A Million Aunties

by Alecia McKenzie

  “That’s why I so lucky I never married anybody,” Aunt Della said. “Better off being on your own.” She had glanced at Stephen apologetically afterwards, to show she hadn’t been referring to his mother and father. But he knew she hadn’t, and he believed in the truth of her words. Better to live alone.

  Aunt Della had tried to explain his father’s actions to him. Temporary insanity. Crazy jealousy. It happens to everybody, especially men. Women usually just burn the man’s clothes or cut his belongings to pieces. Sometimes they find the sweetheart and slap her around. And a few might try to poison the man, mix in a little something with his food. But they don’t run for guns and knives. She didn’t know why men behaved like that. Maybe because they think they own women. But not all men are the same. “You should know this, Stephen, even if I personally choose not to have anyone in mi life. Well, except for you, dahlin. Always remember that it wasn’t your fault what happen. Never ever think it was your fault, you hear me?”

  But those were just words. For years, he’d privately sketched images of his mother, father, and himself, in different settings. At Hellshire Beach, at the movies, at Hope Gardens with clouds of bougainvillea in the background. He never showed them to anyone and tore them all up before he went away to college. There he set his mind to his business studies and banished thoughts of drawing. He’d never really been good at it, anyway. The last drawing he’d done, he’d given to Miss Pretty, and she’d probably torn it up too.

  It was Aunt Della who had suggested he go abroad to study. Maybe she’d sensed him slipping downwards, although he was sure he hid it well. She had enough saved up, she told him. Go. And he’d gone, thinking he’d be back to live with her again after his degree. But with a scholarship for an MBA, then a job offer at a museum, and the string of short relationships—home became somewhere else. He’d sent presents, spoken on the phone, and returned only twice for short stays. Aunt Della had never criticised him for his absence, though, she’d simply acquired a couple of dogs. For protection, she told him.

  * * *

  By his second week, Miss Pretty was hobbling around and chafing to start walking again. She tried on the coat he’d brought and asked him how she looked, and he said, “Beautiful.” He’d almost added “Momma,” but Aunt Della had told him not to go too far. He’d got so much into the role, however, that it was hard to snap out of it now. He needed to leave the house more. It was starting to feel like an asylum.

  One morning, after taking Miss Pretty her breakfast, he headed to Kingston with Brandon, determined to see some art, as he’d planned. He started with the National Gallery, rushing to look at the paintings by Cinea Verse that Paul had described. Cinea had “taken her leave,” as Paul termed it, by the time Stephen met him, but Paul kept building her legend as the greatest artist the island had produced. As a consequence of all the hype, these paintings Stephen now viewed were worth thousands. And not in local currency, where “thousands” now meant a bag of groceries at Monarch’s.

  More of the paintings existed, too, hanging in private collections and official buildings. Cinea’s best friend, Cheryl McKnight, had started a gallery devoted to her work, with temporary exhibitions every so often of other artists. He visited that next, asking Brandon to come back in a couple of hours after dropping him off. The gallery was on Sheffield Drive, near Anfields Children’s Home—the place where he’d become a nephew.

  Cheryl wasn’t there, and instead he discovered tall, flirtatious Jasmine Wong, whose oversized paintings were currently on show. Wearing a light yellow sleeveless dress that showed off her toned arms, her dyed fuchsia hair in bantu knots, Jasmine greeted him warmly and explained that she’d been given the job of manning the gallery in Cheryl’s absence.

  “Cheryl is on her honeymoon in the Bahamas,” she informed him. “Finally got married after years of putting things off. Do you know her personally?” She gave him a suggestive look, as if expecting him to be deeply disappointed by the information.

  “Oh. Good luck to her,” Stephen said, trying to suppress the pessimism he always felt on news of marriage. “No, we haven’t met. She’s a friend of a client. Why did she keep postponing her wedding?”

  “Well, things just kept happening, it seemed. First her aunt was diagnosed with a brain tumour, then her cousin, the aunt’s son, had a nervous breakdown, and on and on. The time just never seemed right. Luckily, she has a patient man.”

  “How are the relatives now?”

  “Sad to say, the aunt died,” Jasmine told him. “But her cousin Trevor is recovering. He’s really such a nice man. Always so concerned about everything, taking on the politicians and warning us about global warming. He used to be on the radio all the time.”

  “Hmmm, that’s interesting.” Stephen was getting a bit tired of the chatter. He wanted to take a closer look at the paintings.

  “What about you? You married?” Jasmine asked.

  “Me? No. Do I look married?”

  “Do married people have a certain look?”

  “Yes. Burdened.”

  She laughed. “Remind me not to propose to you.”

  She took him round the gallery, explaining her work. The semi-abstract paintings all had to do with her transition, from Jason to Jasmine. Blue streaks turning into pink roses. Thick lines becoming intricate circles. Stephen was impressed that she was brave enough to put it out into the open, on canvas, on the island. But he knew things were changing, the prime minister had said so. He’d read that in a Times article after the man had given a speech at the UN in New York. No one is giving us credit for the changes, the PM had complained.

  “Do people ever . . . do you ever have any trouble?” Stephen asked.

  She smiled, a curl of the lips. “All the time.”

  He invited her to lunch and helped her to lock up the gallery before they walked down the road to Carib Grill, where the illustrated menu showed all the basics in heightened, appetizing colour. Jasmine said she was vegetarian, so they ordered rice and peas, callaloo, and plantains, with fruit punch that was like nectar.

  “Nothing like a sugar shot,” she commented.

  “Yes. Sugar, water, and a bit of juice. Just the way we like it.”

  Over lunch, she told him she was looking for a place to stay as her landlord had asked her to leave, claiming he needed her apartment for one of his children. She suspected that the other people in the building wanted her out, despite their smiles and their congratulations on how good she looked, but she didn’t want to get into any cuss-cuss with the landlord or the neighbours. She preferred to leave and shake the dust of the past off her feet.

  “It’s their problem if they can’t deal with you,” Stephen said. “Not yours.”

  “It’s mine if I can’t find a place to live,” she retorted.

  “But, if I may ask, why do you feel the need to put your business out there in your art? Isn’t it better to just keep things private?”

  She didn’t appear angered by the question. “It’s who I am. Why should I have to hide?” After a pause, she continued: “I’ve never been fully anything, you know. Half Chinee, half black. Half boy, half girl. Half painter, half singer . . . yes, I have two CDs that I can sell you if you like jazz. Now, I’ve decided to be fully me.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being more than one person,” Stephen said. “You wouldn’t believe how many roles I’m playing right now.”

  “Do tell.”

  But he decided to change the subject, the practical part of his mind in gear. Find a way, Aunt Della always said. “Look, maybe you could take my room at my aunt’s place after I leave, if you don’t mind living in the so-called country. I mean, it’s not that far, and she’s had an artist staying there before. Do you want me to ask her?”

  “Yes, please.” Jasmine sounded hopeful and doubtful at the same time. “It would be just until I can find something else here, and it would give me time to work on the next show.”

  “If she says yes, I’ll leave it up to you
to tell her what you want.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “But I want something in return.”

  “You want me to marry you?”

  “Good one. But I’m not the marrying type. And besides, I think I already have a girlfriend. No, first I need to ask you to help out with my . . . mother. Her leg got broken in an accident, and she’s staying with my aunt for a while.”

  “Oh, sorry to hear that. Okaaay. And what else?”

  “And I want to represent you in the States. Make some money for you to pay my aunt a good rent.”

  She hooted, and he laughed along.

  “So, what does your girlfriend do?” she inquired as they left the restaurant.

  “Oh, she’s an artist like you. Installations though. She’s French.”

  “Ooh la la,” Jasmine mocked. He smiled at her, wondering if he should add that his “girlfriend” lived with someone else and that his “mother” and aunt were . . . He didn’t know where to begin.

  He accompanied her back to the gallery, then strolled down Sheffield Drive, in the direction of Anfields. It looked the same—except for the fresh coat of cream paint and the missing naseberry tree in the front yard—a big, colonial-style house of nine rooms where a woman had taken in lost children and tried to find them guardians. He stood in the shade on the other side of the street for a few minutes, gazing at the house. There was no point knocking at the gate. He knew that Myriam Bennett was no longer inside. She had acknowledged his gifts to the home right up to the end, first sending handwritten thank-you notes to his postal address in New York and then emails, which she signed Auntie Myriam. In his most morbid moments, he sometimes thought: lose a mother, gain a million aunties. It sounded Confucian. When she died, the government had taken over.

  * * *

  Brandon was keen to take him to other galleries in the city, but Stephen felt drained, by the heat and his memories. They arranged instead to travel to MoBay the following weekend, and en route they would take a short detour to Kaya Bay because Stephen wanted to see the artwork by Alton Patterson that Chris had described. Who knew how much longer the old man might have? He needed an agent while he could still paint.

  When he got home, Aunt Della welcomed the news that she might soon have another artist-boarder. She told Stephen that she’d really missed Chris when he left because the house felt so empty. Then Miss Pretty had her accident and it seemed only natural to take her in.

  “It will be nice to have somebody else here when you go back to America,” Aunt Della said. “In fact, you know, I was thinking this could be kind of a long-term thing.”

  “What do you mean, Auntie?” Stephen asked.

  “One of these residence-type things I hear bout. Have artists come and stay. They popping up all over the north coast.” She went to get the phone he’d given her and patiently taught her how to use that first week. “Look at this one. I screen-shot it.”

  Stephen stared at her in amazement.

  “Some little old house,” she said. “We have a lot more room, and I bet I cook better too. What you think?”

  “That is a great idea, Auntie,” Stephen answered slowly. “A really great idea.”

  chapter nine

  Uncle Alton and the B’s

  I could’ve done without seeing anyone just now. But when he called up and told me he’s a friend of Chris’s, I said, Okay, come and visit if you wish. And it seemed that he arrived right after I hung up the phone, so quick was he here in Kaya Bay. I was expecting someone as tall and muscular as Chris, but this Stephen is a slightly built man, like a long-distance runner, and he has a quiet way of talking. His eyes are direct, and he gives the impression that if he says something he’ll do it. Good manners, even if the bottom line might be money. I like that he’s not flashy. Some of these young people who’ve lived abroad come back dressed as if they’ve just stepped out of an American movie. There’s a sober air about him, a seriousness, maybe even some kind of sadness. Still, who knows what motivates people these days? When I used to teach, I could sometimes pick out the students who’d lost a parent, who went home to an empty house while their mother worked, who came to school with a hungry belly. Now, I’m not sure of anything, except that life is always ready to give you a good kick.

  Did I want an agent? he asked, after I showed him the canvases. I could only laugh.

  I replied, I’m over eighty. I’ll soon be gone. What do I need an agent for?

  To sell your paintings, he said. What are you going to do with all of them otherwise?

  Leave them for Chris, I said. It was his turn to laugh.

  Chris has enough of his own work to store, he said. He wouldn’t have the space.

  Well, I’ve already willed the house to him, so he could turn the place into a gallery or something, I said. Anyway, please don’t tell him about the will yet. Everything in good time.

  He nodded. He was quiet for a while, drinking the orange juice I’d poured him. I felt a bit bad for being so uninterested in his proposal, but since Miss Sandra was taken in that ungodly manner, I find that I don’t care about much anymore. Another one gone before me. Soon it will be my turn. I couldn’t even do a painting of her, although I wanted to, as a present for her children. But the whole head thing just kept me back. I couldn’t stop seeing her head as separate from her body, gone its own way.

  She had a closed casket at the funeral, poor thing. Chris stayed on an extra week for the service, then went back to Port Segovia with his landlady. Miss Della, who Stephen tells me is his aunt. She came to the service too. A nice woman. Maybe I’ll paint her one day. But what am I talking about? I don’t have many days left. I wasn’t aware I’d said this aloud until Stephen nodded, agreeing with me.

  That’s why you should let me represent you, he said.

  I sighed. I feel so tired these days. So tired. When I was in my seventies, I was still running around, full of vip and vam. Now I just want to rest. I miss Connie. I miss Eileen. I miss Miss Sandra. And I don’t know how to have her stop appearing headless in my dreams. Maybe she really wants me to do a painting of her with her head reattached. Connie was good at telling me what my dreams meant.

  Stephen asked what I would do if I had extra income. Then he rephrased the question: what would you still like to do with the years you have left? I chuckled because he reminded me of that Billy Graham preacher man. We used to get his services on the radio long ago, direct from Minneapolis, Minnesota. Many apples, many sodas, the people round here used to say. Or was it Oral Roberts who was on the radio? Both had equally annoying voices, talking through their noses.

  I guess I would travel, I told him. Go to all the museums with all the art I would like to see—the Louvre, the Prado, that one in Austria with the Brueghels. Maybe go to Senegal and see the new museum of African civilizations. Have you been to Africa? I asked him. He hadn’t.

  Me too, he said. One day I’m going to travel around the world. But you need cash for that. I don’t suppose your pension is that big?

  No, I was a teacher. We’re at the bottom of the pile. But I get by. I managed to support myself and my wife quite well. She was a teacher too for a while, came down from Canada on a short-term contract. After we married we never had any real financial problems. Out here in the country, there’s not that much to spend your money on.

  He wanted to see the early paintings again, the ones I did when I was in my twenties and thirties, about Independence and such. He seems more interested in these than in the portraits of the lovely women in my family, I don’t know why. But I guess he’s an expert on what might sell abroad. Not that I have any intention of selling anything. He took up the one of Lady Bustamante and asked why I had painted her, so I told him the story. Stephen seemed to listen a bit more attentively than Chris, who hadn’t really been that interested, I could see. But Chris wasn’t born here, so he has other stories that are probably more important. Stephen said he first went away when he was seventeen, and it’s funny because I went abroad
too, but when I was nineteen. I went to America to study and became so distressed by how they treated black people, I couldn’t wait to come home. I was twenty-four when I came back with my degree and got caught up in Independence fever. You never saw people so happy—it was like everybody was drunk on white rum. And Busta was there, leading us all on, helped by Lady B., who wasn’t his wife yet.

  His was one of the first portraits I did, I told Stephen as I handed him another canvas. He held it out in front of him as if he was already seeing it on the wall of some museum, or in the house of some collector, but that one is definitely not for sale.

  My aunt used to talk about Busta, Stephen said. I know who he is.

  Well, I knew him. Him and his beautiful wife. A wonderful woman. So kind. So full of energy to change things for the better. I used to call her Aunt Gladys when we worked together. Seems like most people have forgotten about Busta already, though, forgotten about how they put him in jail for trying to get workers better pay. Look at the party he created. It doesn’t have a thing to do with workers these days, all them lawyers now running things. People with money in their pockets. Which one of them is working class?

  I couldn’t tell Stephen all I wanted to because he didn’t have a week to stand there listening to me ranting, but memories raced through my head, just as when Chris visited. Different memories this time. I was so full of anger when I came back home, knowing how little people thought I was worth because of my colour. But if things were hell in the States, they weren’t that much better at home. Busta was showing us we didn’t have to just sit and take it though.