If I Never Went Home (10 page)

‘How long would you stay?’ he asked.

‘Don’t know. Few hours. I was a latchkey kid, so if Mom came home and I wasn’t there she just checked at your house or Carlene’s and brought me home. Don’t think she ever realised I didn’t want to be home.’

The waitress brought Michael’s wine.

Bea continued. ‘After a couple times she began stopping on her way home and beeping the horn. I would come out and we’d go home.’

‘What about the bag?’

‘She asked once,’ said Bea. ‘I mumbled something and she laughed it off. We never talked about it.’

He sipped the wine. ‘This is good. You want to taste it?’

He handed her the glass by its delicate stem, letting his fingers touch hers for a few seconds longer than necessary.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It is good. But I should stay off the booze for now.’

‘Are you still running away, Beezy?’ he asked quietly.

She glanced away. ‘Probably.’

He touched her hand. ‘When will you stop?’

‘When I make it home,’ she whispered.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Well, it’s been a whole year since they bury Mummy, and I’m living by Nanny now. I didn’t get a choice. Boo-Boo remained with Miss Celia. Nanny put she foot down and say she not minding child and dog same time. And I’m in secondary school now – Queen’s College, same as Priya. She’s one year ahead of me and has her own friends. I like this school. The teachers and students only know me as living by my grandmother. Some kids ask about my parents but most aren’t bothered. And there are other kids who live with relatives. I don’t stick out like I did at St. Gabriel’s. My dream would be to live in a big city like New York or even London where everybody busy and no one knows your business.

My favourite subjects are English and History. We had this assignment in English the other day where you had to pretend to be a character from a story and write a new short story from that character’s point of view. I wrote about ‘The Three Little Pigs’. In it there was a Mummy pig and twin baby pigs. I was one of the baby pigs. We all lived happily together in a house made of bricks. The big bad wolf would often creep up at night and huff and puff and blow with all his might but he never managed to cause the slightest damage to our brick house.

Then one dark night when Mummy pig was outside looking for the moon she was snatched. We never saw her again. The evil wizard who took her also used his magic powers to make our brick house vanish. We baby pigs had no bricks and no clue how to build a new house. We were super frightened. My twin curled her tail with mine and together we set off through the countryside looking for a new home. After walking all day we came across a house made of straw belonging to a kind rabbit called Finn. Rabbit Finn said that it was not safe for baby pigs to be walking in the wild by themselves. The wizard was sure to come back and this time he would eat us alive. So Rabbit Finn took us in and made us macaroni pie, baked chicken, red velvet cake and vanilla ice cream. During the day we played and helped around the house but at night we would quiver under our blankets wondering if the big bad wolf might return. If he huffed and puffed he would mash up Rabbit Finn’s house. It was only a matter of time. The End.

Don’t think I wrote about the pigs because Nanny has a little old house. It might be old but nothing – no hurricane or wolf – going to blow it down. Nana was a joiner by trade and he built this little house from scratch. It must have been something when it was first built. The problem Nanny has is finding people, like when the wooden fretwork was breaking off. She’s always complaining people nowadays don’t do good work like Nana, God rest his soul, used to do. I wonder how much longer Nanny will live. She’s real old. She even smells old. Old people have that sickly-sweet talcum-powder-rolled-up-with-sweat smell. She left school when she was twelve and became a seamstress so she’s no use with my homework. She’s even too old to sew much now. It has to be something extra special before she will take out the sewing machine and run up a dress.

We had parents’ day last Friday. Nanny came, and Aunty Indra and Uncle Ricky were there too, but they only came to see Priya’s teachers. Nanny kept holding on to my wrist real tight and dragging me around. The normal parents were walking from teacher to teacher with their child. They did not hold on like they were afraid their secondary school kid would get lost in her own school grounds or that she might run away. And before that there was sports day. I wanted to dig a hole in the stadium and hide. Nanny up in the front cheering loud-loud for every race I was in. She wouldn’t stay in the bleachers like the other parents. Mummy never carried on so. Sports day she would be too busy chatting to the other moms to bother with me and my friends.

I know I am complaining when I should be grateful, but one last thing really bugging me. Nanny doesn’t like me going to the mall to hang out with my friends or go to the movies. She thinks I will get in trouble, though exactly what kind of trouble she trying to avoid she don’t say. If I wanted to get in trouble I don’t have to go to any mall or cinema. There was a girl and boy who found trouble right behind the church but the priest catch them. I better not say anything or Nanny might really lock me up in my bedroom till I turn eighteen like she keep saying she going to do. I bet if Mummy were alive she would let me go out with my friends. And who knows, if my Daddy found out about me and came to get me to live with him, he would take me to the mall and the cinema and we would have lots of friends and his house would always have people liming and laughing.

The only time I can go out is when Nanny’s church group plan an excursion to the beach or one time we went to the Pitch Lake in La Brea. Usually I am the only person under a hundred. Is always a set of half dead church elders. Actually, that is not completely true. We also get invited to every single wedding, christening and funeral happening in St. Theresa’s church. Nanny has worshipped there since her wedding about a million years ago. Aunty Indra and Uncle Ricky got married in St. Theresa’s. Nana’s funeral was there, but that was before I was born. Mummy’s service was there too. All Nanny’s grandchildren get christened there. In fact in our family you can’t pick your nose without first notifying St. Theresa’s.

Most of the time we stay home. We don’t have many visitors. Miss Celia has come a few times. That Granny Gwen old lady is a regular. She likes visiting on a Saturday after the hardware closes up. Once she reach, the two old ladies like to sink into the Morris rocking chairs and is old talk and Bible reading until it get dark. I usually settle myself in front the TV or finish my homework. I don’t mind Granny Gwen. Since that time she made me sit on her sweaty lap we cool. We have a routine. It’s one kiss when she reach and one kiss when she going – no matter how damp and sticky her cheek feels I always do my duty.

Today we had some sad news. Granny Gwen has a son called Mr. Alan. His name is not Mr. Alan exactly but that is how everyone use to call him so I followed suit. His proper name would be Mr. Alan Clark. People should have called the man Mr. Clark instead of Mr. Alan but that is Trinidad for you. Anyway, when Aunty Indra came to pick up Priya from school today she told me to get in the car. Nanny was going to be home late tonight so I was to spend the night by her. She had packed my overnight bag and it was already in Aunty Indra’s car trunk. Priya made it clear she was not sharing her room. Aunty said Uncle Ricky will fix up the sofa bed in the living room. When did Priya stop liking me?

It is not Nanny’s style to go out and on a school night to boot. Aunty said that Granny Gwen’s son Mr. Alan had passed away that same day. She only heard part of the story but it seemed that he was driving after drinking too much rum and crashed his car. Or maybe someone else was drinking rum and crashed into his car. We’ll have to wait for the full story. One way or another Mr. Alan end up dead. His brother, who I know as Mr. Robin, had to go all the way to San Fernando General Hospital to identify the body. The doctor had given Granny Gwen sleeping tablets. The St. Theresa’s ladies didn’t miss a beat. They had already organised a rota so she always had a sister from the church by her side, morning, noon and night. Nanny was doing the evening shift and wanted to stay as late as she was needed.

One night at Aunty Indra’s turned into a full week on that lumpy sofa bed. Nanny seemed to have moved into Granny Gwen’s house. Whenever she came to check up on me she was full of excitement. First they had to wait for the body to be released and then they had to wait for Mr. Alan’s daughter to come from America. And we finally get the story straight. Mr. Alan was the one who get hit by a drunk driver. He dead but the drunk driver not only living but he hardly get a scratch. At least the police charged him. You see how life not fair. I feel for his daughter. I suppose she still has a mother although nobody mention a Mrs. Alan.

The way Nanny excited you would think is a wedding they organising. The family put up a tent behind the hardware and every night is big wake. She say night after night people turning up with one set of food. People nearby have used that hardware to buy everything from mop bucket to hacksaw so they would have known Mr. Alan by face if not by name. He must have been a good man to bring in a crowd every night. My Mummy had a little crowd too.

I got to sample the buzz firsthand when Nanny took me to the wake one night. But it was the funeral in St. Theresa’s church that I’m not going to forget for a long time. The church was packed as if roti and curry chicken was sharing. Everybody squish up on the pews so your arms pushed tight against your sides. Small children had to sit on their parents’ lap. People who didn’t get there at least half an hour before the service started could only stand at the side or in the back. The place was hot like hell and me in my thick black dress. I could feel the sweat rolling in the crease down the middle of my back. Some ladies were using the thin programmes to fan themselves. There was absolutely no breeze to cool down the amount of bodies stacked up in the church. If we weren’t sitting down I would have fainted before the service even started.

The casket was open at the front of the church. Nanny told us that Granny Gwen had insisted on an open casket and Chatoo Funeral Services had had a hard time fixing to make him look respectable. His face had gone right through the windscreen. Aunty Indra march straight up, take a good look and cross herself. Nanny was right behind. I don’t normally want to look at dead people but after getting all the details for days I had to take a peek. Mr. Alan looked like I remembered, but I only saw him a few times. He had on thick foundation and lipstick and look peaceful like when you pulling a good sleep. Mummy had looked peaceful too. Sometimes I can’t believe she really gone.

Well, the service started the way every funeral does start with hymns and scripture readings and things like that. Mr. Robin, the brother, did the first reading. Granny Gwen was in the front pew so I could only see her back. She was holding herself up stiff like the guards outside the prime minister’s office. Her white hanky kept coming out and getting shoved back up her long sleeves. Thank God she was not stuffing it down her bra this time. Poor old lady. I’m not sure if it’s sweat or tears she wiping. Next to her is this tiny person who Aunty Indra mumbled is Mr. Alan’s daughter. When the girl get up she so little I think she look like a midget. She walk up to do the eulogy but if you weren’t near the front I don’t know how you would see her. She definitely didn’t take after her tall father. It wasn’t only that she was short but she was small like a dolly. They should have put a box for her to stand up on.

This was one special funeral for St. Theresa’s congregation to remember. The service hadn’t even reach halfway when a woman started to shout out all kind of craziness. People trying to get her to keep quiet but she keeping up one big noise. The cute midget, who had a surprisingly strong voice, was trying to give her little speech only to be interrupted by the woman bawling down the church. I didn’t get what the crazy lady was saying but it was something about how much she did love Mr. Alan and how much she hate Granny Gwen. I tried to turn around to see who it was but Aunty Indra push me down in my seat. I don’t see why – everybody else was straining to see who it was. The lady bawl so hard that the little midget-girl stop talking and we sang a hymn instead. I whispering to Priya but she didn’t know who it was either. Someone must have tried to take the bawling lady out of the church because she yell that if anybody touch her again she going to call police for them. Priya and I were trying not to giggle because Nanny was looking at us hard with her eyes open big.

Then the sweet Mr. Alan daughter made another try to say what she had to say – something about building a wall. She must have been talking about the walls of Jericho. It wasn’t easy to understand because all through the speech Miss Bawling Lady was carrying on for so. I’m not sure if she finally shut up because someone tape up her mouth and took her outside or she got fed up and left, but eventually the service went back to normal. No. You can’t call this bacchanal normal. Well, it normal for Trinidad. I doubt church in Canada and America does see this kind of confusion. Mr. Alan, I wonder if you know what trouble you make at your own funeral?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It was April before Bea was finally discharged from St. Anthony’s. She looked out of the taxi window as it moved through the city, driving her away from the hospital and back to her previous life. Although she had spent years uncovering and absorbing its secrets, Boston today seemed uncharted, out of step with all she had known. It wasn’t only that when she last walked these streets there were huge piles of dirty snow, the wind whipping through her coat. Nor was it because the city sidewalks were now lined with explosions of vibrant yellow crocuses and tulips in a myriad of colours from milk white to deep regal purple. Something more fundamental had occurred. Bea’s eyes had a new optic nerve, replacing the one severed last year when she said a final goodbye to these streets. Now she registered each skyscraper, each road sign, each passing face, as if for the first time.

Spring was everywhere as the taxi crawled through morning rush-hour traffic on the main street, past the antique furniture shop and overpriced deli, turning right at the corner with Macpherson’s Pharmacy – landmarks Bea found familiar but today were simultaneously alien.

‘It’s the third house on the left,’ she told the taxi driver. ‘That brownstone with the blue front door.’

‘Fancy part of town,’ said the driver.

She got out and stood on the pavement with her battered duffle bag. Last December she should have returned to this apartment for the last time. After teaching the final class of the semester there was to have been one last subway ride. Everything was prepared, waiting in the locked bedside drawer. Untouched.

That moment had passed. Now, in a different time, she needed to climb the five small steps that led to the blue front door. But even that simple act demanded extensive mental preparation.

Insert key in lock. Turn.

Push door open.

The apartment would be visible at the end of the short inner passageway. A few more rehearsals and she’d be ready. Well, as ready as anyone can be returning to a house that looked like your home but really wasn’t.

Bea kept reminding herself it was the same one-bedroom apartment. Had the taxi transported her to a twin planet where everything looks the same but feels different?

Insert key in lock. Turn.

Push door.

Walk straight ahead.

Apartment with letter C on white door.

Insert key in lock.

Turn.

Push door.

Home again.

Time paused while Bea hovered on the spot where she had alighted from the taxi. Over and over she rehearsed in her mind the progression from pavement to apartment, but each time her feet refused to budge. Rigid bones collided with a thumping, panic-stricken chest, finally settling in small, tight fists.

She wondered what would happen if she turned around and walked away. What if she never went through the blue front door? To the untrained eye it was an old building converted into three apartments like many others on that street. Concealed layers of memory silently seeped from the chinks of its honeystone façade, spilling onto the dark wood floors and soaking through cracks in the white ceilings. Home had morphed into a three-storey monument mocking her shame.

‘What are you doing here, Bea?’

Startled, she spun around to find the voice belonged to her landlady, Mrs. Harris. ‘I didn’t know you were coming out of hospital today,’ she said. ‘I could’ve picked you up.’ She put an arm around Bea. ‘Why are you out here, dear? Come inside.’ She took a frayed tissue out of her pocket and thrust it at Bea. ‘Don’t cry. It’s okay.’

Mrs. Harris took hold of the old duffle bag and marched up to the blue front door.

Bea shuffled slowly behind. ‘I’m really sorry for this trouble, Mrs. Harris,’ she said, sniffling. She opened her apartment door. ‘I’m fine now.’

‘You’re sure? Can I get you anything? Help you settle back in?’

‘You’re so kind. It’s a little difficult coming home.’

‘Well, I’m only upstairs. If you need anything, dear, anything at all, just bang your broomstick on the ceiling.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Now, I mean it, young lady. I’m only upstairs.’

Mrs. Harris was barely out the door when Bea hurried to the bedroom and the bedside cupboard. It was still there, untouched. The package of white powder had been in hiding all these months: two ounces of hateful accusations. She perched on the edge of the bed staring at the little plastic bag, unable to decide what to do next. Why so many decisions when today she couldn’t even choose between tea or coffee?

Bea glanced up at the clock on her wall. Unbelievably, nearly two hours had passed since she had been delivered home from St. Anthony’s, and she had not moved from where she sat on the bed. She was aware of the pressure on her bladder. It was time to pee, unpack, shower and have lunch, but her mind would not slow down long enough to focus on completing any one of these elementary tasks.

With some effort, she placed the plastic bag of white powder back in the bedside cabinet. A surgical removal was too strenuous. Maybe tomorrow. Besides, if she didn’t get to the toilet soon her jeans would be soaked.

Too late. As she stood up, warm liquid squirted straight through her panties and jeans, and trickled down her inner thighs. Soon a sticky little golden pool surrounded her feet.

I can’t even pee properly.

She rubbed her forehead, groaning.

In the bathroom the cracked bar of soap from more than four months earlier was still caked to its white plastic dish next to the half-empty bottle of shampoo. There was no reason why it should not be there. Only she had not expected to be in this shower again, rubbing that bar of soap across her body, massaging that shampoo into her scalp. Four months to erase the pain from her body, and now this sour smell of piss.

She attacked her skin with a loofah, reducing it to a patchwork of brown and red. Grime and urine vanished down the plughole. But the smell of St. Anthony’s had bonded with cells far below the epidermis and remained untroubled by lathers of Camay Softly Scented Bath Bar. Exhausted, Bea went back to her bedroom and lay down. The bed was soft with clean white welcoming sheets, and even though it was the middle of the day she crawled in, naked and damp.

Slowly she traced the contours of her breasts, then down across her stomach. Here lay a woman surplus to requirements, but written on her body were fragments – moments of connection – that would always exist, even if Bogart never came back. Why did he still fill her thoughts? What about Michael? Could he be the one? They were easy in each other’s company. He did not judge her. But she reminded herself that he did not know the kind of woman she had become, not really. Once he found out, he too would disappear and not look back.

Could she still feel?

Closing her eyes, she imagined feeling her heart beat against his lips.

His tongue seeking her out.

Her hips reaching for his.

Her mind swirled with images of his naked body.

She held his head in her hands.

She sensed his urgent kisses. All over.

Sucking. All over.

Licking. All over.

His fingers reaching. All over.

Searching. All over.

Over, all over.

Flicking. Dipping.

The spasms of tight, warm muscles thumped and pulsed rhythmically, clenching wet against her fingers.

All over.

*

The university gave Bea generous paid leave, effectively providing time out until the new academic year. Late spring and a long summer stretched ahead. The dean wrote, reminding her of the contribution she had already made, the research that had received critical approval and the teaching awards she had secured. He knew she would come back refreshed and ready to continue a promising career.

Colleagues surprised her with their kindness. She had an inbox of emails with offers of places to stay and invitations to break bread. She was at a loss to explain that sharing a family meal or staying at a house beside a lake would be wonderful but for her inability to assume even the minimum of social graces. She could manage with Michael or maybe Dave, but no one else. Not yet. In a perfect world she would exist in a deaf-mute state, without demands, and only the barest of acknowledgements from others.

So Bea locked her apartment door and retreated inside.

But hiding wasn’t straightforward either. Life continued to happen around her. Bills had to be paid, trash had to be taken out and laundry had to be done. During her daily trip to the local grocery, Bea filled her basket with one banana, one Diet Coke, one microwavable meal and one small container of two percent milk. Sometimes she included a tube of Colgate toothpaste or a couple rolls of Charmin Ultra toilet paper.

‘Hi, how are you?’ asked the cashier. ‘Getting the usual?’

Bea had seen her often enough. Her air of authority suggested she must be the owner or manager of the store.

‘Back for the same stuff,’ Bea replied.

‘You know you could save yourself this trip every day. We’ll deliver for free if the bags are too heavy for you to walk home with.’

‘Thanks, but I like the walk. Gets me out,’ said Bea. ‘See what’s happening in the world.’

‘No problem, but anytime you need a hand I’ll have Ed bring the groceries round. You live nearby, don’t you?’

‘Just at the bottom of Mount Vernon Street.’

‘That’s no distance. We could do that any time.’

What Bea could not say was that, while she was better, she had not actively embraced life either. She had thrived in the safety of St. Anthony’s, but in this twilight world of not quite living – with its dry cleaners, trash days, bills and newspapers – it would take time to adjust. So she lurched from one daily purchase to another with no action plan and no future that required a stockpile of daily provisions. Life proceeded with pills, one banana, one ready meal, one Diet Coke at a time. Her only other outings were the required medical checkups.

But slowly, unrelentingly, the future unfurled into brighter, longer days. The trees regained luscious green canopies. Pink cherry blossom punctured the landscape; people shed heavy clothing and inhibitions as soon as the merest glint of sunshine lit the sky. It was impossible to avoid a sense of rejuvenation. Bea still found it gruelling to do much beyond the daily walk to and from the grocery store. But at least it was a routine anchoring her day. Michael called often and their almost weekly outings for coffee or meals became the high-water mark of her existence.

After being back at her own apartment for over a month, she awoke one morning to find the darkness had descended again, unexpectedly and completely. It was impossible to get out of bed. Her body knew the sequence of movements but, for reasons unknown, her mind could not be willed into submission. Her heart thumped louder and louder as the minutes turned to hours and she had not left her bed, in spite of wanting to. She shivered in the warm room. Her cotton nightshirt was soaked in sweat. The white powder, still unopened, sprung to mind.

She held her head in her hands, shaking.

I’m supposed to be well. I’m supposed to be well.

For almost a week she stayed in her apartment, existing on bits of food, refusing to answer the telephone or turn on her computer. She could hear Mrs. Harris’s footsteps on the landing outside as she went about life. Bea made no attempt to pick her mail off the floor and before long a mound of flyers, magazines and letters barricaded her in.

A rancid smell came from under the duvet, and Bea was shocked to discover it was her own filthy flesh. Biting back tears, she reached out and dialled.

‘Day clinic, good morning.’

‘I’d like an appointment with Dr. Payne please,’ she said in a weak voice.

‘When for?’

‘Today if possible.’

‘He’s got a fairly full diary at the moment. Who’s calling?’

‘Bea. Beatrice Clark.’

‘Hang on a minute, let’s see what I can do.’

Music displaced the silence while she held on. It was a familiar Bach piece that for some reason made her even sadder. It stopped as abruptly as it had started when the woman came back on the phone. ‘Sorry for the wait. I spoke to Dr. Payne and he’ll see you at five o’clock. Can you make that?’

‘Yes. Thanks.’

‘Have a good day now.’

‘Bye.’

Bea knew the six hours before her appointment would be filled with getting herself ready and taking the short cab ride to Dr. Payne’s downtown office. Six hours to have breakfast, wash, and take a two-mile cab ride.

*

‘Hi! Come on in,’ said Dr. Payne, rising from his desk and gesturing at the two faded armchairs. There was always a deliberate ease in his gait, shoulders back, looking taller than his actual height. A shaft of sunlight fell on his face as he sat down, shifting slightly to his left to avoid the glare. For a moment Bea could see the boy he might have been – thick, light brown hair, almost blond, and smooth skin tautly stretched over chiselled bones. But the eyes would have been the same as now. Time would always preserve the kindness in those pale-blue eyes.