Not much had changed in the past ten years. It struck Manuel that he had thought of Lomba da Maia as a town frozen in time, its people fixed and unchanged. Only now, upon his return, did he feel their lives were set in motion once again.
The taxi drove slowly past the steps leading up to the church, Nossa Senhora do Rosário. Manuel tried hard not to look at the worn steps that led to its large wooden doors. So much of his life had been affected by what had happened within the cold walls of that church. He tried to think of practical things, to get his mind away from his troubled thoughts. They rounded the corner onto a dirt road, the taxi windows now covered with a thin layer of dust that swarmed around the car. There were the same small houses in bright white. Some old women leaned out of their windows with rosaries dangling from their gnarled fists. Manuel felt compelled to fight his recognition of these people. He saw angry dogs, tied up with string, that barked and flung themselves into the air, only to be yanked back, their bodies twisted as they tumbled onto the dirt road. Sweat moistened the new suit Manuel had bought at Eaton’s. As the taxi passed, some men stopped pushing their wooden carts to straighten up and slightly lift their straw hats. Antonio shuffled back onto his father’s lap and Manuel anticipated his son’s question.
“The children are working in the fields. You’ll see them soon enough.”
Antonio smiled and slumped back into Manuel’s chest.
Manuel reached for his handkerchief, dabbed some spit on it and wiped the chocolatey corners of Antonio’s mouth, cleaned the corners of his blue eyes. He then parted his hair, smoothed both sides with his unsteady hands. He cupped his son’s ears and cheeks and tilted his face back—forced Antonio to look at him.
“Don’t be afraid, be strong,” he whispered.
The car stopped at the end of a road. Terezinha was the first to step out and unruffle her dress. She squatted quickly to wipe her patent-leather shoes with an open palm. She was followed by Georgina, who knew better and grabbed her daughter’s hand before she could race up the steps into a house she had never seen. Manuel saw that holding on to the girl was the only thing calming his wife’s nerves. Antonio stepped out before Manuel. They stood and faced the little white house with the same worn indigo blue door and matching windows that Manuel remembered. He turned to look at the houses across the road, the same dried-up well and the expanse of field that disappeared over a cliff into the sea. His trance was broken by Terezinha. She tucked Thumbelina into an armpit, grabbed his hand, and tugged him toward the people waiting at the front door. Georgina shook her head the way she always did when Terezinha’s boldness took hold of everyone. Surprised at himself, Manuel allowed the tears to roll down his cheeks.
A cluster of familiar faces had gathered near the front door. Manuel noticed that they too were dressed in their Sunday finery; the men wore shoes and shirts with sleeves that covered their sun-browned arms and the women wore dresses with floral patterns undisturbed by aprons or housecoats. Their hair was pinned back, away from their ruddy faces.
Manuel’s abrupt beginning in Canada had made it possible to dismiss a difficult past. But for a moment, he admitted to himself that his recollections of life in the Azores, on the tiny island of São Miguel, in the backward village of Lomba da Maia, had been distorted in some way by his failure to fulfill the promise he had set for himself. As quickly as the gloomy thought had entered his mind, it left him.
Manuel smiled and nodded as his family engulfed him in hugs and hearty sobs hailing his return. They moved toward Georgina, who smiled awkwardly at their uncertain shows of affection. Manuel could see Antonio giving in to the fawning women and Terezinha pushing them away as they giggled at the young girl’s incredulity. They made way for the prodigal son, steering him through the house with their close-mouthed smiles and approving nods. They had moved from the morning brightness into the dark cool of his mother’s house.
Manuel paused at the doorway to his mother’s bedroom. He heard the sounds of insects and the dried cornstalks rustling in the light breeze as he lowered his chin in prayer before slowly opening the door.
A yellow afterglow stained the lace curtains and filtered into the dusty gloom of the room. She just lay there. Not the strong, towering presence he remembered. She wore a simple black dress. White wisps peeked through her black veil. Candida sat precariously on the bed’s edge. The show of relief was evident. Manuel moved toward her, reaching back to bring his two children in front of him. Antonio shuffled behind his sister and peered through the crook of her arm. Terezinha took a step forward without any urging. She held her Thumbelina doll in front of her grandmother’s face and pulled the string on the doll’s back. There was restrained laughter as the doll’s head spun around and around until the string grew shorter and disappeared.
“Terezinha, Mãe. Tua neta,” Manuel whispered.
She held up the doll again and was about to tug at the string when Manuel’s mother slowly raised her arm to stop her.
Manuel saw how his mother’s eyes moved to his wife, who stood by his side.
“Atrevida—é morena como a tua mãe.”
Georgina moved toward her mother-in-law. She wouldn’t allow this woman to call her daughter bold and dark-skinned. She yanked Terezinha backward to her side, leaving Antonio exposed.
Candida looked ragged. She was resentful of the duty that had fallen on her, and she carelessly dragged a cloth along her mother’s forehead. Manuel noticed how Candida teetered on the bed, as if still afraid she could be hurt by the woman who lay helplessly beside her. Candida invited Antonio to come closer with her toothy, crooked smile. He took a step forward only when Manuel pressed on his neck, urging the boy to move in his grandmother’s direction. Antonio took another hesitant step, looked up at the red balloon floating over his head, its thin ribbon tied securely to his wrist.
“Antonio, vem ver a tua avó—go see—go see her.”
Manuel had moved forward with his son until they both stood close to the old woman’s bed. Manuel took in the smell of damp mingled with mothballs that floated from her linens. These were not the smells he associated with his mother; he remembered her smell of bleach, always the sterility of bleach. He looked at her face. It was shiny, slippery like the skin of a freshly caught fish. Sweat moved into the creases and wrinkles of her face, rivulets ran down from the corners of her eyes, her forehead, down her cheeks where they would certainly pool behind her head.
“Mãe, o meu filho, Antonio.” Manuel became very aware that he was presenting his son as if an offering. He felt a quick tug on his sleeve, a reprimand from his wife.
Seeing his helpless mother settled Manuel’s past. There was no need to hold on to things that had weighed so heavily on him, that had become obstacles, or so he rationalized, to all the things he had wanted from life. Manuel urged Antonio to kiss her, hoping to show everyone that he had raised his boy to respect his elders. The boy puckered up and leaned his head in his grandmother’s direction, into the smell of sickness. Her face turned to meet his. Her flaking lips parted, showing her dark, gummed mouth. Her lips reached out for her grandson. She looked at Antonio and lit up before she lay back on her pillow. Relief. Though her eyes were shut, Manuel could see the faint outline of her irises through her translucent eyelids.
“Naõ és rei … tu és mais de que rei,” she muttered softly.
Manuel’s chest puffed. He looked at Georgina’s flushed face and then scanned the adoring smiles around the room. They all began to clap the same way the Portuguese clapped when their plane landed safely. You are not a king … you are more than a king; it was his mother’s pronouncement—her blessing. Manuel brushed past his son and fell heavily to his knees beside his mother’s bed. He reached for her spotted hands and brought them to his lips. His sobs mixed with the sobs of others as the room spun in its stifling summer heat.
She seemed weightless as he moved her across the room toward Candida, who stood waiting behind one of the caned kitchen chairs. Manuel sat her down as Candida p
ressed her bosom firmly against the back of her mother’s head and held her shoulders against the chair. Candida laughed and hummed “O Christmas Tree” as Manuel wove a rope around his mother as if trimming her with a string of colored lights. Manuel shot Candida a look of reproach. Candida then took over with her collection of ruined pantyhose and tied her mother to the chair in the areas that required more flexibility: wrists and collarbone. She then covered their handiwork with a black, knitted shawl.
“Don’t worry, Mãe, we’re not about to let you miss mass,” Manuel said.
Candida struggled with her mother’s shoes.
“She’d die if she missed Sunday mass.”
“Candida!”
Manuel looked to the doorway where both his children stood. Terezinha seemed amused by what she had just witnessed.
“She’s going to die,” she said.
Antonio swatted his sister away like a fly.
“And when she does … I’m going to dance on her grave.” Manuel moved toward his daughter, who ran down the hallway. “Everyone will dance. I know they will. I heard them—” she continued to yell.
Manuel was intercepted by his cousins who came into the house, respectfully clean. They were dressed in suits that were far too large or uncomfortably snug. They greeted him, smiled at his panting daughter who stood behind her mother in the kitchen, then moved into the bedroom where each grabbed a leg of the chair. On Manuel’s count they hoisted his mother into the air. Terezinha giggled when she saw her grandmother’s head jerk and fall onto her right shoulder. Manuel saw his son trying hard not to laugh. He looked to his wife, who responded by giving both children a disapproving pinch. The men lowered themselves through the doorway and out into the already warm morning just as the bells began to peal. They turned themselves toward the church and like soldiers they began to march. Everyone took their places behind Maria Theresa da Conceição Rebelo, strapped into her chair, floating. They walked up the unpaved road. The neighbors, who stood on their front porches or were on their way to church themselves, bowed their heads. Even in her weakened state, Manuel’s mother, with eyelids barely open, was still respected and feared in town.
“Your grandmother wants to see you,” Manuel said. He had untangled his mother and already placed her back in bed. He found his children in their bedroom changing out of their Sunday clothes.
“I’ll tell her the story of Hansel and Gretel,” Terezinha offered.
“Only Antonio.” It hurt Manuel to say it, to make his daughter feel that she wasn’t important, that she didn’t count. It was the same thing his mother had been fond of doing to his own siblings, always choosing him over the others. Manuel was reluctant at first to give in to his mother’s demand but then acquiesced, knowing she did not have much time.
Terezinha ran out of the room and headed for the women who were in the backyard chasing the hens for Sunday dinner. Manuel looked at his son. It was a difficult thing to ask of the boy, who twirled the ribbon of his balloon between his fingers. He didn’t look up to meet his father’s pleading face.
“Would you like me to come in with you?” he offered.
Antonio said nothing but moved into his father’s outstretched arms and blotted his tears on his father’s shoulder. Manuel rubbed his son’s back.
He moved out into the hallway carrying Antonio in his arms. He could see Terezinha through the back door snuffing her face into her mother’s belly as she tried to wrap her mother’s apron over her head in shame. Georgina stroked her daughter’s head.
“Vamos, filho,” he urged, “nothing is going to happen to you.” And as if to put his son’s mind at ease, “I’ll leave the door wide open. I’ll stay with you, okay? … Okay.”
The shutters were closed. The only natural light burst from between the shutters’ slats like beams. A candle on her nightstand lit statues of saints and some black-and-white unframed pictures that leaned against an old clock. Manuel sat down on the wooden stool beside her bed and lifted Antonio to sit on his knee.
“Can she see me, Pai?”
As if in answer, her arm came out from under the covers and slowly shook through the air. Manuel saw how his son’s eyes followed her hand in fear until her yellow nail clicked against a sepia picture of a young man.
“Avô,” she whispered.
“Your grandfather,” Manuel translated.
Manuel looked at the picture of his father and then at one of himself that also sat on her nightstand; the resemblance was strong. She pointed to a picture of Antonio standing with a fishing rod and a small sunfish he had caught. The picture had been taken in High Park. Manuel remembered sending it to his mother along with a twenty-dollar bill; unbeknownst to his wife, he would send money when he could.
“Você veio de mim,” she whispered. Antonio turned to his father to make sense of the words.
“You are made of me,” Manuel whispered.
She smiled for a while, nodding her head, but then her smile vanished. The candle flickered. Georgina had entered the room silently.
“Nunca … nunca …” she repeated as she gently lifted her son out of Manuel’s lap and pulled him behind her, out of her mother-in-law’s view. Georgina leaned over to the dying woman’s ear and whispered between gritted teeth, “Nunca … there is no evil in this child. He’s mine and you will not destroy him, not him too.”
Manuel would not interfere; she had every right to be angry with the woman who had made her life so painful and difficult. She tugged at Antonio and they moved across the room. She slammed the door behind her, leaving Manuel alone with his mother.
“My children are my blood and flesh, Mãe.”
The old woman looked lonely with her pride. It was her partiality for Manuel that forced him to remain.
Before the rooster could announce a new day, Manuel awoke to the high-pitched wails of a woman—yells of anguish and horror. He rushed into his mother’s room to find her lying on the bedroom floor, unwilling to let anyone help her back to her deathbed.
“Em nome do Pai e do Filho e do Espírito Santo,” making the sign of the cross with jerking motions. “Em nome do Pai e do Filho e do …” She dug her heels into the floor and dragged her body up against a wall as she pointed in hysterics to a shriveled red balloon that had settled on top of her chamber pot. Candida, in a momentary fit of duty, lowered herself to the floor and rocked the old woman from behind, whispering unknown things into her mother’s ear. Manuel stood helpless. The old woman turned to her son and then to her grandson, who stood rubbing his eyes. In horror she breathed out her final judgment, a gasp of odorous air exhaled, and sank into Candida’s arms. The silence was shattered as Candida let go of her mother’s limp body, allowed the woman’s head to thump onto the wooden floor.
At first there was quiet, and then Candida’s contained chuckle, which Manuel took for crying. But he soon realized his mistake. Manuel scanned his family as they sleepily gathered in his mother’s bedroom.
“Candida, have you no respect? Control yourself. Our mother is dead.”
“Oh Manuel, I just couldn’t …”
She tried to compose herself as she sat hugging her knees beside the lifeless body, occasionally touching their mother’s cooling forehead with her big toe—just to make sure.
“After all these years—” She caught hold of herself. “All she said was, ‘I’m dying. My stomach … all gone … torn out of me … gone.’” She pointed to the balloon on the chamber pot, rolled onto her side, and laughed into the plank floor.
The hem of the old woman’s nightdress cut across her upper thighs, her scrawny legs tangled and melded like a slippery tail. Antonio dragged a blanket off the bed, pulled it over his grandmother’s legs, careful not to cover her face. Manuel took a step toward his sister but was held back by his wife.
“Leave her be. She has her reasons,” Georgina said.
That morning, no one would return to the warmth of their beds. The women were left to prepare the body for a short wake and then burial.
It was going to be another hot day, there were things to be done.
“She was a remarkable woman, my mother.”
Manuel sat in the kitchen with his cousins. He had roused them from their sleep, called on them to gather at his mother’s home even though the sun had not risen yet.
“You’ve been away too long, Manuel,” Augusto said. “Time has healed, or it’s made you forget.”
“I haven’t forgotten. But there were crops to sow, animals to tend, an ocean floor to harvest. I remember her storming into class that day—‘Senhora Oliveira,’ she said, ‘school is getting in the way of filling their bellies,’ and we left.”
The men began to smile, their memories stoked by this simple recollection.
“Remember, Manuel, leaving before the sun rose to plunge into the frigid waters to catch octopus, eel, and red snapper? Sometimes you would waste the day lying in the sun, rolling in the warm black sand. Remember?”
“I remember,” Manuel said. “She would lock the door if we came home with nothing.” Manuel knew that the door was always open for him; it was only Jose who was denied his warm bed. “My brother Jose and I would huddle together in the barn until the morning, when we would return to the sea once again to dive for food.”
They kept on drinking. Georgina was now in the kitchen plucking some chickens by the sink, and every so often flailing at the cigarette smoke that hung in the room. Over the course of the morning their words had begun to slow down, get longer. Manuel spoke of his sister Albina, who made sure the sheets and clothing were laundered and mended; they were poor but his mother refused to have her children dirty. He moved to Jose, who tended the six cows, two pigs, and dozen or so hens. Then there was Mariano, the shifty-eyed one, as he was known by the neighbors, who seeded the land and harvested the crops. And as if on cue, Candida walked in as Manuel recalled how his little sister was supposed to be the gatherer of fruit and berries but dreamed of becoming a movie star and making it big.
Barnacle Love Page 7
