For my mother, Sister Sheena, and Mr. T.
table of contents
PART ONE
How to Paint Flowers
LPs and Drawings
They Like the Art
Hospital Rooms
PART TWO
Two Fur Coats
Rememberings
It’s Hot in July for Fur
Aunties
Uncle Alton and the B’s
Lists and Shirts
PART THREE
The Trees
Travelling Light
Water Lilies
Acknowledgments
About Alecia McKenzie
About Akashic Books
chapter one
How to Paint Flowers
The dogs watched him as he trekked up the slope. He expected them to start barking at any moment, yet they remained silent, gazing at him without fear, but with a kind of assessing curiosity. He got the message they were withholding judgment, that they hadn’t decided whether he was a friend or someone who meant their mistress harm.
“Strange friggin’ dogs,” Christopher muttered to himself.
Friggin’. It was a word inherited from his mother and Lidia, both of whom had rarely cursed. Except for this, and the occasional “rass” that burst from his mother when she was annoyed.
Still, if it hadn’t been for the dogs, he would’ve thought the whole area was deserted and would have turned back, retracing his steps on the narrow, stony path that had led him uphill to this place of windowless, soundless houses.
He checked the address again. Miss Della Robinson, 8 Victoria Street, Port Segovia. It had to be the right place. The three people he’d asked for directions in the town had pointed him this way, trying to conceal their amusement, suppress their questions. “Just go straight up the hill, man. Turn left and then left again. You can’t miss it. Victoria Street. Five or ten minutes max.” He’d felt them staring after him, as he left the marketplace with the street vendors and their baskets of mangoes and melons.
He arrived after plodding uphill in the sun for more than an hour. And this wasn’t much of a street, just a pitted trail teeming with mosquitoes. They were feasting on his ankles, even though he’d taken the precaution of wearing long pants, as Stephen—Miss Della’s nephew—had instructed him. “You’ll stand out less,” Stephen had said. “You might look the look, but people will know you’re a foreigner just by the way you walk. Stay away from the shorts for a few days.” Good advice, but now he was sweating like a pig, the back of his shirt soaked under the knapsack, the strap of his art portfolio cutting into his right shoulder.
He would have all the quiet he craved at Aunt Della’s place, Stephen had promised, while the auntie would gain some cash to fix up her house. Of course, Stephen could easily have paid for whatever renovation was necessary, but his aunt didn’t want that, he said. He’d also depicted a yard full of flowers, telling Christopher, “You’ll have anything and everything you want. The whole range of tropical beauties: hibiscus, bird of paradise, bougainvillea.” But Stephen seemed to have forgotten to describe the emptiness of the area. All the buildings Christopher passed seemed abandoned, their dark interiors lacking any sign of life. They appeared to be waiting for their former occupants to return though; no piles of trash or discarded belongings cluttered the yards, as if someone came frequently to sweep the earth clean, chase away vermin.
Number 8. Hell, could this really be it? The structure was a long, two-storey concrete rectangle. It was unpainted, or, if there had once been paint, it had been sunburned or rain-washed off long ago. The first floor was halfway below the level of the path, while the second floor rose above him. He looked up towards the roof, at the cloudless sky, then down into the yard. More dogs. How many animals did the woman have, for God’s sake? He counted them as they gazed at him. Seven. The three who had “greeted” him as he came up the path had joined these four in the yard. Were there more? Maybe the beasts didn’t need to bark after all because they were confident no intruder could be a match for them. These weren’t scrawny, mangy strays. He could sense their sinews under the healthy-looking fur. They all gleamed different shades of copper, as if they were related. Normally he liked dogs, but he didn’t think he’d be stroking these anytime soon.
He drew his phone from his pocket. It might be a good idea to call before venturing down the concrete steps that led from the path, to wherever the front or back door might be. He tapped in the number and held the phone away from his ear, listening for a connecting ring from inside the house. Silence. A burst of obscenities passed through his mind, and he cursed his own stupidity. Why had he thought he needed to come to this godforsaken place to be able to paint? Although, to be fair to himself, he hadn’t expected it to be like this. Stephen had said only that it would be quiet and peaceful, that it would be a place of healing and that his aunt made the best breakfasts and dinners. He hadn’t mentioned lunch.
“You waiting for me?”
Christopher started, and turned to look at the woman approaching from the opposite direction on the path. She had a broad smile and a friendly, open face, and carried a bulging yellow straw bag in her right hand. She almost matched him for height, her ropy frame in a red-and-black floral sleeveless dress and her greying hair in short thick braids that reached her shoulders. He noticed that her gait was uneven, as if one leg was slightly shorter than the other. It was impossible to guess her age; she could be anywhere between sixty and seventy-five.
“Hi,” he said, relief flooding him. “Are you Miss Della?”
“Yes, darling, same one. Stephen tell me bout you. You look like you in need of refreshment.”
He grimaced, feeling lightheaded. He sensed movement behind him and saw that the dogs had bounded up, transmitting joy in a paroxysm of tail-wagging. They surrounded Miss Della, doing their excited canine dance, but she shooed them away.
“Stop the foolishness. Go sit down. Come, it’s cool inside,” she said, turning back to Christopher.
As she spoke, two more dogs raced up from the direction she had come, one tawny like the others and the second a shiny black, with a white stripe down the centre of its face.
“Those two follow me everywhere,” she said with a laugh. “Dem stay outside when I go into a shop, to the bank, to the doctor. Stripey been with me the longest, will protect me gainst anything.”
They both looked at the striped-faced dog. He was standing stiff-legged, starting to growl. Before Christopher could respond to what Miss Della had said, the dog sprinted toward him, snarling. Christopher froze, and the animal rushed past, chasing something down the slope.
“Lawd, that dog see duppy everywhere. Him soon come back. A spirit musta followed you up the hill.”
She chuckled, but her words chilled the sweat running down Christopher’s back.
She led him down the steps, taking each with caution.
“Were you at the doctor now?” Christopher asked. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, everything fine, man. I just went into town to get a few supplies cause I know you coming. Nothing wrong with me except a little arthritis problem in mi right hip.”
He felt this wasn’t the whole truth but knew it wouldn’t be right to pry.
“Can’t get around as much as I used to,” she continued. “The doctor say walking helps, but the legs is always the first to go when you getting old. And he say I should do yoga, so every morning I stretching but don’t ask me if that helping. You know anything bout yoga?”
“I try to stretch too every morning before I start working. Maybe I can show you some postures that might help.” But he immediately regretted the words. The last thing he wanted was chattiness first thing in the morning.
“Oh, that
would be lovely,” Miss Della said. “You know, I can still touch mi toes, even at my age.”
He was tempted to ask how old she was but knew the question would be impertinent. If she wanted him to know, she would’ve mentioned it. Stephen had warned him to watch his language, and to never forget the “Miss” or “Auntie” because people like Miss Della could get stony-faced fast if you addressed them by their first name. Christopher hadn’t bothered to tell Stephen that he’d already learned this cultural lesson a long time ago. As for her age, he’d get the details from Stephen when he returned to New York. He’d made a vow not to email anybody during his time on the island, and he didn’t suppose Miss Della had Wi-Fi anyway. He wondered if there was even electricity, although the stove on one side of the cavernous kitchen where they now stood seemed to be an electric one. Miss Della set her bag down on a square table covered with a white linen tablecloth that sported golden, embroidered seashells around the hem. He stared at the glass vase with the yellow flowers in the middle of the table, noticing the transparency of the petals; he looked away.
“Come into the living room,” Miss Della said before he could remove his knapsack. From the shadows of the kitchen, he followed her into a room bathed in light, and he exhaled sharply at the view.
“Wow!” His reaction was spontaneous. “Nice room.” He set his portfolio case down and helped her to push open the French windows before stepping onto the balcony fronting the length of the living room, his knapsack still on. Below, the town stretched to the sea and he could see to the horizon, while on his left the hills rippled in shades of emerald. He mentally began mixing paints and composing an outline, then checked himself. He wasn’t there to paint pretty landscapes, postcard scenes.
He turned back to the room, watching Miss Della fluff up cushions on the red three-seater sofa and on the two matching armchairs arranged in front of the outsized flat-screen TV. She must have electricity, unless this was just for decoration. She saw him looking at the television, nodded. “Present from Stephen. He had to grease a few palms to have it pass Customs. But when him set him mind to something, nothing can stop him. I told him I wanted a nice TV, and two months later, him fly in with this.”
Christopher smiled in recognition. That was Stephen. Agent, facilitator, man who gets things done and never takes no for an answer. Christopher had once asked him where his unrelenting energy came from and he had given credit to the woman here in this luminous room. “When I was growing up, her favourite commandment was ‘find a way’ when I said I couldn’t do something. Used to drive me nuts.”
Christopher had never deciphered the exact relationship between Stephen and his “Aunt Della.” On a single occasion, after consuming too much rum, Stephen had mumbled something about his aunt getting him from a place called Anfields Children’s Home in Kingston. She’d taken him to the country to help her grow plants and told everyone he was her nephew, and it had gone from being a lie to being true. Stephen didn’t mention his parents, and never returned to the subject.
“Your room upstairs,” Miss Della said. “But first, come drink some lemonade, and then you can go freshen up.”
“Where do the dogs sleep?” he asked.
“Well, usually dem have your room,” she answered, with a burst of laughter. “No, I’m joking. Dem stay in the yard. Or if it raining too much, I let dem in the kitchen.”
Christopher made a note to avoid the kitchen in the event of a downpour.
* * *
Since Lidia had gone, he’d found it even harder to fall asleep. Before, when he used to lie beside her, with his eyes wide open for hours until he got up and did a quick sketch to unwind, she had blamed coffee—which she herself never touched, preferring her herbal teas.
“You know, Chris, if you switched to tea, you’d fall asleep much more easily.”
“It’s better than before though. I think your yoga is helping. It used be like three o’clock before I even got into bed.”
“I’d be a wreck if I did that.”
“Well, that’s why I never get up before eight,” he’d said. “This is one guy who won’t catch any worms.”
She’d laughed, the sound cheering him as it usually did. When they were in a public place, eating out or riding the bus, and she laughed, people would look in her direction, searching for the source of a song.
He hadn’t touched coffee since her funeral, yet he was still lying awake, begging for sleep. At some point between fatigue and loss of consciousness, Lidia came to him, as she’d done since the night of her “farewell ceremony”—that’s what her mother called it, her father had said nothing throughout. She was standing, smiling, surrounded by the flowers she had so loved; in the distance, Christopher could hear Stripey barking his stupid head off.
He’d never understood it. How a woman with a PhD in financial economics could opt to be a public gardener, working in the city’s parks. Whenever the subject came up, she always said it was because of 9/11, seeing the Twin Towers go down in smoke and dust, then the senseless war later.
“Lost my faith in both religion and finance. Found flowers,” she told him. And when others came to know her and asked the same question, she paraphrased Confucius, substituting “woman” for “man” and “husband” for “wife”: “If you want a woman to be happy for five years, give her a husband. If you want a woman to be happy for ten years, give her a dog. If you want a woman to be happy for a lifetime, give her a garden. Or in my case, a huge park to take care of.”
He told her he was sure Confucius never said anything of the sort. But she said it didn’t matter. “Even if it’s not true—it sounds nice, right?”
She’d been promoted several times since she’d switched professions and could have stayed in her office, gazing at the Brooklyn skyline. But she insisted on being on the ground, pushing a wheelbarrow and planting, dressed in green overalls like her staff. He would meet her sometimes for lunch, and they’d sit on a bench, eating takeout health food—tofu, lentils and wild rice, or some such—while the flowers she’d planted waved in the breeze as if from an impressionist’s canvas.
“Have you ever tried painting flowers?” she asked him once. And he’d laughed. He knew the subjects he could paint, and flowers weren’t among them. But, yes, he had tried, many times, and the damn things had come out looking like evil birds, or mangled rolls of toilet paper, and he had to admit he didn’t have that delicacy of touch that made petals look like petals.
His sophomore art teacher in college had tried to teach him that lightness of stroke. He’d never forgotten her—miss moon shine. That was how she signed her work, all in lowercase letters. She would bend over him, take his brush, and apply a quick dash of white. She said all the masters knew how to paint flowers and considered it her duty to teach him and the rest of the class how to portray everything from calla lilies to lilacs.
“Painting flowers is political action,” she told him as she flicked titanium white on his canvas, capturing the light as he never could. “When people bully you, you paint flowers. When they burst into your house and shoot at your family, you paint flowers. When they tell you that you shouldn’t be an artist but a basketball player, you paint flowers.”
She shoved the brush down into his plastic tub of water and strode away to another student, while he swallowed the comment he wanted to shout—that he’d signed up for art and not a frigging philosophy course. How had she known that his future had been mapped out as a basketball star? Did he somehow project the disappointment he’d seen on his father’s face after he’d declared he had no intention of playing professionally, no matter the high-school sports prizes he’d won?
He always felt the urge to give a sarcastic retort to miss moon shine’s little soliloquies, but whenever she leaned over him, her straight black hair brushing his face as she corrected a line or added colour, his breath caught in his throat. He also realised he couldn’t best her in wordplay, so he was better off not even trying. She was one of those teachers who walked into
the classroom with a don’t-mess-with-me attitude. And if her grammatical mistakes might have caused hilarity, no one laughed at that because her wit was the sharpest in the department. Unwary students had seen their smart-mouth attempts boomerang, and he wasn’t about to join them.
“Really? You don’t like Monet? I don’t give a shit. Learn to paint like him first and then you can forget his ass later,” she told them. It seemed that no one at the school had informed her that teachers shouldn’t swear.
The only thing he and the others knew about her was that she’d come from a place called Changsha in Hunan Province. She’d arrived in the States when she was fourteen, knowing only “hello” and “zank you”—that was how she pronounced it when she told them the story—and she’d taught herself English staying up nights throughout high school. Now she had an MFA, and if they didn’t believe she knew what she was talking about, they could shift their asses out of the classroom right this minute.
They had no idea if she was married, had children, or went back home on holiday. But word was that she had a famous agent and that her work sold in London and Paris, in addition to New York. And maybe in Changsha too, which Christopher had checked on a map, knowing it wasn’t a place he was likely to visit.
The other students thought that he was her favourite, and they teased him about it outside of class. Inside, miss moon shine mocked him for his fear of using white.
“Why you so afraid of white?” she asked. “When you paint, all you’re doing is showing light, and you need white colour for that.”
One of his friends in the class, Gavin—a dedicated basketball player taking the course as an elective—burst out, “Tell her why you so afraid of white. Tell her it’s something primeval for all of us.” His laughter boomed through the class, as other students bent lower over their work.
Miss moon shine stared at Gavin. “Me too. I was scared of white, but that wasn’t going to stop me. What don’t kill you make you strong.”
A Million Aunties Page 1
