At the same time, Uncle Willie’s stories, delusional or not, gave me a worldview that I had never had before, replacing the old fear of the unknown with a desire to see some of the places he talked about. Besides the foreign ports of call he described from his time in the service—in Korea, the Philippines, Italy, and other stops along the way—he also talked about how beautiful and welcoming the women were over there, a subject that was to become an increasing source of fascination for me.

But the person who most opened the door to the world beyond our neighborhood and made me know that I had to go see it one day was my Uncle Henry—who came shining into my life in this era as if he had been sent just for me. We had seen Momma’s baby brother only periodically in earlier years since he was stationed abroad at the time. Now that he was retired from the military and working as a steel man alongside my other uncles, he suddenly appeared on the scene—as suddenly as Momma had disappeared.

Whenever Uncle Henry came to look after us at Uncle Willie’s house—or better yet, to take me somewhere on an excursion, just the two of us—it was Christmas, my birthday, and every other holiday rolled into one for me. He made me feel as special as Momma had when she visited at the foster home and made candy. Uncle Henry not only made me feel special but allowed me, for the first time ever, to feel love for a man—really to fall in love, in the way that boys fall in love with their fathers and yearn to be like them one day. I knew what that falling-in-love feeling was with the important women in my life, like Momma, with her spreading smile—always reminding me of an opening refrigerator door that the light of hope and comfort spilled from. I knew the love of my sister, how it was without condition or limitation. But until I was eight years old, when Uncle Henry took me under his wing of protection, love, and fun, the dominant messages from a male adult had mainly been “Get outta my goddamn house” and “I ain’t your goddamn daddy,” barked at me down the barrel of a shotgun.

Uncle Henry and I had an unspoken agreement whenever he came to stay with us—if Uncle Willie and Aunt Ella Mae happened to be going away for the weekend or out for the night—that I would go up to bed with the younger kids and sneak back down later. By the time I came tiptoeing downstairs, there was always a party going on, with Henry Gardner at the center. About five-ten—although, like Momma, he looked much taller—Uncle Henry was a pretty boy, single and loved by the ladies, with a lean physique and an athletic, tigerlike way of moving. In his hip goatee, he would scan a room, not missing a beat, knowing the ladies weren’t missing him. Never once did I see him looking anything but perfectly attired, every crease, every cuff pressed to perfection.