Manuel didn’t ask the question about her mother, although he had often wondered. She had been seven when her mother left her, them. Her father never made much sense when he tried to explain. But in his lame drunken attempts, deep down Pepsi knew he was the reason.
“This barren heath—that’s what she called this place; it’s too far from Brigus to be called anything. But this was the place where she gave birth to me, alone. And as the years passed I began to notice the sadness in her eyes. Maybe she wanted a reason to blame too.”
Pepsi fixes her eyes on the front doorknob and talks. She looks up at Manuel to see if he is listening.
“I guess I’ll never know.”
“You father no say why?”
“Ah, whatever Father tried to do to reassure my mother was never enough, though. A child can see things, you know, Manuel.”
“Is hard for lose a mother. But memories you have, no? This make you strong. It make me strong.”
She smiles at Manuel’s much-improved conversation. She is tired and flushed but happy to keep going.
She tells Manuel of her yearly birthday trip to St. John’s where, if need be, she would get fitted for a new leg and brace. She swings her head from side to side with each memory: the smells of her mother’s cooking, the hours her mother spent teaching her to read, the little dog her mother had left behind who ran after a blowing leaf then disappeared over the cliff. Pepsi rushed to the edge and saw his body smashed and crooked against the shore rocks.
“All I have left of my mother is this strand of almost-pink pearls she bought for me at a place called Kresge’s, in Toronto—that’s what the box said. She sent them to me on my tenth birthday along with a note: Dear Pepsi, Please don’t be angry. I just couldn’t any longer. I needed to breathe.” She rolls her fingertips along the necklace.
Manuel wants to kiss her.
“It wasn’t even signed and it was all she ever sent me. I don’t even know what my mother’s signature looks like, but I’m certain her L for Lucille is looped both on the top and bottom, big loops.” She draws the letter with its curlicues in the air like a child.
Cara Mãe,
You have not written. I know you are angry but I need to know that you understand.
Pepsi has no mother. Life hasn’t been easy for her but she’s strong. She’s what I’ve always wanted.
Mãe, remember when Jose brought that calf home, the one we had to tear from its mother’s belly? He brought that calf through the front door … you yelled at him, struck him. He nursed it back; he slept in that barn for weeks, fed it milk in a bottle until it was strong and ready. You thought he was afraid to come back. But you were wrong, Mãe. He stayed in that barn because there was purpose for him, something to care for. It made him strong. It made me strong.
It’s not your fault. I don’t write this to hurt you—you are my mother and I love you. But I needed a purpose too.
I know you are disappointed in these words but I am not angry or bitter. The life you gave me was a gift but it is mine and I must cherish it. Please understand.
Manuel
“I no think I go, Andrew.”
Pepsi trips against the bench as she clears the table. They both look at Manuel.
“Well … guess you should rest up awhile longer.” Andrew speaks to Manuel but follows Pepsi, tries to lock his eyes with hers.
Pepsi goes into her room and busies herself with folding the laundry, not looking as her father leaves the house. She turns to see Manuel scanning her body, moving down to her legs, where his eyes stop. He knows she is uncomfortable with his stare but he can’t seem to tear himself away. Manuel’s glare is snapped by Andrew’s shadow as it moves across her window. It will be a long walk to Brigus, via crooked roads and barren fields of rock toward his weekly night in town. Pepsi moves to shut her bedroom door.
“Pepsi?”
Manuel loves the way her name sounds. He rests his forehead against her door. She hasn’t shut it in weeks. He waits a little longer before calling out again, and taps at the door.
“Pepsi?”
“Come in,” and as quickly as the words roll off her tongue, Manuel opens the door and can see that she is nervous. She is fidgeting with the pleats of her skirt. She sits now at the edge of her bed looking out. At night, Manuel has caught her sitting in the same spot, rubbing oil of wintergreen—its familiar fresh scent was used to massage Manuel’s joints—around her hardened stump, preparing it for the next day’s pounding and grinding. Now, she just sits there, back straight, silently looking out the window. She moves the blanket over her leg. Manuel moves behind her small frame and runs a hand along her hair and down her neck. She catches his hand with her cheek and traps it there. Manuel sits beside her and moves his free hand under the blanket. She is tense but when she kisses his knuckles that rest in the crook of her neck, Manuel takes it as a sign, an invitation. His hand moves along her wooden leg then touches her brace—a tangle of warm wood and cold metal. Her back tenses. He doesn’t flinch. His other hand dislodges from her neck and shoulder and he cups her smallish face, forces her pleading eyes to meet his. Manuel drags the back of his hand down over the raised grain of the wooden shin. He kisses her papery eyelids. His hand flips over and his fingertips continue up her leg, traversing the stainless steel bridgework, up, up toward her inner thigh. She looks at him, her silence invites him further. He moves his hand down again and wedges a finger between the wooden leg and her worn stump. He nestles it there and feels a strange exhilaration. She pulls at her skirt, tries to cover her shame.
“Shhh … Manuel no hurt Pepsi.”
She closes her eyes and feels his fingers on her brace, as if he made it flesh.
Cara Mãe,
I will continue to write in the hope that these letters will somehow make their way into your heart. You’ve never felt anything like it. In one day there can be a downpour of rain, blustering snow, and sunshine. The snow is quite nice but it’s so cold. Andrew says it gets so cold your pee can freeze.
I’m sure you’re preparing for Christmas, Mãe. I miss the smell of pine crushed beneath our feet, sweet masa, and the smell of our home in the damp night. I hope my siblings are all well.
I can still picture them in my mind but I’m certain so much has changed. Please tell them I miss them.
Laughter is returning to this house. It lives in this country, I know. A house needs laughter.
I hope that when Albina reads these letters to you that you are not angry. Please write or let Jose or Candida write something … I long to hear from someone.
Albina, write something. Please let me know how all my news and thoughts are being received. She need not know.
Merry Christmas.
Manuel
He doesn’t want to think back. Although his heart aches for the familiar, he needs to look forward. There is a merciless rattle in his brain: It was fate that tossed him into the sea, alone and lost; it was fate that hooked him onto the line of a fisherman; it must then be fate that made Manuel turn up to that dove-gray sky that always visits after a storm—look up at the heavens only to find Pepsi. He will not tempt that fate. She has been good to him, nursed him and loved him. Manuel owes it to her to love her back.
“Pepsi!” Andrew’s voice stabs through Manuel’s thoughts. “Where are my pants?” he shouts from his room.
“They were reekin’ of screech, soiled to the grain. So I washed them.”
Pepsi has found a new confidence and strength. Andrew storms in from his room. Pepsi’s eyes do not leave her father’s. She will not let him win. He can’t say anything for the longest time. Pepsi hums as she trusses the bird.
“That’s what it’s about, Manuel. Mark my words. You give them everything they could ever ask for only to have them walk on you like the dirt they think you are.”
“Dad, I didn’t—”
“Don’t you ‘Dad’ me. Respect!” he sputters. “It’s all I’ve ever asked of you in this house. Respect!” He struggles to put on his coat, then goes
out and slams the door.
Manuel moves recklessly behind her, kisses her neck.
“Tell me, Pepsi—tell about that day.” It is his favorite story. It is filled with everything he wants in life: beginning with sacrifice and ending with hope and promise. Manuel digs his hands under the neckline of her dress, holds the weight of her breasts.
“Well,” she begins, welcoming the distraction, “that day …” Pepsi turns and smiles before continuing. “That day, I was coming home from St. John’s where I stupidly thought I could sell my pearls. I thought I could get enough money to get my hair done at a salon and maybe buy a pretty dress. A girl likes a pretty dress, Manuel. That lady at the pawnshop sat there in her stool behind the counter looking at her large black and white television. She saw me from the corner of her eye and pretended not to notice. I laid my pearls gently on top of the glass display. She bit one of the pearls with her graying teeth and showed me its plastic core, dropped the string of pearls back on the counter, clickety-click, all the while looking up at her television, and resumed tapping her fingers on the counter to our pet Juliette—a girl with a beautiful voice and perky smile. You’d like her, Manuel …”
Manuel rubs her hardening nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She is comfortable with the way his calloused hands move across her body. When she turns her face to kiss him, she no longer looks awkward, afraid.
“Manuel, let me finish the story.”
He knows she doesn’t want him to stop and he knows the end of the story; the lady had made a mistake. The pearls were real. Her mother gave them to her. How she prayed during the bus ride home, prayed to all the saints in heaven. Please, Jesus, give me a new leg—flesh and bone … How she imagined her leg growing, a ticklish tingling, and then, her final prayer: Dear Lord, please give me a man—a family to take care of.
“That very next morning, like every other morning, I went down to the shore to meet my father. When I saw him rowing in toward the shallows, his boat cutting through the foam, I saw that he’d brought me a gift richer than a new leg or real pearls—he’d brought me you.” She breathes out her last words, then playfully whips his face with the damp tea towel.
Cara Mãe,
I’m writing this on the eve of Christmas. It is now two full months and I must beg your forgiveness. Is this why you have not written? Or is it because I have made it clear I have no plans of returning? Before I left I told you that our small island held nothing for me. I still believe this to be true. What is it, Mãe? Tell me.
I find myself exhausted by the pace at which the images of life back home run across my mind: growing up as a boy, patches of green fields and beds of calla lily, Gilberto—our toothless dog, my brown-eyed siblings, your hard-working hands against your black dress and veil. And then in a wave I think of my pressed cotton shirts and new leather shoes with their tight shoelaces, windows that would not open, houses too narrow. I gulp for air but there is nothing but chalk and dust. But these are my images, my burdens. Believe me when I say I do not blame you, Mãe.
My thoughts are with you all this Christmas.
Manuel
The day begins filled with the joy and promise that only Christmas can bring. Pepsi has gotten up early to get everything done: the chicken is stuffed, the dough is pounded into plump balls and allowed to rise in the kitchen’s heat. Manuel imagines he is in his own little house, not Andrew’s. Children are playing around the tinseled tree, a girl and a boy. They’re trying to peek at their presents. Manuel is looking through the window outside. Pepsi is cooking up a wonderful meal, stuffing and roast potatoes with chouriço, and she’s making his favorite cod dish to remind him of home. Manuel walks in, twirls his daughter then throws the boy high into the air and catches the giggling copy of himself securely in his arms …
“Manuel, Father didn’t come home last night. Do you know where he got to?”
“I go look for him, Pepsi. You no worry.”
Manuel circles the fields, then runs to the cliffs to see if there is any unfortunate evidence. For hours he looks along the coast, down toward the foamy cove, then scans the landscape. He does not want to go back empty handed. He returns only to hear some muffled shouts coming from inside the shed. Andrew is curled around an empty jug. He looks up and shields his eyes from the white sky. He then smiles at Manuel. It has been a while since Andrew has smiled at Manuel in that way. It feels good.
Manuel drapes Andrew over his shoulder like the animals he drags to the tree. Andrew is much larger than Manuel, big and heavy. Manuel manages to drop him into his chair. Pepsi slams a lid onto the counter. Andrew struggles but cannot pull himself up to the table.
“Everything is cold,” she says. The candles have burned down to nothing.
“Feliz Natal, Andrew.” Manuel smiles.
Pepsi decides not to ruin the day further. “Dad, will you cut the bird now?” she asks.
“Why don’t you ask the man of the house?” he slurs.
His words are filled with bitterness. Manuel pretends they have not hurt him. Pepsi is about to say something until her father breaks in: “I have a gift for you, Manuel.”
Manuel looks to Pepsi, who twists her hair into tight ringlets.
“Dad, please don’t embarrass me.” She struggles to get up. “Please don’t do this to me.”
“Shush!” He pounds the table with his knotted fist. Pepsi tries to push herself away but Andrew pins her small hand firmly against the tabletop. She lowers herself back onto her chair and sits hunched over. Her eyes dart across the room then up to the wooden beams before she drops her chin against her breastbone. “This is still my house, though, and I want to say something.”
He narrows his eyes at Manuel as if daring him to a challenge.
“Manuel. We have taken you in and treated you like family.”
Manuel lowers his head, ready for his censure.
“You well know no man could’uv done more for you. It’s time you made plans, I’d say.”
With these words he lifts himself from his chair and half stumbles toward the Christmas tree. He falls to the floor, where he clumsily searches for a gift. He crawls back to the table with a smug grin. The present he clutches is wrapped in the brown paper used to wrap meat at the butcher’s. There are smeared traces of blood on the parchment. He flings the packet across the table as he pulls himself up and takes his seat.
“Thank you, Andrew.” Manuel is unsure of the offering. “I bless by you … and Pepsi. Thank you.”
Manuel begins to work his fingers around the package. He glances up, expecting to meet Pepsi’s gaze. He’s confused by the way she stares at his hands unraveling the string, flipping the gift over before lifting the center fold. Her eyes look at nothing else. In a split second his letters slip from his hands and fan themselves on the table.
The room begins to spin. Manuel glimpses the smirk on Andrew’s face, the tree, the perfectly browned chicken sitting in the middle of the set table, gleaming plates and flickering candles. The images swarm in his head. Bile rises from his stomach, sharp and sour. Then he sees Pepsi getting up and tripping over her lifeless leg. She cannot look at him. She falls down and drags herself the rest of the way across the floor. She reaches her threshold, pushes the door open with her shoulder and is swallowed by the dark mouth of her room. Manuel sits still and numb. The door closes. He hears the click of the lock and the din of his own silence over her father’s simmering laughter.
FADO
My boat skipped across the surface
of the great wide sea,
so angry and cruel.
Yet, I danced and sang and smiled,
tempted by the comfort
of my mind’s dream.
I will not stop my little boat
from skipping across the sea.
I will dance, sing, and live,
but only live my dream for me …
WITH ANGUISH, MATEUS ALMEIDA sings a fado, while his guests sit at his table and weep. Manuel’s ass leans against th
e edge of the counter. He wipes the glass with the tea towel, Mateus’s “No spots” chiming in his head. Mateus hired Manuel to do odd jobs in his boarding house, and Manuel is grateful to him. At fifty, Mateus is immaculate in every way: he cuts a fine silhouette in his tailored clothes, his greased hair, and buffed nails; the way he turns down a bed, dipping his hands in a small bowl of warm water, flicking the excess before smoothing the lip of the downturned sheets with his moistened palm creating a sharp crease. “We were not born here, Manuel. You must always appear to be … more,” he says without a hint of superiority. The truth is Mateus can’t walk down to the harbor without men lifting their hats to him, even the bank manager who sits behind a desk with the glittering pocket watch and cauliflower nose. The women silently swoon as the children chase him like swarming hornets until he is forced to toss a nickel in the air, allowing enough time to get away.
“Remember this, Manuel: they almost think I am one of them. But, they never do … not completely.”
Mateus Almeida hangs on to the final note with his eyes closed. The young moths ping against the lightbulb that dangles, caught in a cloud of smoke, over the kitchen table. There is a reverent quiet as Mateus lays down his guitarra. Then Eduardo’s tobacco-stained teeth appear as he begins to clap. His friend Duarte begins to clap too, and soon it builds to a crescendo of clapping, grunting, and laughter. Mateus smiles and raises his hands in thanks. He pours the men another glass of vinho. The sailors are from the Gil Eannes, which came through the Narrows and entered the harbor of St. John’s that morning. Over the next two days, while the fishermen and all of St. John’s prepare for the city’s festivities, Mateus’s boarding house will be home to some of them.
“Manuel, come here,” he motions with his arm.
Manuel leaves the few remaining dishes to soak in the sink. “Yes, Senhor Mateus.” Apart from cleanliness, it is the only other condition Mateus insists on; there is to be nothing other than English spoken between them in his house. Mateus insists it is the only way to be a success in this country.
“Are the rooms ready for these men?”
Barnacle Love Page 4
