Dancing Lessons (17 page)

She managed my life so well I often wondered how she seemed to have failed at managing everything else, including her own. She was born in the city and her family was well off. Her father was said to have made a fortune working on the Panama Canal. She was sent abroad to be educated, something almost unheard of for girls in those days. How could she have ended up marrying such a man as Sam's father? All I know is she came down to teach at the girls' boarding school and met him and fell in love. More than that I don't know, but I can guess, can't I? At least I knew all about falling in love. It was the falling out that I couldn't manage.

Sam was never in love with me. That must have been obvious to Ma D, but it didn't stop her. She went ahead and got us married and sent us off. She made me a beautiful wedding dress. We made a special trip to Kingston to buy the material, a full floor-length skirt of Alençon lace over white peau de soie, the fitted bodice embroidered with seed pearls that she sewed on herself, one by one, taking her glasses off and holding the fabric and bead up to her one good eye, her hand trembling as she pushed the needle through each bead and tacked it onto the fabric. I was so afraid to watch her. I held my breath each time. I was not surprised at the perfection of her work, every bead in place. The preparations made me feel excited, but uncomfortable at the amount of trouble I saw Ma D taking for me. I didn't feel I was worthy of this kind of care, as if I had not earned it and had no right to it. But Ma D seemed happy with all the preparations, happy to be kept so busy getting rid of another of her troublesome sons.

She arranged it all, the church and everything. I had no family present. The doctor, a friend of Ma D's, assumed the role of father and gave me away. It should have been the happiest day of my life, but I wasn't happy at all. I remember so little of it. I was steeped in misery because all my consciousness, my entire being, was focused on my longing for Sam. Nothing else mattered except Sam showing no longing for me.

Back at the house, Ma D had arranged quite a spread with the help of various aunts and cousins who had mysteriously appeared a few days before. They slept in all the beds, on couches and mattresses on the floor. There was a lot of teasing and gaiety and laughter in that house, the first in a long time, I think, but I didn't feel it had anything to do with me. At the reception, they made me and Sam cut the cake, feed it to each other, link arms, and drink a toast. Sam was laughing the whole time. So was everyone else as they put us both in the back of the car in which one of Sam's cousins was driving us to our two-day honeymoon at a hotel on the coast.

As soon as the car was out of sight of the house, Sam said, “Stop” and climbed out. The cousin climbed out too. I stayed in the car, listening as they laughingly removed the
Just Married
signs and old shoes and tin cans that had been attached. Sam took a bottle out of his bag in the trunk of the car. He and the driver had a drink, there by the side of the road. And then they turned their backs to me and pissed. And instead of returning to sit with me in the back seat as I expected, Sam got into the front seat and they both carried on drinking from that bottle, laughing and joking. Before we arrived at our destination, I had willed myself to sleep.

AFTER THAT DAY WITH
Mr. Bridges and the book began the happiest time of my life. Not the heart-thumping disturbance I felt when I first fell in love with Sam, but a warm glow that came from finding someone, a companion, whom I felt comfortable with. I think the change in me began that very day, with me in my red dress. When I got back to my room, I looked at myself in the mirror, and I decided not to change into my house dress after all, but to wear my red dress to dinner. I put on lipstick and, just for good measure, a pair of clip-on earrings. I made sure to comb my hair and style it carefully. Well! You can't imagine what an impact a simple thing like that had, perhaps not exactly where I wanted it, but I enjoyed seeing the Sisters' eyes pop when I came in, and even the Pitt-Bull at the far end of the dining room leaned over to gaze.

“Wow, G! You look fabulous!” Birdie gushed before I even sat down.

“Hey! What happened?” from Babe.

“Díos mío! You have a hot date, chiquita?” growled Ruby, who littered her speech with Spanish phrases in memory of her last and favourite husband, who was from the Dominican Republic.

Even Annie, who was serving at dinner that evening, looked across at me as she placed a dish on the table and stood back, one arm akimbo, and mimicked shock: “Miss Sam, w'appen? You look great, man, look like you going out on the town.”

I was too dark-skinned to blush, but I could feel my face growing hot. I flapped my napkin open and placed it on my lap and said nothing, but I was secretly pleased. Throughout the meal and their usual chattering I could sense the Sisters' distraction, their eyes floating over me, and then meeting each other's in speculation. The crowning moment came when Heathcliff came over while dessert was being served, kneaded my shoulders from behind, and said, showing his profile to Babe I know, for he always did, ever hopeful: “My dear Sammy, what has come over you? You look absolutely ravishing.” Then he gave another squeeze, winked at Birdie, and scurried back to his seat in time to dig into the custard tart just as it was placed before him. Babe rolled her eyes at me, and I wondered if anyone else in the room thought I was ravishing. I wasn't sure what had gotten into me, but at least I was giving them something new to talk about.

I'VE BEEN PAYING ATTENTION
to the way I dress and groom and carry myself. Celia's investment in me is paying off. I hope it will pay off for me too, but what payoff I am after, I'm not sure. Even Matron has noticed: she comments on each new outfit I wear, more impressed by the fact that Celia chose it than anything else. But after the initial surprise, people have stopped paying attention to the “new me,” as Babe said. Now Mr. Bridges speaks to me occasionally. He returned the first book and borrowed others and lent me some of his; we exchange a few brief words about them, or the weather, or something equally inane. He speaks and I mumble. Each time, after the initial thrill, I mentally berate myself for being so tongue-tied and sounding so foolish, though I am usually unable to remember afterwards even the few words I speak. I have no idea, of course, that in my sixties I am going through a phase that girls normally go through at sixteen. So we never had a real conversation until yesterday afternoon when he came upon me at the back of the house, where the gardener, Winston, and I are preparing beds to grow vegetables. Yes, I've gone back to farming.

I couldn't imagine why a place with so much land didn't grow its own vegetables and had no fruit trees apart from a few mangoes and citrus fruits and some wild guava trees at the back fence. It all seemed so wasteful to me. I was missing my little farm, missed getting my hands in the dirt and pruning and reaping and watching things grow. I'd been missing all this from the time I left home, but the need to get back to the soil had grown in me so much that I was willing to struggle, first with Matron, who was thrown into such a tizzy for no one had ever wanted to do such a thing before. She had to consult with the board of management first. And then it was with that most difficult of men, Winston, to get a little plot going. I had gotten the seeds and sowed them in makeshift flats myself, simple things like carrots, cabbages, beans, tomatoes, peppers. But now they were ready to be planted out, and Winston had failed to get the beds ready, though he had assured me up to the day before not to worry, no problem, Miss. Everything right as rain, Miss. Though if ever there was a man who should have problems, it was Winston.

The only reason I could get Winston going at all is that I was the only one of the residents who walked the grounds, and he knew that I knew about his flourishing plot of ganja at the back. And then I had totally confused him because instead of reporting it, as he expected—and I kept him dangling on that one for a few sweet weeks—I had given him advice on the best fertilizer to use. That got him so confused he then turned around and offered me a present of some of his finest product, which I regretfully refused. So now he doesn't know where he stands with me. I wasn't like the others who simply stood from afar and gave orders. Part of his grudging respect comes from the fact that he knows that I know what I am talking about when it comes to plants, and I know that his own knowledge, apart from the ganja, is of asphalt-farming. Winston is a city boy, born and bred, growing up in the little shantytown only a few hundred yards from the Ellesmere Lodge gates. He only got the job as gardener many years ago through proximity to the previous private owners of the house and the attrition of their old retainers.

Winston's idea of gardening is to ride around on the power mower cutting the huge lawns and climbing a ladder and slashing away at the top of the thick sweet lime hedge with his cutlass. This hedge grows along the frontage, so he chops at a little piece each day until he gets to the end and then it's time to start over again. This way, he can always say when asked by Matron to do some other task, “I have to cut the hedge, Miss,” and that is that. Oh, he does set out the sprinklers to water the lawn after it has dried down to nothing. And, very grudgingly, when the flowers are too limp to be ignored, he will turn the hose on the two round beds of canna lilies in front of the porte cochere. This is the extent of the official garden on at least two acres of grounds that wander away at the back into terra incognita.

Winston in fact spends more time cleaning the cars of staff and visitors and running their little errands than he does gardening, but then he has a lot of need for extra cash. I know, because in spite of all the extra earnings, he is always touching me for a loan, which he scrupulously repays at payday, grudgingly though, hanging on to the notes to the last minute, hoping I'll refuse to take them. Which I won't, of course, for I don't see why I should support Winston as a one-man population explosion unit.

Winston certainly doesn't have the look of a Romeo; he isn't a youth, he is in his forties or older. His face is squashed down and full of wrinkles and his shaved head is as much fashion statement as disguise for grey hairs. He is short, not very well built, doesn't have a particularly sunny disposition, and has lost a lot of his teeth. Still, a procession of baby-mothers turn up at Winston's door as often as he turns up at mine begging a loan, and they are all attractive, very young girls. I suppose in a poverty-stricken country any man who has a steady job is king, even though the coffers are depleted by each addition to the royal family. That Winston was even willing to consider helping me with the vegetable patch owed something to my suggestion that he would be able to offer the baby-mothers some of the crop. Though the alacrity with which he disappears around the corner into his room each time one of these visitors arrives suggests he has more on offer than vegetables.

Anyway, here we were yesterday, Winston and I, both mucking about. He rather unwillingly double digging, I on my knees mixing manure and compost into the bed he had already dug. I didn't know Mr. Bridges was anywhere near until he spoke.

“What will it be, flowers or vegetables?”

I was so lost in thought, in the sheer enjoyment of the task, that I jumped at the sound of his voice.

It was Winston who answered, “Vegetables, sir” and stopped his digging, glad for the diversion. I was surprised when Mr. Bridges bent down, picked up some of the soil, and ran it through his fingers. “Not bad,” he said, “a bit on the clayey side.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, standing up to ease the strain on my back and wipe the sweat from my face. “I'm adding some sand and lime to lighten it. And Winston has a nice compost heap going.”

“Oh, that's good. What are you planting?”

So I told him, surprised that one I took for a city gent could be so knowledgeable. It turned out he had been a keen vegetable gardener, his wife being the one for flowers. He too missed his garden, he said, and starting one here was an excellent idea. He wasn't dressed for it today, but would I like him to give me a hand? Did I come every day? Tomorrow? Of course I said yes. I hoped to start the planting out then and could do with some help.

“Fine,” said Mr. Bridges, but he didn't go, he stood watching us for a while, and I turned back to my labours. Winston too I could see was impressed, for he returned to digging with an enthusiasm that had been lacking, and I could see him mentally figuring out if Mr. Bridges would be a soft touch for loans. Or maybe it was just the fact that it was a man showing an interest in gardening that spurred him on. I got so caught up with my work that I didn't even notice when Mr. Bridges left. It wasn't until I got back to my room and showered and dressed for dinner that I realized that despite all my well-laid plans, he had caught me looking my worst—my hands covered in dirt, my grimy face streaked with sweat, my headband soiled. I was wearing an old T-shirt, my washed-out pants, and ugly black water boots. But somehow it didn't seem wrong to have him see me like this, for who am I fooling? This is truly who I am.

IT WAS MA D
who turned me into a farmer, who turned me into something, though she seemed to have failed with her own children. I was such a child that when Sam brought me there, and it became clear to me that he and I were not going to live together—at least not for now, as I told myself—I became quite content to stay alone in the house with her, for her presence was light and she seemed glad of my company. I never went back to school, but she was the best education I had. She had been a schoolteacher. Her house was full of books: novels, dictionaries and encyclopedias, and how-to manuals. I spent much of my time devouring them, not noticing that everything was at least thirty years out of date. At first she tried to quiz me on what I had read, but when she realized I was too shy to say anything, she gave me paper and pen and made me write book reports and essays, which she carefully corrected, giving me high praise from time to time, something I was not used to. She taught me French and Latin, and botany, making me do all the drawings and label them. How to embroider and sew and cook. She taught me a million things. She understood my inability to express myself out loud and she worked around that, never calling me dummy and treating me like a fool as others had.