Here, have some breakfast before you start your marathon. The day still young.
Miss Pretty took the plate, and she felt herself smiling as she started to eat. It had been so long since she tasted anything this good, not since her mother passed. When she looked up, she noticed that Miss Vera’s eyes were wet.
From somewhere, the memories of Miss Vera and her mother talking came to her. Miss Vera saying, Everybody like the way you raise Pretty, to have manners and not think she better than anybody else, even though she could be beauty queen if she wanted. She so nice to everybody. Good broughtupsy.
Miss Pretty put her plate down and got up to leave, the sheet slipping to the floor. Wait, wait. Don’t go nowhere, I soon come back, Miss Vera said. Miss Pretty breathed deeply and stood motionless while the other woman rushed down her corridor and returned with a short-sleeved white dress that had yellow embroidered flowers around the waistline.
Here, quick, put this on before you go outside again, Miss Vera said.
Miss Pretty stepped into the dress that was yards too big for her and smiled at Miss Vera.
I was making it for one of mi clients, Miss Vera said. Come, let me zip it up for you.
Thank you, Miss Vera, Miss Pretty heard herself saying softly, before she walked out the door. As she paused for a second on the verandah, Miss Vera’s words floated to her, Imagine that. Pretty spoke to me!
* * *
Mama never got over my accident. When she saw my face after I got off the plane that brought me back home, she collapsed in sobs right there at Norman Manley International Airport. Lawd Jesus God, look what they do to you over there, she kept saying. Look what they do to you. I should’ve never let you go.
I was a different person when I came back. Take a confident man, remove all his teeth, and make him blind in one eye, and you’ll see how quickly his character changes. But thank God I have all my teeth and can see perfectly well. When I look in the mirror, though, I wish I could have my face back.
Miss Vera often sings as she sweeps her verandah, some kind of hymn that goes: I wish I were swimming in the deep blue sea, where the good Lord could rescue me. I’ve never heard this song anywhere else, and I wonder if she has made it up. But the tune is so catchy that it stays in my head for the rest of my walk. I wish I were swimming in the deep blue sea, where the good Lord could rescue me. And serve me tea. And rice and peas. And bring my son back to me.
Miss Vera is one of the few people I sometimes stop to listen to when I’m out walking, minding my own business. Some days her daughter is on the verandah too, looking at me with big, round eyes. But Miss Vera and the boy, Stephen, they never look at me like that. I don’t know why I never asked him his name before, although I think he has been running out to give me food since he was knee-high to a cricket, poor soul. Miss Della makes him do it, I’m sure. She’s raising him right, just like he’s her own. But he would be a good child no matter what, you can see that right away. Decent. There is something special about him.
Yesterday he gave me a book along with the paper bag of oranges and carrots. It was a white-covered sketchbook, which he presented to me with an awkward, shy thrust. I thanked him and hurried home to look at the pages, turning them one after the other in the dimming light. The drawings were all of me, with me in my nice coat, my face the way it used to be. In the last sketch, I wore no clothes, but I had huge splendid wings sticking out from my back, like an archangel. As I stared at the drawing, I felt my heart fly open, and I saw Stephen’s bashful face rise in front of me. He’s such a handsome boy. And Miss Della raising him right, thank God.
chapter eight
Aunties
Stephen relished the feeling of homecoming that began with the plane’s descent over the water. The quiet elation intensified when the aircraft cruised to a stop, after landing with one or two bumps on the narrow strip of runway flanked by the sea. As he disembarked and strode across the tarmac, with the waves behind him and the Blue Mountains ahead in the hazy light, he welcomed the heat, the stiff breeze, and the blinding sunlight. No going directly from the plane into a stuffy building today. No, here you got a chance to breathe the ocean air.
He was glad that the government hadn’t moved the airport inland, to protect it from hurricanes and flooding, as the politicians had discussed. This was where it belonged, and nothing should be changed. He remembered Aunt Della taking him to the airport when he was a child and both of them going up to the gallery to wave farewell to some cousin or aunt of hers, heading to England or America. Back then people dressed up to travel. He smiled as he thought of himself and his fellow passengers—tee-shirts, shorts, sandals, sneakers. One guy was even wearing flip-flops with socks.
He strode through the long humid corridor, and felt the sweat trickling between his shoulder blades, down his back. It didn’t take long for his clothes to begin sticking to his body, but fortunately the air was cooler in the immigration hall. A woman dressed in the usual official blue uniform showed him to a machine that scanned his passport. This was new; it hadn’t been there the last time he came home. The woman smiled at him as he passed through successfully, and he smiled back, as if they’d just triumphed over adversity together. Then he was in the crowded baggage area, waiting for the two suitcases stuffed with the presents Aunt Della had instructed him to buy: fabric for Miss Vera, bangles for Lorraine, two duckbill caps for Mr. Jordan to protect him from the sun, plus seeds for his farm, and a new fake-fur coat for Miss Pretty. Something lighter, less hot. Thank goodness Féliciane had agreed to help him shop, with her “no, not that” full of authority to which he deferred.
He scanned the lines to see which customs officer might be the least likely to give him hassle and settled on an older, greying man, who was waving other arrivals through in a bored fashion. When it was Stephen’s turn, however, some unidentifiable thing caused the man to perk up, as if the hour for his daily dose of fun had arrived. Do I look like a blasted drug dealer or something? Stephen wondered, after the man had him heft his suitcases onto the counter.
“Any electronics? Computer equipment? Mobile phone?” the man demanded, removing items from the first bag.
“Yes, just a smartphone for my aunt. It’s a gift.”
The man paused, his eyebrows arched. “Her birthday? Early Christmas present?”
“No, just a surprise because I haven’t been home in a while.”
“You have the receipt? We have to calculate the amount of duty you need to pay.”
Shit, Stephen thought. He smiled at the man and adjusted his accent. “I think I have it somewhere. I just bought the phone because my auntie getting old, you see. I don’t know how much longer she have, and I want to teach her an easy way to stay in touch with her grandchildren.”
The man’s eyes softened, and his lips couldn’t fight the smile. “My daughter bought me one last year too. She live in Canada. Can’t believe some of the things you can do with a phone these days. And my wife is so happy to see the grandpickney when we talk to them.”
He helped Stephen to put his belongings back into the suitcase. The fur coat took up one whole side of the first bag.
“This coat for your auntie too?” the man asked.
“No, for another auntie,” Stephen grinned. “You know, you can’t give a present to one without something for everybody in the family.”
The man gave a brief, dry chuckle. “I hope she not planning to wear it in this heat. Enjoy your visit home.”
Stephen breathed deeply as he walked away, wondering how the woman waiting next in line would fare. She had two humongous suitcases, in addition to her oversized handbag—a fake Louis Vuitton, but then again, it might be real. He had seen her at the check-in counter in New York too, and overheard a staffer telling her in a resigned voice, “Your bags are overweight.” And the woman, equally resigned, had pulled out her purse without complaint, to pay the additional cost. He hoped that what she carried was worth the extra riches to the airline and that the man would go ea
sy on her, whatever story she invented. Perhaps she had lots of aunties too. Relatives who needed shiny American electronic goods. He wondered if customs officers had a quota: catch at least one culprit per flight.
He gazed around as he exited the low-ceilinged building, back out in the heat and glare. Shaking his head no to the surreptitious queries of “Taxi?” he headed toward the street. Aunt Della had told him she was sending someone to pick him up and given him directives on what kind of vehicle to expect. As he got to the curb, a gleaming olive-green SUV pulled up in front of him. The driver rolled down the window and grinned.
“Stephen?”
“Yes. Brandon?”
Brandon laughed and leapt from the vehicle. “You just come out?”
“Yeah. Just now. Perfect timing, man.”
“Well, I thought that by the time they search you and everything, you would be out around now. You have to pay any fines? You bring new TV for yuh auntie?”
Stephen laughed, liking Brandon right away. He thought that after seeing Miss Pretty and dealing with his aunt’s business—Chris had told him about the leaking roof—he would have Brandon take him to galleries around the city, and maybe in MoBay, where tourist demand had created some kind of an art boom. He never actively sought out “new talent,” to use Paul’s words; clients usually came to him. But it wouldn’t hurt to have a look at the market.
The drive to Port Segovia took more than two hours, as they cut from south to north across the island, winding through the hills. Brandon chattered as if they’d known each other for ages but he didn’t take his eyes off the road.
“My aunt said you’re a good driver,” Stephen commented.
“Well, after the accident we see last month . . .” He tailed off.
Later, when other drivers sped past, their aggression filling the hot air outside as they glanced at him with blistering scorn for his pace, he said to Stephen, “Let me know if you want me to go a bit faster.”
“No, this is fine,” Stephen assured him. “Maybe all those other drivers have pot cooking on the fire.”
Brandon burst out laughing. “You sound just like yuh auntie. Too many mad people pon the road on dis-ya island. You know, she wanted to come wid me to pick you up, but then she realise she wouldn’t have enough time to prepare yuh feast.”
Stephen’s phone rang fifteen minutes into the drive. “Everything all right? Brandon pick you up? Tell him not to drive too fast.”
“Yes, Auntie. On the way. Everything’s fine.”
They reached the house in the late afternoon, and Aunt Della came out to the path as he stepped from the car, surrounded by her yapping, gyrating dogs. He hugged her and she hugged him back. This too was new. When he was growing up, they’d always been reserved about showing open affection with each other. She hadn’t been the hugging kind and neither had he, although he remembered her holding him tightly as he got ready to board the plane off the island when he left that first time to study.
Caught up in the moment, Aunt Della hugged Brandon too. “Thanks for bringing him home in one piece,” she laughed.
“No problem, Auntie,” Brandon beamed.
So, he was calling her Auntie too? Stephen was amused. He wondered what Chris had ended up calling her.
Brandon helped him to carry in his bags, and they stood for a moment in the kitchen as Aunt Della bustled around. Food for a battalion covered the table, and Stephen suddenly felt like the prodigal son, waiting for the neighbours to come to his redemption feast. Normally, some of the them would have been there to welcome him, but he now knew about the empty houses and the landslide that his aunt had kept secret.
“Pretty is upstairs,” Aunt Della said, when Brandon had gone.
“What?”
“She staying with me until she get better because she can’t really move around for the moment. When she came out of the hospital, me and Brandon and Mr. Jordan had to carry her upstairs to the bedroom.”
“Oh. Does she realise I’m here now?”
“I didn’t tell her. You know, she convinced you is her long-lost son. So just pretend.”
“What?” Stephen felt stupid. “You want me to pretend to be her son? So, I should call her Mom or something?”
“You don’t have to go that far. Just nod to whatever she say.”
Why did Aunt Della always put him in these situations? Of course, he’d always felt a bond with Miss Pretty, but it had nothing to do with blood ties, only mental ones. He’d felt her depression as he knew his. But so far he’d managed to keep from the edge, from walking the streets.
“I’ll go up and say hello before we eat. So, she’s talking now?”
“Yes, since the accident, look like she find back her tongue. Bruk her leg, get her voice. You can take her up some food.”
She heaped rice and peas, chicken drumsticks, and avocado slices on a plate, while Stephen washed his hands at the kitchen sink. Travelling always made him feel grimy.
He looked around at Chris’s artwork and thought, Not bad at all.
“You see how much painting him do?” Aunt Della said. “I hope him coming back for some of them.”
“Yes, he’s planning to, and I think I’ll take a couple back with me, if you don’t mind.”
“Take as many as you want,” she laughed.
He watched as she took a pitcher from the fridge and poured a clear liquid into two tall glasses. It was coconut water, which would help with Miss Pretty’s healing, she said. She handed him the second glass and he drank thirstily. It was all the rage now, she told him—people drinking coconut water left, right, and centre because suddenly the world had woken up to its health benefits. He told her he’d seen shelves filled with cartons of the beverage in New York, sometimes mixed with orange or pineapple juice. He’d tried one of the brands once and hadn’t been able to swallow more than two sips. The slightly rancid taste was so different from the real thing.
He put a knife, fork, and napkin into one of his pockets, and took his time going up the stairs, balancing the full plate and the glass. On each side of the stairwell hung canvases Chris had painted, and he used this as an excuse to go even more slowly, stopping to look at the flowers. He was apprehensive about what to say to Miss Pretty, what she would say to him. He rapped with his elbow, and when no answer came, he eased open the door. She was lying on the right side of the bed, with her eyes closed. The rays of the late-afternoon sun bathed the room in amber, and the first thing that surprised him was her hair. The long dreadlocks—which he’d seen in their full glory only once before, when she walked naked—had turned white as clouds, spread out against the navy-blue pillowcase. Her face in repose was less twisted than he remembered. He stood looking at her, holding the food. Her eyelids flickered, then she seemed wide awake, staring at him.
“Hello, Miss Pre . . . Miss Cynthia.” Just in time, he remembered the name she’d told him so many years ago.
“Stephen,” she said clearly, as if she’d expected this. “You’re home.”
He put the plate and glass on the night table and helped her to sit up. He handed her the cutlery and smiled at her. As Aunt Della had requested, he slipped into the role of son, to this madwoman from the street.
* * *
His father’s family had insisted that it was insanity. Before Stephen left for university, he’d read all the newspaper clippings that Miss Della had kept on the case, all the articles that had brought her to the orphanage to get him. It could only be madness that had caused his father to do what he did, the family said. He had always been a little peculiar. But the police force had accepted him into their ranks and everyone thought that meant he was normal.
Stephen didn’t remember much from his early years, but that day lived clear in his mind: how he had waited at school for his mother to get him until a neighbour came to collect him from the headmistress’s office, three hours after classes ended; how he shivered from a sudden chill when the neighbour took his hand. Later, he would wonder if his father would’v
e killed him too if he’d been home. Then followed the thought that if he’d been there he would have been able to save his mother. He remembered sitting in the front row at Holy Trinity, watching everyone cry, while his own eyes stayed dry in his feverish face. He didn’t go to his father’s service. Nobody took him. And when his father’s sister came for him at the neighbours’ place and informed him that he was to come and live with her, he put some crackers and an orange in a bag and slipped out when no one was looking. First he ran, and then walked until he couldn’t anymore. He ended up in Maxwell Park and spent six days there, sleeping on the benches, begging for food, peeing and shitting behind the bushes in the park, and wiping his behind with leaves. He noticed that he was beginning to smell.
It was the director of Anfields Children’s Home herself who found him there and took him to the orphanage. Mrs. Bennett, whom the children called Auntie Myriam. Through his mumbled answers, she deduced who he was. He’d been reported missing and people had searched for him, thinking he was a casualty in a larger crime—not just a simple thing of a man killing a woman because of jealousy, thinking that she had a lover and that people were laughing at him behind his back.
The Star rushed out Stephen’s story when he was found, his picture on the front page—a boy whose father had killed his mother. Shot her five times with his policeman’s pistol, then put the gun to his own temple. Aunt Della had seen the coverage. But obviously not Miss Pretty.
“My son, I knew you would come back,” Miss Pretty said, eyes alight. He hoped it was a generic use of son, but he thought not.
“Yes. I’m going to stay until you’re better. Until you can walk well again.”
Miss Pretty chortled. “That might take months, my love.”
He didn’t tell her he had a maximum three weeks at “home.”
* * *
Aunt Della accompanied him the next day to look at the empty houses, and the neighbours’ faces swam into his mind. The street felt such a different place now. Later she took him down the hill to the new homes and to the nursery, and he handed out presents as if he were Santa Claus. He’d last seen them seven years before the landslide—he couldn’t say why he hadn’t been home before; the time flew and months turned into years—and now everyone wanted him to listen to their stories. They sat on Miss Vera’s verandah where she poured him and Aunt Della lemonade and spoke of her daughter Teena who lived in the States, like him. Miami though. Did he remember her? They used to be friends, sort of. Teena knew how to speak Spanish now. Miss Vera didn’t mention her husband, but Aunt Della had already filled him in. Gone off with a younger woman. Twenty-four years old. Can you imagine? He could. But he didn’t say so.
A Million Aunties Page 8
