug-out place, avoiding the line of parked trucks beyond, we lost our way. Although it took forever to re-sight the fence, neither of us panicked until we heard voices, urgent but low. I grabbed her arm and put a finger to my lips. Never lifting our heads, just peeping through the grass, we saw them pull a body from a wheelbarrow and throw it into a hole already waiting. One foot stuck up over the edge and quivered, as though it could get out, as though with a little effort it could break through the dirt being shoveled in. We could not see the faces of the men doing the burying, only their trousers; but we saw the edge of a spade drive the jerking foot down to join the rest of itself. When she saw that black foot with its creamy pink and mud-streaked sole being whacked into the grave, her whole body began to shake. I hugged her shoulders tight and tried to pull her trembling into my own bones because, as a brother four years older, I thought I could handle it. The men were long gone and the moon was a cantaloupe by the time we felt safe enough to disturb even one blade of grass and move on our stomachs, searching for the scooped-out part under the fence. When we got home we expected to be whipped or at least scolded for staying out so late, but the grown-ups did not notice us. Some disturbance had their attention.
Since you’re set on telling my story, whatever you think and whatever you write down, know this: I really forgot about the burial. I only remembered the horses. They were so beautiful. So brutal. And they stood like men.