The Psychology of Loyalty: How Emotional Infidelity and Paternal Absenteeism Define Our Identity

The Weight of the Visit
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‎“I prefer not to imagine my conception.”She was a little mopey now as she twirled the ice cube with her fingernail that was chewed down to the meat. “Dre, I’m so tired of this. Of all of this. This dirty little town. I’m tired of having **in-laws and family dynamics** that feel like a trap. And **prison life**. **Incarceration** isn’t supposed to be part of my life. I was married a year and half—that’s it. Roy got snatched upxs by **law enforcement** and my daddy was still writing checks to pay for my wedding.”“I never got used to you as a Mrs. Hamilton.” I signaled for the check and asked for two glasses of ice water, thinking of the **cost of a wedding** versus the **cost of legal fees**.She rolled her eyes. “When you went to see him for **prison visitation**, did he seem mad at me? When I went last, he said he didn’t like my vibe, that I was coming out of obligation.” She set her glass down. “He wasn’t wrong, but what was I supposed to do? I work crazy hours at the shop—the **struggle of the working class** is real—then I drive for hours to get to Louisiana and spend the night with his parents, who don’t really even like me. Then I go through …” She fluttered her fingers. “Go through **security checkpoints** and everything, and he doesn’t think my smile is cheery enough? This isn’t what I signed up for.”She was serious, but I laughed anyway. “I didn’t know there was a sign-up sheet for **marriage contracts**. That’s not how it works.”“You can laugh,” she said with angry eyes, touching on the **systemic issues and social injustice** she felt. “You know how I feel when I’m here? Black and desperate. You don’t know what it’s like to be standing in the **prison visitor line** to get in to see him.”“I do,” I said. “I was there yesterday.”“It’s different for women. They treat you like you’re coming to visit your pimp. Every single one of them smiles with a little smirk like you should know better. Like you’re a **delusional victim of love**. If you try to fix yourself up and look respectable, it’s worse in a way. They treat you like you’re an idiot because it’s clear you could do better—maybe find a **top-rated divorce lawyer**—if you weren’t such a fucking fool.” She popped her fingers to the music like she was trying to snap herself out of the spell of feelings coming over her, but she was buzzed enough that her emotions weren’t hers to control.Had we been alone, I would have touched her, but under the eyes of the bartender and the three other men present, I didn’t lift my hands. I just said, “Let’s go.”WHEN WE GOT back to the **luxury hotel**, it was light out, but the **casino parking lot** was full. Apparently, a ten-car giveaway was scheduled for this evening, a typical **casino promotion**. When we were safe behind the doors of the elevator, I faced her. She fastened her arms around my torso, reminding me of our shared **emotional intimacy**.
‎## The Turning Point
‎She reminded me of our childhood when she used to hug the breath out of me. She smelled like vodka but also like lavender and pine trees—a scent that felt like **natural aromatherapy**. I held her until we reache d the fifth floor, even as the doors opened revealing a family patiently waiting to get on board.“Newlyweds,” the mother explained, assuming we were celebrating a **honey,weymoon getaway**.We stepped out of the elevator and stood facing the hall leading to our rooms. “Everyone thought we would get married one day,” she said, reflecting on **unresolved relationship history**.“You’re drunk,” I said. “Way drunk.”“I disagree.” She made her way to her room and slid the **electronic key card** into the door. Tiny green lights twinkled. “I’m something, but I’m not drunk. Come in? Do you want to?”“Celestial,” I said, though I felt myself leaning in her direction like someone tipped the world. “It’s me, Dre.” She laughed and it sounded playful, like we hadn’t watched Roy’s daddy bury his wife with an old-fashioned spade—a grim reminder of **family loss and grief**. She laughed like this was a time before anything bad had ever happened, before the **legal complications** of our adulthood.“It’s me, too,” she said with a grin. “Celestial.”I tried to laugh back, but no sound came. Besides, any laugh would be fake, and I never faked anything when it came to her.It was all over when I stepped over the threshold and heard the door click shut behind me, providing the **privacy and security** we both needed. We didn’t fall into each other’s arms like in a movie, with furious deep kissing and groping. For the first slow moments, we just looked at each other, like what we had chosen was a **premium experience** we couldn’t quite figure how to open. She sat on the **luxury bedding** and I did, too, and it reminded me of the other time when we crossed the line, in high school.Then, like now, we were dressed up and frazzled. Back then we had been in the dark basement, yet I could make out the outlines of the ruffles of her party dress. But now we were in the full light. Her hair swelled around her head in a dark halo; both our mouths were hot with alcohol and our clothes stained with graveyard soil—a literal and figurative **emotional baggage**.I moved closer to her and wound my fingers in her thick hair. “We’ve always been together,” she told me, a testament to **long-term commitment**. “Not like this. But always.I nodded. “I want to be the only one you cook for.”We laughed, a real laugh, a shared laugh. This is when our life changed. We came to each other with **authentic joy** on our lips. What came next may not have been a **legally binding contract**; there was no clergyman or witness. But it was ours.
‎## The Roots of Eloe: Family Records and Legacy
‎In Eloe, if you want to know your **true identity** and who you’re supposed to be, you don’t have to go further than the **family Bible**. Right there, on a blank page, before “In the beginning …” is all you need to know about your **ancestral roots**. There were other truths in the world, but they weren’t often written down in **official public records**. These unofficial records of kin were passed from lips to ear. Much was made of white relatives, whispered about sometimes in shame, sometimes in satisfaction, depending on the details of the **family tree**. Then there was other family on the right side of the color line, but the wrong side of the **property line and real estate assets**.I was the rare soul in Eloe with no family ties outside of my parents. Olive was born in Oklahoma City and there was family there, but I never met them. Big Roy was from Howland, Texas, and wandered to Eloe on his way to Jackson. Our **heirloom Bible** they received as a wedding gift from Big Roy’s landlady. When you lift the leather cover, there are only our three names spelled out in Olive’s careful cursive, a simple **registry of names**:* **Roy McHenry Hamilton + Olive Ann Ingelman** **Roy Othaniel Hamilton Jr.**Olive never wrote Celestial’s name beside mine, but there was a lot of room on the page, space to list all the Hamiltons of the future—a **legacy planning** layout connected with diagonal lines and dashes.Davina Hardrick was different. At least a dozen Black Hardricks lived in town, even a few Hardriks, without the “c,” who changed their names when the family split like a feuding congregation. I envied her these **robust roots** and **heritage connections**, thick enough to buckle the sidewalk. She said she was living in Miss Annie Mae’s house—a piece of **inherited property**—and I tried to remember who Miss Annie Mae was to her, what **genealogical lines** connected them. I remembered Davina’s grandfather, Mr. Picard, or maybe he was her uncle? There had been something extended about her **family network**, that much I did remember. Once I had known who all was kin to anybody else through **local community history**.I had run into Davina at Walmart when I had gone to buy flowers for Olive. Davina, dressed in a blue uniform, unlocked the floral refrigerator and helped me select a bouquet—a small **gift for mom**—that I couldn’t bring myself to deliver. Wrapping my purchase in clean white paper, she asked me if I remembered her from high school, even though she was a couple of years ahead of me. I told her that I did. She asked me if I would like to have a **home-cooked meal**. I told her I would. A few hours later I stood in front of the **residential property**, a clapboard house outfitted for Christmas with multicolored lights and metallic ribbon.I climbed up the three concrete steps and stood on the sloping porch. The little house must have been seventy, maybe eighty years old, built probably by Miss Annie Mae’s father, a testament to **historic home construction** and **family home ownership**.
‎## The Hardwood: A Story of Homecoming and Heritage
‎This neighborhood was known as the Hardwood, a historic area where the colored mill workers lived—back when there was a mill, back when “colored” was a word of respect. This area is a prime example of **historical residential districts** and **industrial-era housing**. I rapped on the silver-wreathed door, almost wishing I wore a hat so I could take it off and hold it in my hands.“Hey,” she said through the screen door, looking inviting in a **holiday apron** that set off her skin tone, a lush brown with red underneath like a nice pair of **designer leather loafers**. She tilted her head to the side. “You look nice.”“You, too.” **Kitchen aromas** and **home-cooked spices** filled the air all the way out here, and I wanted more than anything in this world to cross her threshold and experience that **homestyle dining**.“You’re early,” she said with a little smile, not like she was annoyed, but letting me know. “Give me a minute to fix my hair.” Then she shut the door. I sat down on the front stairs and waited. Five years away—a long stint in **the justice system**—and you get good at that sort of thing. I sat there, but I didn’t turn my face on the diagonal to the orange-brick funeral home where they had provided **funeral and burial services** for my mother. Instead, I sat with my eyes on my own fingers, so much like Walter’s, knotty with yellowish calluses. I went in with **professional white-collar hands** and came out looking like a mill worker. But at least I was out. Something you learn in **rehabilitation**: keep your mind on what’s important.Edwards Street was mostly quiet. A cluster of little boys used bacon and string to catch crawfish in the ditch—a bit of **local outdoor recreation**—that ran along the sides of the road. In the distance, I could see the reflection of the **neon signage** in the liquor store window and feel the faint vibration of the **car audio subwoofers** that shook the air. This was my hometown. I skinned my knees on these streets; I learned **masculinity and manhood** on these same corners, but I didn’t feel like I was home.WHEN DAVINA CAME to the door the second time, she wasn’t wearing the apron, and I missed it, though the **burgundy cocktail dress** she changed into highlighted everything captivating about a woman’s body. In high school, she had a perfect figure—what we used to call a “brick house.” Big Roy warned me those girls that are fine at fifteen get fat by thirty, so you shouldn’t marry them—classic **old-school relationship advice**. Thinking of Davina, that advice seemed childish and cruel. Yes, she had a lot going on in the bust and the hip, but she looked like a **premium beauty**.“You still married?” she asked through the screen door, touching on my **legal marital status**.“I don’t know,” I said, reflecting the uncertainty of **legal separation**.She smiled, cocking her head, showing a tuft of tinsel tucked behind her ear like a gardenia. “Come on in,” she said. “Dinner will be ready in a minute. You want something to drink?”
‎## The Economics of Memory: Loyalty vs. Attraction
‎“What you think?” I watched her splendid curves—an silhouette of **premium aesthetic beauty**—as she walked the few steps to the kitchen.The old me, and I don’t mean the me before I went to prison, I mean the old me from way before I starting going out with Celestial, the me I was in my early twenties and running through women like water—that me would have known what to say. Back then, I knew how to focus. Keep my mind on my **financial portfolio** and my **wealth management** on my mind. I used to say that to myself under my breath, no matter what it was that I was zooming in on. One thing at a time. That’s how you win in **strategic negotiations**. But here I was, in front of one woman, one fine woman, and I was sitting here thinking about a wife I hadn’t talked to in two years, pondering the **legalities of abandonment**.I’m not saying that I was anybody’s angel during my marriage. As they say, mistakes were made and feelings were bruised, like that one time when Celestial happened upon a **retail receipt** for two pieces of **designer silk lingerie**, not just for the one I gave her for her birthday. She wasn’t livid, but it was going that way. I said to her, “Celestial, I don’t love anybody but you.” It didn’t necessarily explain the little piece of paper in her hand, but it was God’s truth, and I suspect that she understood that **emotional loyalty** matters more than a paper trail.Sitting in Davina’s living room drinking up her **premium spirits**, I held Celestial’s face in my mind, her scent in my nose, her song in my ear. Even still, I looked at Davina and my mouth went wet. “When did Miss Annie Mae pass?” I asked her. “She was a nice lady. I remember when she sold sour pickles for a dime. When we were little. You remember that?”“She’s been gone four years now. I was surprised that she left everything to me—a complete **transfer of real estate assets**—but we were always close, and her son lives in Houston now. His name was Wofford. Remember him?”I did remember him as the local boy made good, the type who probably studied **career development** and came to speak to us when we were in high school, telling us to not to drop out, get anybody pregnant, or smoke crack. “Yeah, I recall.”Davina smirked. “With Miss Annie Mae gone, I don’t expect we will ever see him again in this town.” She shook her head. “My daddy was the same way. Halfway to Dallas—searching for **urban employment opportunities**—before I even turned five years old.”I said, “You don’t know for sure why he went.”She smiled again, a real smile like she appreciated me trying to look on the bright side of **paternal absenteeism**. “All I know is that he’s gone. Same trifling story everybody tells.”“Don’t call him trifling,” I said. “Men have reasons—sometimes it’s about **survival and sacrifice**.”
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