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I cannot remember T.R. ever initiating a discussion, and his rejoinders to my attempts to start a conversation were generally met with a throat clearing:

“Ah-hum. Great.”

Or:

“Ah-hum-rum. Yeah.”

Or:

“Ah-hum-rum. No.”

I visited him in his rented room twice a week and always left happier and more at peace than when I arrived. I thought he was equally pleased. Of course with his inveterate silence, I could not be expected to know otherwise.

One evening, however, when I knocked at his door, a woman answered. I stood in amazement as the door opened and a short, very plain, light-skinned, plump woman twenty years my senior said, “Come in. You must be Maya.”

I walked into the room and remained silent. The woman continued. “We must have gotten our days mixed up. You usually come on Tuesdays and Fridays. I come on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. What’s today?” She looked at her watch, “Ooo, I’m running late. T.R. is in the bathroom. Well, we probably won’t see each other again. Bye-bye.”

My brain was in shock; there was a straitjacket around my body. I didn’t think. I couldn’t move.

T.R. came out of the bathroom, surprised to see me. He grumbled low, “What are you doing here?”

I could comprehend, but I still couldn’t speak.

“You not due today. Today is for Daphne. She let you in?”

He had never said that much to me in our nine-month relationship.

“Come on in the kitchen.” I followed him down the hall. He took a dessert from the refrigerator and placed large spoonfuls on two plates.

“Get a fork.” He nodded toward a drawer and began to eat with the serving spoon. He was hard to understand at best, and now with his mouth full of bananas and custard and vanilla wafers I should not have understood a word. But I will never forget what he said or its impact on me.

“Daphne. Ever hear of a Negro woman named Daphne? She makes this for me once a month. Her grandmother was a white woman.”

Everybody I knew had at least one white grandparent or great grandparent. No one thought it was something to brag about.

“I’ve been loving her a long time. She’s too good for me and she’s married, but she comes anyway. You look all stove up like you’re mad. Wait now, I never promised you anything and I’m going to be with Daphne as long as she’ll have me. So just wipe that stupid look off your face.”

He had finished his pudding and was digging for more. I looked at the sweet. The custard was poorly made and was already weeping pure water, the bananas were brown from exposure, and the vanilla wafers were soggy. Then I looked at T.R. He was a slothful, ignorant, and arrogant fool.

I stood up and pushed my plate to him and walked out.

On the street, I realized I had not said one word from the moment I entered that house until I left.

I stopped at the supermarket on the way home. In my kitchen I began to make my own banana pudding. When it was finished and properly chilled, my son and I sat down and ate it.

Poor T.R., he never had—and now never would have—a chance to taste a truly great banana pudding. I ate his portion that night and with each morsel I knew I would never see him again.

Banana Pudding

SERVES 8

¾ cup plus 1 tablespoon sugar

⅓ cup cornstarch

Pinch of salt

3 cups milk

8 eggs, separated

3 tablespoons butter

1 tablespoon vanilla extract

3 cups vanilla wafer cookies

4 ripe bananas, thinly sliced

½ teaspoon cream of tartar

Preheat oven to 350°F.

Combine ⅓ cup sugar, cornstarch, and salt in a large saucepan; stir until blended. Stir in milk. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly until thickened and boiling; boil 1 minute, then remove from heat.

In small bowl whisk egg yolks, then whisk in about ½ cup of the hot custard until blended. Pour yolk mixture back into custard in saucepan; cook over medium heat, stirring, for 2 minutes. Stir in butter and vanilla until blended.

Place half the vanilla wafers on bottom of shallow 2-quart casserole. Top with layers of banana slices and custard. Repeat