New Beginnings

by Brenda Barrett

  “No, I am going to play it.”

  Pamela closed her eyes and counted to ten loudly. “Okay,” she sighed. “This should be interesting; I never knew you could play.”

  “I can,” Geneva said proudly. “I learned from Mother Pusey. She had a piano.”

  “Mother Pusey,” Pamela sniffed. “The people in your neck of the woods had the most unusual sounding names."

  “We have to get going. It’s deportment time,” Conrad said in his nasal tone. “Since you are going to play the piano, I think red. Don’t you?”

  Geneva nodded.

  “What are you going to play?” Pamela asked, squeezing her hands together.

  “It’s a surprise,” Geneva said, smiling. “It was my mother’s favorite piece; it was the only thing that could calm her down after a drunken night.”

  Pamela sat in a chair with her hands over her eyes. “This is all my fault,” she mumbled. “If you play ‘Mary Had A Little Lamb’, I am going to leave the island with Gonzalez. Why did my husband have to get involved with a drunken whore?”

  “So that I could be here,” Geneva said serenely, “filling in for Melody.”

  “I had no idea they had pianos in the ghetto,” Pamela said, sitting heavily in a chair.

  “You had no idea I could speak French either.” Geneva glanced at her. “It’s all a matter of stereotypes.”

  “How did you learn?” Conrad asked. He was hanging up the red dress on the portable hanger.

  “My mother could play,” Geneva said, glancing over at Pamela. “But she was always drunk or tired, and we didn’t have a piano. When my father… I mean Rat Face died, we moved in with Mother Pusey, who was a retired piano teacher. She offered to teach me in exchange for my mother’s services as her housekeeper.”

  “Another touching tale of poverty,” Pamela said. She got up and headed for the door. “I hope your mother’s favorite piece won’t make me the laughing stock of the town.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The interview and deportment judging went well. Geneva didn’t get anything wrong, at least, as far as she was aware. Most of the girls had been nervous anyway, so she didn't stick out like a sore thumb. They had met with the Governor General, who seemed like a nice grandfather and kept them entertained with his sharp wit and charm.

  For a minute Geneva wished that she had a grandfather. The missing pieces of her family’s puzzle came up at the most inopportune times, and she had been staring into space when the Governor General asked her a question. She had saved herself in time by answering in French. That had caused a great uproar and marked her as the GG’s favorite, since French was a language he spoke well—the other girls were nicer to her after that, even asking her for advice.

  For the talent competition, most of the girls were backstage busily touching up their makeup or preparing for their talent piece. A girl with the sash of Eastern Jerk Chicken was practicing her deep breathing exercises beside Geneva, massaging her throat and panting alternately. She stopped long enough to glance at Geneva and comment, “Pity about Melody’s downfall… I mean fall. What’s your name again? Didn’t Melody introduce you as her sister?” Before Geneva could answer, she continued, “Isn’t it unethical for Canton Press to be representing you; isn’t it like a family press. Isn’t it nepotism? You should have somebody independent representing you. That’s what I told your sister.”

  She breathed deeply some more and then looked at Geneva again. “What are you going to do? Everybody is doing something, mostly dancing. I don’t know what it is about dancing that is so fascinating; singing is always more appreciated in Jamaica. That’s why I took voice-training classes. I always knew that one day I would need it to win Miss Jamaica.

  “Oh no, here comes the bully Hillary. She wants us to vote her most congenial. That’s why she is commenting on everything and being so friendly. Some people can be such hypocrites. That is why I always speak what is on my mind.”

  She got up and walked away before Geneva could get a word in. So much for that, Geneva thought. No wonder Melody dislikes the girl.

  She tried to remember her name and then it came to her, Cynthia. She remembered the air kisses and fake smiles when she and Melody had met her in one of the exclusive stores that Melody frequented.

  “Hi,” a bright voice said to her. “I’m Hillary, Miss Flowers and Petals. I heard about Melody. So sorry. You did well with the Governor General this afternoon.”

  “Thanks,” Geneva said and nodded. The room was so busy with everybody running around and panicking, she thought it was nice that Hillary took the time out to be friendly, unlike Cynthia.

  “You look a lot like, Mel,” Hillary said, smiling and sitting in the chair that Cynthia had hastily left.

  “We are sisters.”

  “I know,” Hillary said, spinning in the chair and looking at her face critically. “What’s your talent piece?”

  “I'm going to play the piano,” Geneva said, warming up to Hillary. The mid-length ringlets of her hair seemed to bounce every time she smiled, and her smile turned her eyes to a deep chocolate brown. She oozed confidence and genuine interest.

  “Ah,” Hillary said, peering at her face intently. “That’s unique. Most people in this year’s competition are either dancing or singing. All the best with that.” She looked at Geneva warmly. “I hope to become better acquainted with you by next week.” She walked off and headed for another contestant.

  “Oh my,” Conrad said, startled, as he walked into the makeup room. He put his hand to his mouth. “You are still in the deportment dress.”

  Geneva looked down at herself. “So?”

  “I said yellow for deportment, and red for performance. Remember?”

  Geneva shrugged; she felt fine in the yellow dress.

  “Anyway, you are last in line, so I guess we don’t have to panic,” Conrad said, mumbling as he snapped his fingers. The girl with the makeup case came running.

  “By the way, you did great in the previous meeting,” Conrad whispered. He looked around furtively to see if any one was paying them any undue attention, and then he continued, “I don’t know why Pamela was panicking. You are fitting in nicely. Okay, let’s see…” He looked at the red dress under the portable closet. “Modest and yet alluring. The little glitters will shimmer when you are under the spotlight playing soulfully the song, ‘Mary Had A Little Lamb’.”

  “I am not doing ‘Mary Had A Little Lamb’,” Geneva protested. “Who told you I was doing that?”

  “Your stepmother,” Conrad snorted. “She told the Master of Ceremonies to introduce you as playing that.”

  “No,” Geneva said, shaking her head vehemently. “Tell him I'm going to play ‘Canon in D’.”

  Conrad took the dress from the hanger and gave it to her. “When I get back from your errand, I want to see you in that. And you,” he said, pointing at Amelia the make up girl, “should be working on her face.”

  ****

  A short lady, dressed like a man, came into the dressing room with a clapboard; she had a pencil behind her ear and a very impatient air about her.

  “Ladies, my name is Andrea. I am your stage manager,” she bellowed then paused for effect. “You will enter through there,” she said, pointing to a sign marked “Enter”, “and exit there. We stipulate that because of the positioning of the lights. Understand?”

  Everybody nodded.

  “Contestant number three, Miss Royal Investment, you wanted props?”

  The girl with the backless green dress and long fingernails nodded. Her mother, who had been spending the better part of an hour soothing her, said, “Green plush rugs, a center table, and a chair.”

  Andrea grunted and mumbled, “Why do you need all that? All you are going to do is sing.”

  Before the fierce-looking mother could object, she moved on. “Contestant number seven, you wanted red silk sheets?”

  The contestant who was in a full white dress answered sultrily, “Yes, and white lights to high
light my angelic beauty.”

  “You have false hair, false nails and false eyelashes,” Miss Jerk Chicken said between breaths.

  Andrea held up her hands before the contestant responded. She went down her list, “Contestant fifteen.”

  Geneva raised her hand.

  “This is not primary school, you know,” Miss Eastern Jerk Chicken snickered. “Next thing you will do is bow and scrape. This quiet, gentle act isn’t fooling anyone. We all know that you are the bastard child of a wealthy man, and you are from the ghetto. I don’t know how Melody could allow you to take her place in this competition. You can’t represent Jamaica. You are tarnished by your upbringing, you young upstart.”

  “Down, Cynthia,” Hillary said calmly. “Your fangs are showing.”

  “The baby grand piano will be placed in the center of the stage for your talent piece,” Andrea said ignoring the bickering.

  Geneva nodded. Her hands were now trembling and her heartbeat accelerating. She could see Cynthia and her snarling features. Was this what she would have to endure forever because she happened to be born poor? She would quit the stupid competition anyway and move back to where she truly belonged and felt accepted. People could be so mean when they had spending power.

  But you have spending power now too, a voice said in her head. Remember the times when you used to wish you could escape the ghetto with Froggie. This woman should not be able to insult you like that. Forget Pamela and her etiquette classes. Deal with the girl in the proper manner.

  “Are there any other requests or rejections? Please say so now or forever hold your peace,” Andrea said and looked at her clapboard, and then gave Geneva a commiserating glance. Nobody said anything so she left the room.

  Geneva got up and went over to Cynthia when the buzz in the room went back to its normal level. Most of the girls were talking about her. They kept glancing over at her and averting their gazes. A few gave her a thumbs-up sign and grinned.

  “Cynthia,” she whispered meekly. Inside she was simmering ready to tear the smirk from the beautifully made-up face in front of her.

  Cynthia looked up from her song sheet. Her hairdresser was brushing her waist-length hair into submission and curling the fringes to frame her beautiful face.

  “What?” Cynthia snapped.

  “Where I come from I don't take certain insults,” Geneva said bluntly and curled her hands into fists.

  “Oh my gosh,” somebody whispered in the sudden stillness that took over the room.

  Geneva was bristling with anger, her years of fighting for justice overrode the six weeks of etiquette training that Gonzalez had painstakingly taught her. “You understand me?” she asked looking into Cynthia's sneering face. She took off her spike heels and slapped Cynthia across the face.

  “No, she didn't,” Cynthia said, tears springing to her eyes. She doubled her fists and aimed for Geneva’s face. She missed by an inch.

  Geneva grabbed her nicely groomed hair and they dropped, rolling on the floor.

  “Break it up,” some of the girls squealed excitedly.

  “No, wait,” one of the contestants interjected. “She is going to strangle Cynthia with her hair. I want to see that.”

  The fight was finally broken up before Geneva could exact any real damage on Cynthia. The stage manager held her, and another woman held Cynthia. She felt anger coursing through her veins, and all the insults and slights upon her person that she had received since finding out that she was a Walters had boiled over. She wished her fist had connected more with Cynthia’s bony body.

  Cynthia looked like a rag doll; her mascara was running and a sleeve on her green dress was torn.

  “Don’t talk to me or about me again. You hear me?” Geneva shouted, struggling to reach Cynthia to give her another blow.

  “Oh, my God,” Conrad’s voice squeaked as he came into the room. “I always miss the best cat fights.” He looked at Cynthia and said, “You will need to redo your hair, dahling, and put some antiseptic on that scratch.”

  Looking at Geneva, he remarked, “You can’t wear the red dress again, so we will have to use the white one. It’s my least favorite, but it will have to do.

  “Amelia, let’s redo our girl. And, Geneva, please try to avoid hitting anyone again, even if they say you are the devil’s spawn. This is a competition, which means your competitors will try to find your weak points and exploit them.”

  Geneva shrugged herself out of Andrea’s hold and stomped over to her chair. Cynthia was sobbing into the arms of her makeup girl. “I'm going to sue her, she’s an animal.”

  Hillary went over to Cynthia. “Oh, shut up. You had it coming and no one will testify on your behalf.”

  The other contestants started to cheer.

  “Contestant one, you will be going on in five minutes,” Andrea said amidst the noise. She went over to Geneva. “Do not let that happen again. Control yourself. It seems as if I say this every other year to one or two of the more spirited girls.” She sighed and plucked a bunch of grapes from the fruit basket that Geneva hadn’t noticed was sitting on her table.

  There was a note hanging from it. She picked it up and read it. “You are my beauty queen. Justin.”

  Andrea looked over her shoulder at the note and smiled. “See, he doesn’t care where you are from." She walked off, bellowing orders.

  Geneva smiled as she put the card back. At least she had someone in her corner who didn’t see her as an oddity because she came from a poor background. People would never forget that she was illegitimate and was raised in the ghetto, especially the crowd that Pamela insisted that she change herself for.

  She closed her eyes and sighed. Maybe she shouldn’t have gotten so upset with Cynthia; it confirmed the notion that people from the ghetto are uncontrollable and militant. That wouldn't have been the way of her mother, or even Froggie, who was generally slow to retaliate. His face danced behind her eyes. His deep brown eyes had a hard glint to them; they were accusing her of changing and moving on without him. She shouldn’t be thinking about him before the competition. She should be thinking about her piece. She hummed the tune in her head.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Are you going to tell Pamela that I almost disfigured Miss Jerk Chicken?” Geneva asked nervously.

  Contestant number twelve had just returned from her dancing number, sweat dripping from her glowing face. Most of the girls who had already performed were dressed in their evening wear and were sitting around talking, crying or throwing recriminations at each other for stealing their pieces or copying their styles.

  Conrad sniffed. “She already knows, but don’t think of that now,” his voice quivered. “It’s your turn.”

  “Melody would never do something like that,” Geneva said regretfully as she headed for the stage. Her white dress and matching shoes gave her an angelic air; it was almost inconceivable that she had just trounced Miss Jerk Chicken.

  Conrad gave her a thumbs-up. “You are not Melody. Go and wow the crowd.”

  That’s right, I am Geneva, she whispered to herself as she entered the stage. I was brought up in the ghetto by a mother who I knew nothing about, but who loved the piece that I am going to play. She looked out at the crowd but could only make out the shapes of heads due to the blinding spotlight.

  “Miss Canton Press,” the announcer said solemnly. “Who will be doing the piece ‘Canon in D’ by Johann Pachelbel.”

  Geneva bowed before her shadowy audience and sat around the piano. It was grander than any she had ever seen. The keys almost looked sparkly under the spotlight. She hadn’t practiced in a while since going to live uptown and now she was sitting before a crowd to play. She sighed and sat down, her hands poised above keys. She had played often for her emotionally anguished mother. She knew she wouldn’t miss a note tonight.

  Okay here goes, Geneva whispered to herself.

  She then spoke into the microphone that was attached to the piano. “Ahem, ladies and gentlemen, tonight I am g
oing to do a piece entitled ‘Canon in D’ by the composer Johann Pachelbel. I'm dedicating this piece to the memory of my mother.”

  She knew that the statement would not go over well with Pamela, but tonight she was just Geneva. She couldn’t change who she was or where she is from; she couldn’t deny her past. She touched the keys, and the familiar notes transported her to a place where life was not so confusing, where she didn’t have to choose between her good fortune and Froggie, where she wasn't attracted to Justin, and where she didn’t have Pamela telling her that she was never going to measure up.

  The deep notes of the canon were executed perfectly as she poured her heart into the rendering of the piece. When she finished there was silence. The ballroom was still. And then she heard a clap and then the whole ballroom started to cheer. She smiled triumphantly. Who knew that a child reared in the heart of devastation and degradation in Jamaica could play the piano so well? She bowed before the audience and left the stage.

  When she entered the dressing room the other girls were regarding her with grudging respect.

  “I think you are going to win, dahling,” Conrad said, hugging her. “That was a very soulful piece. It touched my heart. I had tears in my eyes the whole time.”

  Geneva nodded. She was a bit drained and a little bit relieved that she had actually managed to play in front of an audience without missing a note.

  “I am really happy you didn’t play ‘Mary Had A Little Lamb’,” Pamela said when she strolled into the dressing room.

  Geneva nodded, understanding that that was Pamela’s equivalent of a compliment. She didn’t expect her to change overnight.

  “I'm shocked that you learnt some culture in that ghetto of yours,” she whispered to Geneva. “And you didn't say a word to anyone. How shameful. Well, I'll be outside when they announce that you win.” She held her head in the air and strolled toward the door then looked back. “You know that piece of music reminds me of happier times with my family.”