The Heart Does Not Bend (27 page)

“Hello, this is Molly Galloway. What happen to de delivery?”

He put me on hold, then the phone went dead. I called back.

“What happen, lovely lady? It might be dere dis evening, tomorrow morning or evening. It all depends. Ah can’t guarantee delivery time.”

“Mi granny need her things, her bed—”

He cut me off. “Listen, sis, ah doing mi best, but understand me is not de driver, and de driver have lots of
stop fi mek. Everybody in de same rush.”

“Okay, thanks,” I said, defeated.

“What ’bout de phone number?” he asked. I hung up.

Mama sat in the kitchen folding some kitchen towels. Aunt Joyce whispered, “Any luck?” She could tell the answer from my face. “Dem blasted old farts, dem cyaan run business. Dem want fi go America and learn something ’bout business. Dat is why mi will forever love America, for dis shit couldn’t happen dere. Once yuh pay yuh money everything all right, but dis blasted place full dutty tief. Even when yuh give dem something under de table, yuh still haffi beg.”

Just then the dogs started barking, and we heard men at the gate.

“Shut up, dog. Settle!” Cousin Ivan shouted, tying three of the dogs to the mango tree. A truck backed into the yard and came to a stop next to the verandah. Mama’s shoulders straightened as though a heavy weight had been lifted from them. She wheeled her walker onto the verandah and took a seat where she could see into the back of the truck. The four young men who’d made the delivery volunteered to break open the crates and help set up her bed and easy chair. I gave them a few extra U.S. dollars and they left happy.

That night the household was exhausted but content, and it was another late night with talk and laughter. The next few days were busy with unpacking boxes and setting things up. Our energy ran high and our mood was cheerful. Mama’s religious tapes filled the house. She sat and watched and added her opinion here and there. Aunt Joyce was full of excitement. “All dese new things, ah love de foreign smell,” she said.

“De curtains will look good in the living room on Christmas morning,” Grand-aunt Ruth said.

I put Mama’s clothes away and set her toiletries within easy reach on the dresser. The Depends went into a drawer close to her bed, her panties and merinos in another. I hung her dresses in the closet and set out photographs of Ciboney and Maud, two of Vittorio, a group shot of Peppie, Glory, Aunt Val, Sid and me taken one Christmas, a wedding picture of Freddie and Bella, and one of Mikey and Mama at his birthday party years ago.

The days passed peacefully. There was always music in the house or in the yard, drifting through the open windows, often religious tapes, too, but sometimes Cousin Ivan set up his stereo in the backyard and played reggae and rhythm and blues. Frequently my grand-aunts and grandmother would be in the house talking about the news or a soap opera on television.

Mama reacquainted herself with dasheen yam, negro yam, doctor fish, fried sprat, and her appetite grew daily. “Ah cyaan tell de last time ah eat susumba,” she said, smiling. Or, “Some mackerel and banana would be good fi lunch.” Cousin Icie promised to pick some up at the market, and it appeared on Mama’s plate for lunch the very next day.

I was glad that I’d brought her home. I hardly thought about Rose. Every evening I helped Mama bathe, and then we’d sit on the verandah. We talked long into the nights about everything except Rose and Frank, and she rarely mentioned Vittorio or Ciboney. We talked about her banking and where to open an account.

My bedroom was next to Mama’s, separated by the bathroom. Grand-aunt Ruth and Icie and Aunt Joyce had
bedrooms on the other side of the house. The large living room, dining room and kitchen were in the centre.

From my room I could hear her old lady’s snore, saw when her lights came on in the middle of the night and heard her turning and tossing. Some nights I heard the sound of her urine tinkling in the commode. Sometimes she’d call out that she had gas, and I’d get up and make her tea, talk with her until she fell asleep. One of those nights she began to talk about her father.

“Same way Pappy use to have de gas, yuh know. Sometime it have him curl up like a baby an’ him would bawl. Me and Mammy use to look after him and when Mammy at work, me after him. We use to boil bush tea and give him fi drink. Sometimes mi haffi rub him chest and him stomach fi mek him belch and mek de pain go way. But him never really appreciate it—always love mi sisters more dan me. Maybe a true mi did look more like him, why him treat mi so. Him do mi some bad things. But mi forgive him, for him never know better …”

I hadn’t taken any real notice, until that night, of the devastating change age had handed to her. Her face had grown more severe with age, her skin blotchy and lined, her jaw loose. When she talked about her father, she looked even worse. Mornings, she’d sit with my grand-aunts, and the three would recollect having only one pair of shoes between them and that pair being for Sunday school. They walked to school barefoot, helping Mammy with chores after school, setting bundles of clothes on their heads and walking miles to deliver them. The talk was never dull and never sad, even when it came to Pappy. Yes, Pappy was a womanizer and, yes,
sometimes he didn’t bring all his money home to Mammy. But he never drank, smoked or gambled. Grand-aunt Ruth and Aunt Joyce remembered his tenderness, the sweets he passed to them behind Mammy’s back, the piggyback rides he gave them.

Some nights I sat with Cousin Ivan and Cousin Icie after Mama fell asleep, watching B-grade movies on television, the ones that don’t make it in North America. Sometimes we played cards and listened to the various deejays on the radio and the latest in dance-hall music.

We settled into a routine. Every morning I boiled water for Mama’s bath. I emptied and cleaned her commode, made her bed. Every night, I read to her, sometimes from
The Daily Word
, other times from the scriptures or a bit of Louise Bennet’s poetry.

Grand-aunt Ruth did a little handwashing every day for herself and Mama. She wouldn’t put panties and slips and bras in the washer, firmly believing they must be washed by hand. She, too, was getting on in years, but she was strong and steady on her feet. Cousin Icie took charge of the kitchen and cooked most meals, except when her job didn’t permit it, and then Grand-aunt Ruth took over. Aunt Joyce supervised the kitchen, made the menus and wrote out the shopping list. She also put up new curtains and changed the furniture around. A woman came in once a week to give the house a good cleaning. Cousin Ivan looked after the yard, but his garden did not have half the magic of our old garden under Myers’s care.

There were scheduled times set aside for television. Aunt Joyce watched
Good Morning America
at six every morning.
The television woke us at five-thirty when she turned it on to warm up. She liked to keep up with what was happening in New York. At breakfast she’d talk about all the designer clothing worn on the show that morning. Not to be outdone, Mama talked about
Canada A.M.
, but the grand-aunts paid little attention, because there were no Canadian television stations in Jamaica and not much news of Canada. Mama quickly changed to talking about
60 Minutes
and CNN.

“Dem program more intelligent, mi never have time fi listen to fool-fool talk,” she said.

Aunt Joyce laughed. “Maria, serious news is not all there is in life. Mi come in dis world fi enjoy miself. Ah don’t care what yuh say, I love to keep up wid de fashion and news of society people.”

Then Grand-aunt Ruth laughed, too, and said, “Well since mi never go foreign yet, ah will just stay out of dis.”

“Mi can talk, for mi in Canada long time, and de U.S. was just cross de way,” Mama maintained. “We get a lot of dem programming and mi never rate
Good Morning America.”

Grand-aunt Ruth had Mama’s serious and practical bent—she always thought of making provisions for tomorrow—while Aunt Joyce lived for the day. She wasn’t ashamed of saying that she’d take her last penny to buy a new pair of shoes or cloth for a new dress. Her stories about her boss in America became an inside joke for the rest of us. “Dat woman,” she’d say, “don’t wear nutten but designer clothes, and yuh should see her jewellery. Everything real. Age don’t have nutten on dat woman. Yuh name it and she is dere every summer—Paris, Rome, France, Italy.”

Then she’d go on about the foods she had tasted at her employer’s house. “A pure rich-people food she eat, yuh know. Smoked salmon, de very best. Mi nuh mean nuh fool-fool salmon, kosher and de best. Caviar, champagne. Is right dere mi learn what wine and what drinks go wid which food.”

Mama would interrupt about then. “Ah glad yuh employer treat yuh so good, mek yuh eat caviar, drink champagne and all dem fancy things. Yuh lucky, for dem is not de story mi hear in Canada. Girls come Canada and work hard in domestic service, and mi never hear dem talk like you. an’ is not dat mi read in de papers.”

“Mi talking about my experience,” Aunt Joyce maintained. “Ah don’t know ’bout anybody else, ah just know some of dem don’t get anywhere because dem go foreign and tun fool. Dem come America wid de same ‘no problem’ attitude and expect too much. America is a good place. Yuh can mek life.”

Occasionally Grand-aunt Ruth threw in a neutral comment. “As mi never go to America and taste dem deh breed a food, mi nuh have much to say, except mi nuh feel deprived of de caviar or smoke salmon, or even Paris. Thank God Him bring we out of poverty, and we comfortable.”

Two or three times a week Mama held Bible studies on the verandah. Those days, I took myself to the garden in the backyard or went to visit Punsie, who now had six children and had moved to Molynes Road. Grand-aunt Ruth and Aunt Joyce had been going to a Baptist church every Sunday for years, but Grand-aunt Ruth also studied with a group of Jehovah’s Witnesses every Wednesday on the verandah, and
Mama, never one to pass up the opportunity to debate, joined in. Cousin Icie was Roman Catholic and went to a church nearby, and Cousin Ivan was a “turn-back” Seventh Day Adventist. Thursday evenings, Mother J, a member of the Church of Redemption (Pentecostal), came to hold prayer meetings, and everyone but Cousin Ivan and me joined in. Given the tolerance shown to all these different beliefs, I found it unforgivable that they wouldn’t accept Mikey’s difference. I won’t say my difference. The grand-aunts and cousins knew little about my personal life back in Canada, for Mama had not mentioned anything about Rose.

We didn’t see much of Uncle Mikey for the first two weeks. He called and was always cheerful, but he had visited Mama only twice since her arrival. The rainy season had begun, and he came with flowers and fruit and a large bottle of fresh coconut water. Patches of his hair had turned silver and shone about his face. He wore a well-cut blue suit and sported handmade brown leather sandals with a matching brown leather handbag.

Mama was happy to see him and it showed in her face. “A so you look prosperous!” she exclaimed, allowing him to kiss her and make much of her. My grand-aunts also complimented him. Light talk about the rain, the garden, plans for Christmas, the rising gas prices and local government followed.

“Dis government need fi come outa power, for dem curry favour too much. Dat is why de country a mash-up,” Aunt Joyce said with authority.

“But dem all stay dat way. Yuh tek one outa power and put in de other and is de same thing,” Grand-aunt Ruth said.

“Dat’s not what ah talking ’bout. Mi know all of dem curry favour dem party supporters, but mi get fi understan’ through reliable sources dat dis government give de benefit to de battyman dem who in a business. Mi hear one businessman cuss, seh, him cyaan get no contract, tru him nuh part a de battokrisy.”

Uncle Mikey’s smile faded. Grand-aunt Ruth cleared her throat uneasily. I looked down at my lap and didn’t say a word.

It was Mama who came to the rescue. “If de government corrupt, it have nutten to do wid dat. From we a pickney we use to hear Mammy and Pappy talk ’bout de government, for when we revolt and de British back off, a fi we own people, de one dem train in a fi dem England school who tek over and dem continue to give job to friend and company, nutten fi do wid what you talking about.”

“Well, if yuh want to believe dat, go ahead. Mi sure Mikey can tell yuh dat times change,” Aunt Joyce said.

“How him fi know, him in a government?” Mama asked, talking over Mikey’s head.

“Den him must know, him in business wid one of de biggest hotel owners who reputed to be one a dem kinda man?” Aunt Joyce pressed on.

“Dat’s why mi nuh talk politics, yuh know, for is not God’s way and Him tell yuh so in de scriptures.” Grand-aunt Ruth tried to smooth things over.

Mama said, “Whether dem in bed wid de politicians or not, yuh can’t judge dem. De Bible tell yuh dat as plain as
day. For dem nuh worse dan de robbers and murderers. And even dem God forgive, dat’s why Him put Him son pon de cross fi all a we sins and Him tell we, ‘He dat is widout sin among you, let him cast de first stone.’”

My face grew hot with anger. Still I offered nothing. Uncle Mikey looked at me, his eyes pleading. I looked away. I’d never told him about myself.