As she stepped inside the gate to her little yard, Melody, born early last year, came toddling toward her on rubber legs. Christine, with the ease born of practice, scooped her sister onto one hip, balanced the schoolbag on the other side, and gave the dirty, glowing face a kiss.
“See you later,” she called out brightly to the twins as she closed her gate. “I glad for you.”
“Thank you,” said Pollyread, as two more children tumbled out of the little house on hearing their sister’s voice.
The twins looked at each other, two impulses balancing in a momentary seesaw. Sometimes when walking back from school they raced each other home from some point that was determined in a flash by one or the other. Now Pollyread crouched, one hand fiddling with the hem of her uniform skirt. But Jackson turned away, looking back down the path to where Jonathan Purdy, the other member of their little group, walked slowly up toward them, head down. Pollyread sighed and straightened.
Jonathan was not a very popular member of the Marcus Garvey school community, though no one could have told you exactly why. He wasn’t clever or slow, good at games or clumsy, mean or generous, good-looking or ugly, fat or skinny. Had he lived elsewhere in Valley, he would have been almost unknown to Pollyread and Jackson outside of class. As it was, they knew more than they really wanted to know about him. Jonathan — and that was another thing about him: He didn’t have a nickname or pet name — was minded by his grandmother, left there by his father when he got a prized place on a crew to go to Florida to cut sugarcane. Jonathan was less than two years old at the time, and no one had seen or heard of the father since. His mother was unknown to everyone except, presumably, the father. That in itself was not unusual: A lot of Jonathan’s schoolmates were minded by grandmas, aunts, or even unrelated “aunties.” But none of the others had Miss Icilda raising them. A foundation member of Zion Pentecostal Tabernacle, Miss Icilda was a firm believer in the biblical injunction: Spare the rod and spoil the child. Jonathan was not spared, though no one else would have called him a wayward or disobedient child. The Gilmores, though living more than a hundred meters up the path, were aware of every occasion on which the rod — actually a leather belt — was applied by Miss Icilda, a wiry woman in her sixties who smoked a pipe and still dug her own ground. The worst thing was that as he got older, Jonathan had stopped crying out, which made the thwacking sound of the belt, tearing the air like paper, all the more startling.
The twins stood side by side now just above Christine’s gate, waiting for Jonathan to catch up. He approached with head still down, and perhaps would have gone right past them if they hadn’t, between them, been blocking the pathway.
“You want to come up by us?” Jackson asked. They all knew what awaited Jonathan a few meters up the road. His Common Entrance marks had put him in the middle of the class. With someone to argue for him, a place could probably be found for Jonathan in a high school in Town. But there was no one to make the case. So he would go to Cross Point All-Age and return every afternoon to Miss Icilda.
Jonathan shook his head without looking up.
“Maybe your granny not there,” said Pollyread hopefully. “Come stay by us until she come back.”
He looked at her. A smile like the shadow of a bird wing crossed his lips. “Is okay,” he said softly, and seemed suddenly a little old man, not eleven years old.
The three of them walked in silence to Jonathan’s gateway, which was an opening between two big tree ferns that formed an untidy but beautiful arch of mottled green sunlight into the yard behind. Into the trunk of one of the ferns had been hammered the lid of a tin of Milo for visitors to knock on with the bolt from a latch, which hung at the end of a string. Miss Icilda had lived in Valley most of her life, but only Jonathan came into her yard unannounced; if there was no answer to your knocking, you went away.
“Okay, then,” Jonathan said, pushing the gate. “See you.”
“You sure —?” Pollyread began.
He spun back around as he walked away from them and waved a hand, forefinger pointed in the air. “Congrats, yow,” he called out with a smile. Then he turned and went, head down again, toward the shut door of his home, framed by the lovely arch of ferns.
The twins didn’t wait for him to reach the door. They wanted to get away as quickly as possible.
A few steps up the path from Jonathan’s gate there was a big breadfruit tree. As they passed it, Jackson a step ahead, and without a word being spoken, the race for home was on, Pollyread breaking first and bouncing Jackson’s shoulder. Generally, it was a game; it conferred bragging rights for the first fifteen minutes or so after they got there. But today it was a race in earnest: to be the one to tell Mama the news, good and not so good.
The topography of the path, dotted with trees and stones, step-ups and sideways leaps, decreed a complex strategy of speed, agility, and balance, with the ever-present risk of injury to pride and person. The clamor of their cries and grunts and the clattering of shoes on the hard-packed dirt filled the air that surged around them. They left drops of sweat behind like clues. More than once they were tempted to shrug off the backpacks they carried to lighten their load and increase speed. But the consequences of throwing away a bag of books would be longer-lasting than the pride in winning the race. So they groaned and whinnied and yelped their way up the winding path, first one, then the other leading past strategic markers. They raced around the goat rock without a thought, their lungs filled with pain and excitement.
Cho-cho decided the winner. The little mongrel picked up their cries when they were still a distance from home and came prancing and barking down the path, further complicating the progress and tactics of the race. His rush carried him past them, and they managed to get ahead of him for a few meters. But when the pathway that had been twisting like a piece of twine suddenly straightened at the blackie mango tree marking the boundary of Gilmore land, Cho-cho caught up with them. He flew past Jackson, a few meters behind his sister at that particular point, and leapt up at Pollyread, aiming perhaps for the flashing white kerchief in her hand. Or perhaps it was that Pollyread’s foot fell on one of the several overripe blackies lying on the path, squishy as oil. Either way, she pitched forward in what Miss Phillipson would have called an unseemly manner, the deliriously happy dog tangling her up just long enough for Jackson to leap over the writhing duo and bolt through their gate with a shout of triumph.
Even after they had all achieved the sanctuary of the yard and the twins were catching their breath on the gray granite boulder just inside the gate, Cho-cho wouldn’t stop barking. He ran up the path toward the house and barked at it, as though summoning Mama inside. No one appeared. Then he trotted back to them, still barking, looking from Pollyread, who was furious with him, to Jackson, pleased with himself and ignoring the dog. Then he pranced back to the house, spinning round every meter or two to see if they were following. They continued to sit on the rock, drawing longer and longer breaths, smelling each other’s sweat.
“Okay, Cho-cho,” said Jackson finally, standing up and making a couple steps toward the house. “Cease and settle, man.”
“Damn dawg,” Pollyread muttered angrily.
Getting some response at last, the dog ran to the house again, tail wagging. Mama came into view from around the side of the house, carrying a bunch of carrots in one hand and some fresh-cut gerberas in the other.
“But stop!” she said, stopping herself. “What you pickney doing home this time of morning?”
Until she remembered what in fact they were doing home, Pollyread felt guilty for a moment.
“Common Entrance, Mama,” she announced, recovering herself and grinning at her mother.
Mama didn’t smile in return. “What you mean, Common Entrance? Don’t is long time you take Common Entrance?” She looked suspiciously at them.
“Results, Mama,” said Pollyread, aware of Jackson shifting nervously beside her.
“A-oh,” Mama sighed, relaxing.
“
Pel get scholarship!” Jackson blurted out.
Mama froze. “A-true? Scholarship? Pen?” Her face opened up like the ortaniques the twins found on the table some mornings, golden with her joy. “What you saying?” She dropped the things she was carrying in her hand and didn’t even notice. Pollyread, inching forward, giggled, and Mama looked embarrassed. Then Mama half squatted and held out her arms, and Pollyread waddled like a duck and fell into them. Mama tumbled over and they rolled on the ground, over and over — something that, under other circumstances, would have brought the wrath of Jehovah down on Pollyread’s head. Jackson couldn’t help but smile, even as he felt tears prick his eyeballs. His news wasn’t going to make Mama so happy.
The thought also flitted through his mind that Mama hadn’t been well, so should not be rolling on the ground like pickney. They were cackling like yard fowls, Jackson thought, beginning to get irritated. He wanted to get his part of this over and done with quickly.
As though she read his mind, Mama brought the rolling to a halt and untangled herself. “So what about you, Mister Man?” she panted, standing up and brushing off her clothes. Pollyread, leaning against Mama as though unwilling to break the contact, was silent, looking at the ground.
He shrugged.
Mama looked at him and repeated his movement. “That’s all?” She did it again, to underline her question.
“Second choice,” Jackson mumbled.
“What that you say?” She cupped a hand behind one ear, a habit of hers when she wanted you to speak louder.
“King’s, Mama.” A little louder.
Mama’s face began to open in the direction of a smile, and then her lips tilted in puzzlement. “King’s?” She looked down at Pollyread. “Is that him say? King’s?”
“Yes, Mama,” Jackson cut in before his sister could answer. “King’s College.”
“What about King’s College?” Mama was truly perplexed, and Jackson’s heart sank: There was going to be no easy way.
He took a deep breath and let the words out. “I got into King’s College in Town.”
“King’s College?” Pollyread had detached herself from her mother’s shoulder and was walking back toward Jackson and the schoolbags. She was still not looking at Jackson. Mama meanwhile was looking from one child to the other. “Don’t is Saint Giles we wrote on the Common Entrance paper from the Ministry?”
Jackson could only nod.
“For both of you?”
Nods from both of them this time.
“You going to Saint Giles, Pen?”
“Yes, Mama,” Pollyread said, hitching her schoolbag over her shoulder and standing beside but a little apart from Jackson.
“So, Mister Man,” she said, looking fixedly at Jackson, “how come you saying you going to King’s College?”
King’s College was one of the most acclaimed high schools in the island, and any parent would be delighted to know that their child had been selected for it. Jackson watched Mama’s face intently, hoping — against everything he knew about his mother — to see a window into something like congratulation. But she had not reached that far yet.
“You mean to say,” Mama spoke quietly, but clearly, “that you didn’t get into Saint Giles.”
It wasn’t a question. “No, Mama.”
The slightly bewildered look didn’t change. “How that happen, son?”
Jackson’s shoulders shrugged before he thought, and he realized immediately that that was not any kind of answer to give to his mother. But what was the answer? What words to use? And to express what, exactly?
“I don’t know, Mama,” he said, mostly for something to say.
“You must know, Jackso,” she said. She was using her pet name for him, and her voice was gentle. Jackson squirmed. If she had been angry with him, or upset in some way … But she was trying to understand what had happened. And Jackson wasn’t helping her. He just stood there, hunting frantically for words which were suddenly missing in action when he really needed them, looking at Mama, holding tight to a curtain at the back of his eyes, right behind which was a river of tears bigger and stronger than Bamboo River. If he could just find the words, he told himself, then the river could be held back.
Mama beckoned him to her. “Come. Let we go inside and talk.”
Jackson watched himself walk toward Mama like a robot in a movie, barely lifting his feet. He was aware of Pollyread slightly behind him, and of Cho-cho a little in front, like the two of them were guarding him in some way. And then he was aware only of Mama’s right arm, dusty from rolling on the ground with Pollyread, heavy as a tree limb as it closed around his shoulder and also light as warm air. The curtain gave way.
“Lordy lord,” Jackson heard Pollyread say behind him.
That night, as they were settling down to sleep, Jackson described the afternoon as “Princess Polly holding court.” Tart words sprang immediately to Pollyread’s mind but, unusually, she bit her tongue. Jackson’s tone was teasing rather than malicious, and besides, he wasn’t entirely wrong.
Pollyread couldn’t remember another time when so many people found their way to the Gilmore house in one afternoon. They didn’t come all at once, in fact never more than two or three at a time, but there was always somebody there, until dark drove the last ones home. By then, Pollyread’s head was swollen tight with praise and flattery, and Mama’s very skin seemed to shine with pride. Because everyone — neighbors, Mama’s church sisters, Poppa’s drinking partners from down at Shim’s, and some who were, in Mama’s words, just out “ketching breeze” — was drawn by news of Pollyread’s scholarship. In Valley, news seemed to be carried by the birds and butterflies, up and down hillsides and through doorways and windows to the next yard, and the next. News as big as this — the first scholarship anyone could remember — went on the breeze itself.
By evening, though, Pollyread’s fingers were swollen from squeezing limes and Seville oranges to make wash for their guests, and there was no sugar for next morning’s breakfast. Poppa, who liked his coffee syrupy sweet, would have to be content with just condensed milk. Mama was a little tired by the end of it but had borne up well, Pollyread thought. No sign of dizziness or upset stomach.
* * *
Lunch had been eaten almost without words, Jackson’s head down in the food that he was picking at, Mama and Pollyread teasing him silently with rolling eyes and winks at each other. Pollyread figured that Mama, who usually didn’t waste time when she had something to discuss with one or both of them, was waiting for Poppa before she reopened the matter of Jackson’s results. She probably didn’t want to risk another river of tears.
As Pollyread picked up plates to begin clearing the table, Cho-cho exploded under the table, where he’d been dozing on Jackson’s sad feet, and flew to the doorway, quivering with furious barking. An equally loud screech from outside almost caused Pollyread to drop the plates.
“Hold dawg! Hold this bad dawg before it eat poor little me!”
Mama and Pollyread looked at each other, Pollyread frowning in irritation, Mama smiling indulgently as Pollyread went to calm Cho-cho.
“Afternoon, Miss Singh,” she said politely to the woman standing at the bottom of the steps into the house. “Hush up, Cho-cho!”
“Hold that bad dawg,” Mrs. Anita Jayarasingh said sharply, scowling at Cho-cho, who stood to attention on the top step, tail trembling, doing his best to appear fierce. The woman’s eyes locked with the dog’s. They were at the same level, not because the steps were that high but because Miss Singh was very small, probably the smallest adult in Valley. All her several children, except the youngest, Laxshmi, who was in grade six at Marcus Garvey Primary, were taller than her. They took after their father in that.
Pollyread bent down and scooped up Cho-cho. “He not going to trouble you, Miss Singh,” she said, patting the dog’s head. “He just barking to make noise.”
“One day,” said Miss Singh, coming up the steps while shaking a disapproving finger at Cho-cho,
“one day that bad dawg going to eat up somebody and you father going to be in courthouse!”
Pollyread managed to keep a straight face at the image of Cho-cho, who now rested placidly in her arms, “eating up” anybody, especially Miss Singh, who was not just small but bony. “Yes, Miss Singh” was all she said. Miss Singh said the same about the dogs in every house in Valley that she visited or passed, though she had never been bitten, as far as Pollyread knew. But all the dogs barked at her.
“Howdy, Anita,” Mama called out from the table. “Don’t mind the stupid dawg.”
“He stupid, yes,” Miss Singh snapped, darting a ferocious look at Cho-cho as she reached the top of the steps and could look down at the dog. As abruptly, she looked at Pollyread, and her stern face cracked with a ravishing smile.
“Scholarship girl.” She beamed, as delighted as if her child had won the prize. And, ignoring the dog that a moment before had been a ravening beast, she enveloped Pollyread and Cho-cho in a cocoon of sweat spiced with turmeric and rose water. “You could take the dawg with you to Town,” she laughed when she let them go. “They have plenty terrorist in that place, it will be right at home.”
Pollyread couldn’t help but laugh too. She put Cho-cho down. Ignoring Miss Singh, the dog went back to his place by Jackson’s feet under the table.
“You must be proud of you pickney, Miss Maisie,” Miss Singh said, slipping off her worn sandals at the door and advancing into the house. “Both of them. You do good too, young man.” She patted Jackson’s head as she passed around him to sit down in the empty chair next to Mama. The myriad bangles, gold and silver, that covered almost the whole of Miss Singh’s left forearm tinkerbelled in a blessing.
Blue Mountain Trouble Page 6
