For she was handsome, as the women from the hills of Barbados sometimes are, a dark disquieting beauty, which broods in their eyes and flashes in their gestures, which underscores their atonal speech.
Silla had learned its expressions early from her mother and the other women as they paused in the cane fields and lifted their sun-blackened, enigmatic faces to the sea, as they walked down the white marl roads with the heavy baskets poised lightly on their heads and their bodies flowing forward in grace and restraint. They seemed to use this beauty not to attract but to stave off all that might lessen their strength. When a man looked at them he did not immediately feel the stir in his groin, but uneasiness first and then the challenge to prove himself between those thighs, to rise from them when he was spent and see respect and not contempt in their faces. For somehow their respect would mean his mastery of all of life; their contempt his failure . . . Such was Silla’s beauty today, heightened by the blue gown.
In contrast, Ina, who slipped in behind her, was like a girl on a cameo brooch—gentle and virginal in the pink gown which billowed to her feet. She wore pink gloves, and a pink hat framed her mild face. She breathed lightly, afraid to upset the delicate balance of her beauty.
“Come, le’we go to the beautiful-ugly wedding if we going,” the mother ordered, and they swirled out behind her, the gowns brushing the wainscoting with a rich sound, the mother’s perfume pricking the air. They crowded into the vestibule, and the children waited for her to open the last door.
She paused, her hand on the knob, and asked with forced indifference, “Where yuh father?”
Ina’s eyes urged Selina to answer.
“Where he is?” Silla asked over her shoulder.
“Dressing,” Ina said.
“To go where?”
“He . . . he said he might come to the wedding . . . Later . . . if he felt like it . . .”
Silla swung around, her gown rustling angrily with her sudden movement, and Ina started back while Selina braced herself. “Come to the wedding,” she cried incredulously. “Don he know shame? Don he know that every Bajan in Brooklyn know ’bout ‘Daffy-Deighton’ and his nine hundred odd dollars cash throw ’way and does laugh at he? Be-Jees, let him come!” She shook her head grimly. The door crashed open and she swept down the stoop, one hand holding up the gown, the other hailing a taxi . . .
All three of St. Matthew’s tall carved doors welcomed expansively the summer day as well as the wedding guests. Within the dim nave flowers entwined the tall lit candles at each pew; flowers burdened the arched trellis, where the bride and groom would stand, and almost obscured the altar. Their sweetness vied with the women’s perfumes and the incense smoldering in the censer, while their gaudy colors seemed too worldly, too hot against the cool marble. Long threads of sunlight reached from the small windows high in the nave, down to the bride’s guests and the groom’s guests arranged on either side of the center aisle like two warring camps.
Selina sat beside the mother on the bride’s side, surrounded by all the faces she saw at every wedding. Always, on these occasions, she loved them. The lavish gowns, the earrings, the small beaded purses made them like ordinary people who loved dressing up and being gay. She saw Iris Hurley, majestic in mauve satin, her wide nose taut with watchfulness, and Florrie Trotman with her abundant breasts constrained in red lace and Virgie Farnum sitting unperturbed amid her restive brood in an off-white satin gown which matched her skin. Their husbands sat with them, and Selina tried to discern in those inscrutable faces some trace of the faults ascribed to them by their wives. She saw nothing. They simply looked solemn and harmless in the tuxedos. Only the mother was without her husband, and even though her head still rose and fell in that proud elaborate bow, Selina detected a masked but unutterable longing in her glance.
An hour passed. The air became heavy with the flowers’ redolence, and the crowd’s murmur mounted irritably against the hum of the organ.
“But you know ’Gatha oughta stop! I know a bride should be late but it over two hours now and not bride one!” Ianthe Yearwood, seated beside her husband, Seifert Yearwood, who owned the dry-goods store, turned and whispered this to Silla.
Silla sucked her teeth. “Ianthe, you know ’Gatha got to overdo everything . . .”
An impressive bustle at the rear of the church silenced them. The ushers’ hands described a frenzied arabesque now as a small figure draped in white appeared against the sunlight in the doorway. The ushers hurried her and the bridal party behind a screen. Then, in the silence that was as tumid as the heat, they took down the white rope that closed off the middle aisle, and ’Gatha Steed, vivid in green satin, swept, rustling mightily, down the aisle.
The guests strained up in one body to inspect her hat first, a high turban affair of green satin with a plume rising imperially from the front. All over the church, the eyes dropped together from the startling hat to the gown, searching out each detail. All Selina could glimpse among the tall backs in front of her was a dark stain of perspiration spreading under ’Gatha Steed’s arm as she passed.
They watched her until she was seated; then, as if controlled by a single muscle, the hundreds of eyes swept back to the bridal procession that seemed never to end—and all Selina could glimpse occasionally was a young dark face amid a froth of colors.
Finally the organ soared into the wedding march and the entire church rose to acknowledge the bride.
She was a small bride. And the heavy virginal white made her appear even smaller. Long-stemmed flowers and a prayer book crowded one arm while she clung to her father’s arm with the other. She stepped like someone asleep through the aisle of lit candles and flowers, her face numb, her eyes lowered under the veil. As she passed, black hands reached out to straighten the train which did not need straightening, and curious eyes probed beneath the cloud of veil for her face. But there were only a few murmurs of admiration, for she was a sad bride, who walked toward her bridegroom like Iphigenia to her death at Aulis.
“Dearly beloved . . .” the minister intoned.
At both ends of the bridal table a pair of lovebirds carved out of ice kissed and slowly melted. Atop the six multi-tiered wedding cakes little painted bridal couples kissed under the icing trellis. The fervor of these artificial lovers mocked the real bridal pair. The bride sat in wan resignation before the cakes and lighted candles, barely smiling as the guests kissed her and wished her happiness, while the groom whom her mother had chosen twisted around in his seat to shake each guest’s hand, his neck bulging out of his collar as he laughed.
Selina, behind the mother in the receiving line, averted her eyes from the bride, afraid that if she looked at her she would carry the bride’s defeat and resignation as a blemish always on her mind. At the end of the bridal table ’Gatha Steed sat with her husband, Reggie. Silla bent and kissed her. “Soully-gal,” she said, “everything is lovely. It’s a wedding to end all weddings. I tell yuh, it must be like those on Fifth Avenue in New York . . .”
’Gatha Steed, whose smile darted across her face, smiled now and preened like a green bird. “Silla, you know how it tis—I tried to do my best for the girl.” ’Gatha’s smile snapped on, then off, and she pulled Silla down, whispering, “But hey-hey, Silla, what’s this I hear that Deighton lick out a fortune on foolishness in a day?”
“It’s true, soul. Close to a thousand dollars gone.”
“Oh God-Jesus.” ’Gatha clutched her throat. “Soul, you has got your cross to bear in that man. But I hear you still buying the house despite him.”
“Yes, soul, I had to go to the loan shark for the money, but at least the piece of old house will be mine someday.” Then to mask her pride she added, “Yes, I went looking for trouble and got it. You know what these old house does give . . .”
“Who yuh telling!” ’Gatha laughed and preened and the green plume whipped the air.
They kissed again and Silla moved away. Everywhere they were stopped:
“. . . but Silla, how?
That wuthless Deighton . . .”
“. . . Lord-today! Silla Boyce? How yuh keeping? I hear you buying the house despite that brute . . . But don mind he, he got his coming ’cause God don love ugly . . .”
“. . .Wha’lah, is these the children? C’dear, how he could do something like that and got such nice girls . . .”
“. . . Silla, is it true? Over two thousand dollars lick out . . .”
Selina listened to the flat-pitched voices abuse her father and praise and console the mother and had to contain her anger. Slowly a thought formed as she watched her. The wedding was really for the mother. In her honor. The flowers and candles, the decorations strung across the ceiling and walls, all the cakes were not there for the broken bride but for the mother. Suddenly she understood that exaggerated bow the mother had given everyone in the church. She too must have sensed that the wedding was really for her.
The voices still clamored around them but Selina noticed that the mother was no longer listening. People still shouted their congratulations about the house but their words seemed to bring no joy now. They cried loud their condemnation of Deighton but strangely she did not join them any more. She did not, even as they called her name, make the elaborate bow. A shadow might have swept the room and crossed her face, for her elation was suddenly gone, and a sad line pulled at her mouth. Glancing up at her, Selina saw the same muted longing she had seen in the church when the mother had watched her friends with their husbands. “Come,” she said in a joyless voice, “le’we sit down.”
They found Florrie Trotman, Iris Hurley, Virgie Farnum and their children at the table. Their husbands had already left for the bar. Florrie greeted them with a sigh of disgust, “But c’dear, where the food, nuh?”
Silla sat down without commenting, her eyes remote.
“In truth,” Virgie Farnum said, her pale skin flushed from the heat, “all these Bajan weddings is nothing but one big to-do-ment. All this silver ’pon the table. Ice birds kissing. Candle and caterers and no food! And did you see the great ’Gatha styling down the aisle?”
“She’s something can style so?” Florrie sucked her teeth. “As black as she is in a bright-bright green? And somethin’ tie round she head like she’s still home selling fish?”
“But Dear-heart, don begrudge the woman she wedding,” Iris said. “People home cun afford no big wedding, so when they come to New York and make little money you can’t blame them for doing things like the white people.”
“What you talking, Iris? I went to a wedding bigger than this home,” Florrie said indignantly and waited for their contradiction. “It was when Birdie Worrell marry that old-old man by the name of Gay Lisle Pembroke. You remember old Mr. Gay Lisle?” And again she paused, but still no one spoke. “Well Birdie and old Mr. Gay Lisle had this big wedding. Birdie was in a gown with more lace than the law allow, and old Mr. Gay Lisle did look like he was gon choke up there at the altar in a high collar. Birdie mother spend money she din have hiring fancy cars from town, and the flower girls was hanging out the windows of the cars puking and crying for their foot hurt in the shoe ’cause they wasn’t used to either car nor shoe . . . Muh dear, I thought my navel string would burst from laughing that day . . .
“And the reception! Jesus-Mary-and-Joseph! It was a reception to end all reception. After those malicious brutes got through filling their guts and swilling up the rum then they perform. Somebody must of said something to old Mr. Gay Lisle about Birdie looks and he up hand and give the man one! And soon the whole place was like federation. The rum bottles flying. The women and children screeching like bombs was falling. Some treacherous body went and smash the windows of the fancy cars. And the woman that had seven children for old Mr. Gay Lisle tore the gown clean-clean off Birdie . . .
“And what—after all the money spend on the beautiful-ugly wedding it din last. Later that night old Mr. Gay Lisle come flying birdspeed down the road with not a stitch on and Birdie pelting rockstone at he.”
“What he was running for?” Virgie Farnum asked.
“How yuh mean! The man was too old to raise up a finger never mind anything else . . .”
Through the laughter, Iris Hurley cried, “But, Florrie, watch that vulgar mouth in front the children.”
“Let them close their ears when big people talking.” Her slanted eyes swept from her plump daughter to Iris’ handsome sons to Virgie Farnum’s fractious brood to Selina and Ina.
To Selina, Florrie’s glance was as loathsome as her hand had been on her breast. Again Selina felt the sharp sense of alienation. How could she have been born among people like Florrie Trotman with her bawdy stories? She wanted to leave the table. To leave them. But where could she go in the large hall and belong? Perhaps with the men at the bar. She could hear their laughter above the hubbub and there was something warming and friendly about it . . . Perhaps with the young people sitting apart from their parents. Most of them were in college, becoming professionals whether they wanted to be or not. But even as she glanced at the young women, she demurred. The way their gloved hands lay lifelessly in their laps reminded her of the bride. Perhaps—a thought stirred in the darkened recess of her mind for the first time—there was no place for her here . . .
The festive din rose, ruffling the looped streamers and paper wedding bells, buffeting the walls. It subsided only when the food was served. At Selina’s table the women were silent as the husbands returned and a white-coated waiter served them. As soon as he left, Florrie Trotman disdainfully inspected the food. “Ham, turkey, potato salad. All this fanciness and not little pudding and souse. Not little peas and rice. Oh ’Gatha is playing white in truth.” But despite her sarcasm, she was impressed.
After dinner, after the verbose toasting and the cake cutting, a space was cleared and the toastmaster made the small sad bride dance with her groom. She held away from him, a fragile shape against his big frame. After they had made a few desultory turns other couples joined them.
At Selina’s table the husbands had returned to the bar, and the women sat with a bottle of rum on the table.
“Dear-hearts, I don does drink no lot of rum,” Iris Hurley said, filling her glass, “’cause it does make my head spin ’round too bad.”
“What you talking?” Florrie said. “There’s nobody like their rum better than you, Iris, despite all your talk ’bout the church.”
“But hey-hey, she like she’s trying to make out that I’s some notorious drunkard!” Iris’ breath came in outraged gusts. “Lemme tell you, Dear-heart, I does only take little rum when I got a cold . . .”
“You must stay full up with cold then.”
As Iris bristled, Virgie Farnum said, “Now wunna hard-back women don start fighting please at ’Gatha wedding. Le’we drink to Silla and she house.” She lifted her glass and her gray eyes lifted to Silla. “She has persevered and she has won out!”
With the glasses at their lips, they waited for Silla to respond. But her face was still abstracted; her eyes rested on the men at the bar. She searched among them with the wistfulness almost of a young girl, and a look, as brief as her eyelids dropping, mirrored in that fragment of time a deep ache inside her. Suddenly she pushed away her glass and lashed out, “What is the old house for wunna to make such a fuss over it, nuh? Houses! That’s all the talk. Houses! When you does have to do some of everything short of murder to get them sometimes. I tell you, I tired enough hearing about them . . .”
They stared unbelieving at her and Florrie leaned over, troubled. “Silla what wrong, soul?”
“She ain been herself since she sat down at this table,” Iris said.
“Leave she, nuh,” Vergie said. “She taking on ’bout Deighton.”
“Silla taking on ’bout Deighton?” Florrie said incredulously.
“Yes, nuh. He’s still her husband, ain he. And I know what I talking too. Look, I raise near that man and even though he was never no good, he got a way ’bout him.”
Silla groped for words to refute her.
“But . . . but what you talking, Virgie? I . . . I don care if the man was to drop . . . dead . . . tonight-self . . . It’s just the heat in here and the lot of noise that give me this bad feel. But it gone now. Come”—she managed a smile—“le’we drink.”
Still puzzled, they raised the glasses to her and then threw the rum neatly over their tongues.
“Too sweet to muh mout’,” Virgie boomed, restoring their gay mood, and filled her glass again.
Florrie nudged Iris, but spoke to Virgie. “C’dear, Virgie, you best watch yourself with that rum ’cause you know you. You’ll go home tonight with your grogs in you, and when you hear the shout you’ll be tumbling big-big again.”
Red mottled Virgie’s skin and she shouted proudly, “Not me, soul. I don got that loving-up to study no more. All I studying is the dollar now. I even thinking of joining the Association of Barbadian Homeowners and Businessmen.”
“But what is that thing about?” Florrie asked.
“Percy Challenor, Seifert Yearwood and them so is starting it up,” Virgie said, “and they want all the Bajan that got property to join. They gon set up some Fund to make loans to the members. You gon join, Florrie?”
“Me join what? You think I would have any Bajan in my business as deceitful and narrow-minded as they are? Not me. Never no join!” she said with finality and turned to the dancers. “Wha’lah, look at them. Their guts full now and they getting on worse than Trinidadians.”
They were not to sit there long, for the husbands returned and, emboldened by the rum, pulled them protesting to the dance floor. As soon as they left, their children scattered.
The mother remained, with Ina and Selina down the table, and together with the sad bride they struck a somber note in the midst of the gaiety. The mother kept turning the small glass of rum pensively between her hands, and when she occasionally looked up, her eyes were screened with the same helpless longing.
Brown Girl, Brownstones Page 14
