If It Were Up to Mrs Dada

by Carissa Foo

  Then the words sounded like thunder in her mind: “Ten is order.” But who said that? “Ten is the number of the law.” Was it Moses or Elijah? Cheryl Dada could see the rows of pews: 10 on each side of the room. They drew her eyes to the rugged cross that was nailed to the front wall.

  There behind the pulpit she saw him. “Ten is order,” he bellowed; the floor was vibrating. “Keep all ten, fail not one, my child,” he bellowed again, his hazel eyes stared into hers. The man must be Jesus. Except he was Chinese. His yellow arms were outstretched: one hand clutching the Bible and the other held cartoon tracts. No obvious scars, Cheryl noted, squinting to see his palms. As for the wound on his side, her natural eyes could not see through his polo shirt.

  Cheryl Dada stared hard into the vista, trying to summon the memory of the Chinese Jew. All this time she was sweating profusely, her clammy hands fiddling with the ends of her shirt. The little of the man she could remember melded with the face that emerged from the driveway.

  “Good morning, Madam!” said Juwel high-spiritedly. He was walking briskly towards the bougainvillea that were potted by the porch and stopped in his tracks with his hands full of weeds when he saw her.

  “Hello, Juwel,” said Cheryl Dada, relieved to be interrupted.

  “Madam eat already?” he asked politely.

  “Not yet. Have you?” she said.

  He nodded. “Yes, Madam. Today is rice and chicken curry.”

  Cheryl Dada gave a weak smile. For his sake, she hoped the curry wasn’t sour.

  “Wait ah, Madam,” said Juwel. He went to the rubbish bin to throw the weeds in his hands and came back to her smiling sheepishly, as though her standing alone on the porch was his fault.

  “Madam?” His voice quavered for a moment.

  Sensing his apprehension, Cheryl Dada let her eyes wander behind him.

  “I want to tell you something,” he said.

  What is it? she thought, glancing down at her watch.

  “Madam, it is tonight. I cannot go to your party tonight,” said Juwel, nodding apologetically, fingering the rusty trowel in his tool belt.

  Her lips puckered, forming the silent surprise.

  “I’m very sorry, Madam. Sorry.”

  Why? She almost asked.

  I really want to, thought Juwel. The food is good and MC members will give out ang pows. And also Madam and Mr Dada are good people. Madam always gives him Brand’s essence of chicken and Mr Dada would occasionally give him his old checked shirts. Juwel did not want to disappoint them. But it was his turn to wash the cars tonight. He had already asked Rajeet to cover two nights for him last month. Rajeet had his own commitments: two multi-storey car parks on Avenue 6 and a full-time job at the pest control company; and Juwel could not afford to skip nights this month. No work meant no money. He could not just work 44 hours a week in the nursing home; $560 was not enough. Back in Chittagong he could work forever, however long he wanted; there were no regulated labour hours. But here work stopped at six. All those extra hours spent in his dorm—how much did that cost him? He tried to work out the sum in his head: if he washed eight cars in four hours and each wash was five-dollars, he would earn about $40 a night, minus water money and soap money. But it was difficult to keep track of the money that was coming in because some nights he washed six cars and some nights there were no cars to wash.

  Juwel was certain of one thing: the more hours he worked, the more money he made. Man-hours meant more men, more work, more money. July was a good month because he was washing almost every day. June, however, was not so good because many people went on holiday. Also, early in the month he had lost one packet of soap and had to ration the remaining bars by chopping them into tiny bits.

  He wanted to tell somebody about the unease he felt for reusing the soap water and how his heart beat so quickly every time a police car drove by. But Mrs Dada would not understand. Why would Madam care? What seemed right to him was illegal to her. She was from a different world and he did not belong to her party.

  “Very sorry, Madam, sorry I cannot go.”

  “It’s all right,” Cheryl Dada said after consideration. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Madam,” Juwel rushed on. “Sorry, Madam.”

  Watching Juwel turn away, Cheryl Dada found herself unwilling to let him go. She was sorry that he could not be there. He works too hard, she thought. He also seemed to be getting thinner—or was the green and red checked shirt too big for him? With an impulse to hold him, a maternal compassion welling up, she called out, “I’ll ask them to keep some food for you!”

  What a boy. With that sweet disposition and politeness, he can’t be older than 25, she thought. Where had he learned all that gardening skills? From his father? Grandfather? Great-grandfather? (She heard that they married young—women as young as 12.) It always puzzled her how migrant workers like Juwel arrived here and seemed to know how to do the things they did. Like where did they learn to build something like Marina Bay Sands or the Star Vista? And the Esplanade? They must have had some training before they got here. Surely, not everyone could do it. Surely it wasn’t as simple as following a building plan. There was nothing simple about filling up a rooftop infinity pool. The foreign workers did a good job—they were Chinese, right? Cheryl Dada recalled some dispute over wages on the news. Only the Chinese would dare to complain about unpaid wages and illegal deductions, only they would rally outside MOM and demand to be heard because they knew their rights.

  Cheryl wondered if Juwel could build a pool too, and her eyes glittered at the thought of having a jacuzzi in the home. She was very pleased with the gardener, so much so that she might even miss him when it was his turn to receive the five-year long service award, which was a round-trip ticket to his home country. The blossoming pink bougainvillea that brightened the courtyard testified to his capabilities.

  With his tool belt and gardening apron, Juwel certainly looked the part. His boots were caked in mud from grubbing about in the soil for diseased roots. The dark-skinned, lanky boy carried with him the smell of dampened earth. Cheryl Dada took long and deep breaths, relishing the telluric scent that was still wafting in the air.

  Only for a brief moment she thought of St Joan’s. She closed her eyes and traced the uneven canopy of rain trees and the square field that took refuge under the viridescent dome.

  (Juwel turned back to look at her. Something in Madam’s tense face relaxed and softened, and she looked happier. Her face was very peaceful; it had a clarity that would make a good identity card photo. Juwel remembered how he had to use up half a bottle of gel to tame his curls so they would not fall to the front and cover his eyes. The immigration officer behind the camera was not nice at all—talking to him in a snarky tone. He was also thinking of how Madam’s calm expression would befit an obituary picture; the kind that made the deceased look so at peace with death that living was passé and heaven was a real thing. The kind that turned mourning into jealousy.

  Looking at her, affected by the feminine grace, Juwel forgot she was Madam from block A. In that moment, as his watch beeped twice, he saw his Ma again. The countenance roiled feelings of grief and shame. He began to tear up. It brought him back to that September, that weekend before he had left Chittagong. It all happened so fast: the application; the contract; the recruitment fees; the IPA and work permit processing; the visa and passport checks; Ma’s death; the funeral; his departure.

  Juwel was with his agent in Dhaka when he received the news. He flew back immediately on his agent’s tab, just in time to see Ma before she was wrapped in the kafan. He did not recognise the pale-faced woman in a white dress; she looked like a teenager. Nani’s hands were bright red from all the washing and cleaning. The same hands pulled the linen over the body and tied the sheets with ropes.

  Outside the mosque, it was quiet. Nobody spoke a word, as though they did not know each other. Hands were raised and folded; the women behind were sniffling like they had colds. Once or twice there would be
a roar: “Allahu Akbar”; then it was silent again. Then the truck started; its engine throbbed. Inside, where the body was loaded, it was quiet. The road was empty for a Friday afternoon. There was no sign of the usual stray dogs that scavenged for food by the wayside.

  The cemetery was peaceful as expected. There were no birds chirping or frogs croaking. Only the sound of feet dragging across the grass. As shovels of soil heaped over the body, Juwel recited a prayer and said salam in his heart. He hoped that Ma’s faith would take her to Paradise, someplace prettier than the overgrown burial site; he hoped there would be lilies and roses, birds and small animals, laughter.

  Nani was waiting by the gate when it was over. Her arms reached out to Juwel and pulled him close; her face on his chest. He was afraid that Nani would hear his heart moaning when he was not supposed to cry. But she let him go without saying anything.

  The crowd left as they had come, wordless and without tears. It was the quietest day of his life. Juwel left the next day for Dhaka. He flew to Singapore on Sunday and started work on Monday.)

  Mrs Dada was thinking of St Joan’s. The white and blue building was most pretty in the rain. Amidst the sound of pattering rain, she could hear the recess bell chiming; her watch beeping—and it was noon. She would go out to where the field met the trees and sweep her feet through the mounds of leaves and long black pods. The sounds of crisp leaves shuffling and twigs snapping, joined by the chatters of mynahs and crows—occasionally interrupted by the boys screaming in the neighbouring football field—woke the sleeping giant from its reverie. In moments like this saturated with the smell of soil and dried leaves, St Joan’s slipped into Cheryl Dada’s thoughts.

  (Her eyes were resolutely shut, as though determined to block out the light. Madam must hate the sun, Juwel supposed, tracing the arches of her eyebrows. What was she thinking? The party tonight? He took a few steps closer, heedful not to alarm the woman, and allowed his eyes to rest longer on her fine face. The lines near her eyes were most distinct; they relaxed her worried face. Madam is pretty but she’s getting old, he thought. Definitely older than Ma was. Juwel did not know if it was the stale curry or the thought of his mother’s mummified body that roused in him an urge to puke. He dropped his tool belt and ran to the toilet.)

  Cheryl Dada had forgotten most of St Joan’s. She could not recall what the school building looked like, for it had been closed and torn down many years ago. The motto—Steadfast in Duty—was embossed on the school badge that was mostly white and blue with small flowers. She could piece together bits and bobs: the drink stall sold Sinalco and ice cream soda; a bowl of yellow noodles was 30 cents; the building did not have lifts; on the ground floor was a makeshift dental clinic operated by a masked couple. With the demolition it was as if St Joan’s and its people had never existed. As if she were never there, as if nothing had happened.

  A few years ago a co-ed school was built on the same plot of land. The paint was brighter, the building taller, the field trimmed. The canteen remained where it was; near the back gate. Cheryl passed by once when she was on home leave. There were boys and girls in green and yellow uniforms carrying their oversized bags, some holding hands, some buying ice cream from the Wall’s cart by the traffic light. The older kids were hanging around the bus stop, waiting for the feeder bus; the younger ones stood by the side gate and looked out for their maids. Cheryl was standing there by the green fence where she had stood decades ago, looking into the football field; but everything was unfamiliar. She could no longer put the place to her memory. St Joan’s was a disembodied fragment of the past. Cheryl wondered if she had imagined that year in school.

  The one thing that assured her—what she remembered most vividly of St Joan’s—was the perfume of the good damp earth with a hint of citrus. It flushed her with the hope of youth and brought her to the top of the world and to the end of herself. When the soil was roiled and the grass freshly cut, and her body suffused with warmth and midday languor, Cheryl Dada was reminded that the world was larger than the home.

  But why was she thinking of St Joan’s now? Where did the thoughts about it come from, all of a sudden? Her mind had no room for St Joan’s, for the party was her priority. Today, the party was her world.

  II

  The clank of the iron gate swinging open brought Mrs Dada back to the present. Too open, she thought, watching closely as the gate slid across the concrete road, letting out a soft screech that was quickly devoured by the roar of the car engine. Mrs Dada stared hard at the passing Camry. She scrutinised the darkened window to see who was in the driver’s seat, only to discover a blotchy likeness of herself in the glass that was formless and somewhat feral.

  The car steered to the right of the car park—Mrs Dada peered again—and drove towards the back of the building. Did no one else notice? Had they forgotten about the escapes last year? Surely security must be tighter! What the hell was Cheok doing—sleeping again?

  “Excuse me!” Mrs Dada cried out, following behind with her hand raised in the air, flagging the car down.

  “Stop there,” she shouted.

  “I said stop,” she yelled at the mysterious driver. But the car had disappeared from view.

  “Lulu! Who was that?” Mrs Dada shouted, stepping back up to the porch, exhausted and riled, catching her breath.

  “Can you hear me?” she cried out again, looking for Lulu who had disappeared into the following tables.

  “I said the gate is too open!” Cheryl Dada yelled again, flapping her hands like the wings of a gigantic moth. “Damn it! It’s too open!”

  Lulu was busy laying the tablecloths. Her arms shuffled from left to right, right to left, smoothing out the creases that formed waves over the tabletop. She was already done with 20 tables. Catching sight of her red fingers, Lulu wondered if she would be able to wash the stain off later. (“Lulu!” Mrs Dada called out from behind.) Management should have acquired better tablecloths, she said rather begrudgingly. What a bunch of cheapskates. These ones were bloody lousy, the red colour running all over her hands! The stains on the nails are the hardest to remove, she lamented, examining her poorly manicured hands.

  Eight more tables to go, Lulu told herself. She heard the screech of the car and was worried that the caterer had arrived early. It was only noon; she wasn’t ready. She still had to sweep the floor and lay the cutlery. And she had to lay the candles for the table decorations. Lulu had got up at six this morning to run errands for the party, gone to the market and collected the stuff for the tables from the storage room. She had done so much but there was still more to do.

  It’s going to be a long afternoon, Lulu thought, looking at the chairs that were stacked up by the wall. They were like the rest of her days piling up, one after another; she was at the bottommost, bearing the responsibilities of the festivities ahead: Deepavali, Hari Raya Haji, the two remaining Family Weekends, Christmas, the New Year… She could not wait for today to be over, for the year to be over.

  The sound of the engine had stopped. Lulu waited to hear footsteps but it was quiet. It’s no one important, she thought, and grabbed another tablecloth from the bag on the floor.

  The car was gone, but Mrs Dada was still furious. Her privacy—this was her house!—had been invaded; worse still, nobody cared. Nobody was looking out for anyone here. “Where is everybody?” Mrs Dada found herself asking in a panic. The lack of security was troubling. There had been a rumour about someone escaping but Management refused to disclose any information. Of the money they have been pumping into the home, Cheryl thought, more should be spent on hiring competent people to guard the home. Nobody seemed to be uptight about their safety. Did no one care—Juwel? Cheok? Lulu? Daniel? Only she bothered enough to take down the car plate number.

  People should care more, thought Mrs Dada, pacing the porch; her eyes were drawn to the mission statement written in red across the wall behind her: “To provide holistic quality care and round-the-clock concern with love for the elderly and needy,” s
he mumbled, and wondered for a moment if the policy of care were the same as the provision of care. She hoped to God that all staff members would honour the promise and provide that holistic quality care tonight, for she had been looking forward to this evening. It was all she thought about for the past two months. But now that it was finally August, her mind kept slipping away to the littlest things like the bump left on her upper ear from the helix piercing she had got on her 35th birthday.

  That was most definitely a midlife crisis, she reflected quietly, heaving a sigh. Just the other day she overheard Siew Eng and Felicia talking in the TV room about how single women above 35 were eligible to get a flat of their own. They could apply for BTOs or buy resale flats with bigger kitchens. There were also a few grants available but none for Siew Eng, who wanted to live near her parents. (What kind of grants, for instance? Some proximity grant; Cheryl Dada could not hear the rest of the explanation.) Siew Eng went on about how she would have tried for a BTO in the area if she were entitled to the $10,000 grant, for location was very important to her; Ang Mo Kio was very important to her. The irony of the whole housing situation was that Siew Eng and her parents were all living in Ang Mo Kio. She was just a street away from them.

  From the porch facing the entrance, Mrs Dada fixed her eyes on the two BTOs across the road: one was white with orange stripes, the other was beige and green and taller. Both were also partly red because the flag buntings were up. A couple of flags over the parapet were hanging upside down.

  The blocks of new flats were slim and high, not like the old ones. Certainly nothing like the house Cheryl grew up in. She remembered the tattered black sofa and boxy television that was at least three times more cumbersome than the one currently in the TV room. Very squarish, not rectangular or flat screen at all. It was the centrepiece of the living room that had cream-painted walls and was sparsely furnished.