Of course, in his logic, this would have included Momma, me, my sisters, or anybody he thought knew something that he didn’t, which meant they could take advantage of him. You could see it in the crazed flare of his eyes that he lived in a world full of slick motherfuckers out to get him. Mix that attitude with alcohol and the result was big-time paranoia.

Though I started to figure out some of these dynamics early on, for a while I was actually willing to see past them and to be on my best behavior in the hopes that he’d somehow find a fatherly side of himself with me. That hope was shattered one afternoon during a visit from Sam Salter, Ophelia’s daddy.

In an odd matchup, Salter and Freddie turned out to be great friends and drinking buddies. This made no sense, not only because both had kids by Moms, but also because they were so different. Just as he did every time he visited, Salter entered a room with warmth and a southern gentleman’s charm. A nicely dressed, articulate high school teacher—who could read and write and talk trash so good everybody thought he was a lawyer, although Freddie never once accused him of being a slick motherfucker—Samuel Salter had nothing in common with Freddie Triplett, who took over any space he entered by siege. Sometimes Freddie cleared a room at gunpoint, waving his shotgun, hollering, “Get the fuck outta my goddamn house!” Other times Freddie cleared the room with a rant, gesticulating angrily with a lit Pall Mall in one hand and his ever-present half-pint of whiskey in the other.

Old Taylor was Freddie’s brand of choice, but he also drank Old Granddad and Old Crow, or basically any half-pint of whiskey he could wrap his hands around. He didn’t have a hip flask for his whiskey, like some of the more sophisticated black men I saw. Dressed in his workingman’s uniform that consisted of jeans or khakis, a wool shirt, a T-shirt underneath, always, and work shoes, Freddie just carried his little half-pint bottle. Everywhere. It was an appendage. How he managed to keep his job at A. O. Smith— eventually retiring from there, pension and all—was another mystery to me. Granted, as a steel man, he was a hard worker. But he was an even harder drinker.

That afternoon when Salter arrived, Ophelia and I ran to greet him, followed immediately by Freddie’s arrival in the living room. Whenever he came by, Salter brought a little something for us— usually two dollars for Ophelia, his real blood daughter, and one dollar for me, because he treated me as a pretend son. This day we went through the routine, with Ophelia getting a hug and a kiss and her two dollars before skipping off, waving, “Bye, Daddy!” and then it was my turn.

Salter grinned at my open hand and didn’t make me wait, commending me first on my good work at school and then handing me the crisp single dollar bill. Happy feelings swirled up inside, and I couldn’t help it as I asked, “Ain’t you my daddy too?”