bone

by Yrsa Daley-Ward

  Three p.m., said the pastor. Let us

  reconvene. Let us meet in the street,

  march to him and save him. Please be

  godly in the respect that three p.m. means

  three p.m. No black people’s time please.

  Some people found this funny, but

  the pastor had been serious.

  By four thirty p.m. Benny could make

  out the gathering of church people in

  the distance. They were singing choruses

  and praying for a successful outcome.

  The dust on the ground was red and

  the skyline was tinted orange. They

  were marching towards the house,

  singing hymns. Miss Phillips was

  leading in song with her haunting

  melodic voice and the male voice

  choir behind her, backing her up.

  Everyone was wearing white.

  They marched deliberately,

  synchronized at a slow, slow pace

  with a nod of the head on each step.

  As they drew nearer, Tessa was

  calling out for her husband.

  Samuel appeared on the porch

  behind Benny. She glimpsed the

  husband who she was there to save

  and saw that he was beautiful.

  There were people in the

  neighborhood gathering around

  mass on Benny’s front yard. The

  pastor had begun to preach,

  “Repent, dear sons. Repent!” and there

  was a ripple of assent in the crowd

  and shouts of “Only repenting will

  save you, sons.” Onlookers were

  joining, pushing in and jostling to

  see what was going on. Children were

  running, trying to keep up with the

  church musicians. Skipping around

  the congregation to see what all of

  the excitement was about. And there

  was dancing. No hips gyrating, of

  course. No bottom shaking, naturally.

  Waving and clapping, hands and

  faces pointing heavenward to Jesus as

  the hymns got louder and the

  churchgoers excited.

  Some people from the area whom

  she felt sure did not go to church

  were arriving with fire and kerosene.

  The churchgoers were singing about

  being soldiers. They were singing,

  “We are soldiers

  in God’s army.

  We’re going to fight,

  and some will have to die.”

  They were singing about holding up a

  blood-stained banner and then a fire

  arose from the back room of the

  house. Not turning around, Benny’s

  heart shot out to all the corners of his

  body as he felt his life, fabric and

  memories burning.

  Unruffled and more concerned with

  the task in hand, the churchgoers

  sang on. These sinners needed to be

  saved and a few flames were a small

  price to pay. After all, there would be

  more fire in the pits of hell.

  The pastor continued and the crowd

  moved closer towards them. Tessa

  was soon pushed out of the way by

  others who had joined the gathering.

  And on second glance, some of those

  who appeared to be dancing were

  shaking fists and some who appeared to

  be singing were hurling abuse at

  the two men. This she hadn’t

  prepared for. The rage. The

  revulsion. Shouts of that word, that

  awful word. This was all wrong.

  Wrong and surely not what the

  church had intended at all. It had

  become dangerous. Disturbing.

  People were preventing their children

  from running into harm’s way.

  The police arrived on the scene with their

  beef patties and grape sodas in

  enough time to get a good view of

  proceedings, smiles on their round

  faces.

  The two men did not run. The smoke

  rose, thick and black.

  true story

  It’s not that Dad doesn’t love you

  or your brother,

  said Mum,

  greasing up our ashy legs with Vaseline

  Or that your Auntie Amy’s a man-

  stealing, cheating, back-stabbing bitch

  who can’t keep a man so she has to steal

  somebody else’s.

  We just don’t see eye to eye anymore,

  that’s all

  and he wouldn’t stop eating cashew

  nuts in bed.

  It’s not that your mum and I

  hate each other,

  said Dad, pushing a crumpled ten

  pound note into my chinos pocket

  or that I forgot about your birthday

  but I need time to think. I’m moving

  in with Amy

  and anyway, your mum cooks with

  too much salt.

  It wasn’t so much an affair, you

  understand,

  said Auntie Amy, lacing up my

  brother’s small Nike trainers

  and picking out my knots with the

  wooden comb shaped like a fist

  but a meeting of minds,

  outside of our respective vows.

  (And bodies, muttered Mum when

  I told her later.

  Two-faced tramp. What a joke.

  Don’t tell anyone I said that.

  Don’t tell anyone I said that.)

  It’s not as though

  your mum’s exactly an angel, either,

  said Dad with bloodred eyes

  and a pulsing vein in his forehead

  finishing the last of the whisky

  and Auntie Amy said, Easy Winston,

  you’ve had a lot

  and Dad said, Don’t tell me what to

  do

  not even my wife yet, and you think

  you know it all.

  Yeah, you think you know it all?

  It’s not that your family are going to

  hell, necessarily,

  said Grandma, boiling up the green

  banana, yam and dumpling

  and grating the coconut onto the rice

  and peas.

  They must just accept Jesus Christ

  into their lives

  and put away the drink and sin and all

  the lies.

  Now go and wash your hands and set

  the table.

  Don’t worry, girl.

  We’ll pray for them tonight.

  breathe

  If in the end her words were nothing

  if in the end his hands were air

  if the thought of her rips.

  If he stopped phoning when you stopped fucking

  if she hangs on you

  and

  doesn’t call again

  if he asks you to pay back the money.

  If.

  If she still isn’t sorry

  if.

  karma

  The

  girl who made your life hell

  when you were young and had no friends

  walked by you today. Names are not important
/>
  here

  but feelings are

  because sometimes

  you find yourself, some twenty years later

  or more

  still cowering

  still minuscule speaking

  still tiny lettering

  all the way in your stomach. Still

  a swallower of things.

  You always thought karma would get her

  but you hear she’s doing well. Got married,

  kids on the way, not that you’re really definitely

  after those

  things

  but

  still.

  Still

  it’s a bitch.

  You came home

  many times feeling

  ghoul. All kinds of transparent.

  Do the feelings ever

  leave? Or do you just learn to wrap them up into

  something to wear?

  That’s one thing everything does, you suppose.

  Turns you into a maker of gold.

  14

  But at least I’m not fourteen

  anymore,

  talking to other people’s husbands

  avoiding my stepfather

  drinking all of the clear suff I can

  find in my

  mother’s cabinet,

  washing it down with talcum powder

  and orange juice

  passing out in parks

  or at football games

  and getting the dark, dark chills

  in the early hours of the morning.

  Staying forever far from home

  completely, completely at sea.

  Knowing God has cut me out

  jagged, loose, wild.

  prayer

  Some girls do

  and I’m one of them.

  They told me God didn’t like it.

  I cried at church

  tried to pray myself Good.

  (Sat on my hands.)

  Some girls do

  and I’m one of them.

  They told me men wouldn’t like it.

  I plaited my hair

  tried to quiet the singing down there

  (I was sitting on hymns.)

  Some girls do

  and I’m one of them.

  They said I really didn’t like it

  (not if I was honest with myself).

  I sat at the meetings

  (confessed to things

  that have never felt wrong)

  things that some girls do

  and

  I tell you,

  I’m one of them.

  impending dialogue

  Hungry. Stomach screaming hungry,

  I worry about the conversation we

  haven’t had yet. You know, this one. I

  will order pudding after dinner and

  chew and swallow without tasting

  anything much. You will chain-smoke

  and drink three different beers and

  we will talk out how to make the best

  of things despite the year and its

  shitty weather. We are tired of

  dressing in layers just in case and

  leaving wet umbrellas in other

  people’s houses. Who can live like

  that? On the day, your voice will be

  too bright and cheerful, the way it

  always is when you hurt the most.

  We’re always trying to make

  everything okay. Fine. Well, or

  whatever shit we tell our friends

  instead of awful. Grieving. Barely

  breathing. Come, let us talk with our

  closed-up throats, crushed hearts and

  wet eyes. Quickly, because when you

  get that metallic taste on your tongue

  and teeth it means trouble and when

  I get that light feeling in the space

  between the back of my eyes and my

  skull it means hell.

  the stupid thing about it

  You’re on the phone for four whole

  hours. While your head hurts and you

  can’t go on and you wish you’d never

  met. While she blames you and you

  blame her and she hates you and you

  hate her

  still, in the end, it goes like this

  You: I need to touch you. I want you.

  Her: Come over, right now. Hurry.

  new

  hold me, you.

  firmly, because all I’ve known how to

  do so far is leave

  hold me, you.

  tightly, because all I’ve known how to

  do so far is run

  challenge me, because all I’ve known

  so far is how to make excuses.

  The other day I told you your mind

  was a different country

  you said, “No. Continent,” and we

  laughed.

  When I joke about having other

  lovers you tell me they’re all in you so

  where would I be running to?

  You are a million different reasons to

  stop. I don’t sleep as much as I

  thought I needed to

  or drink all the wine. I’m frightened I

  might be happy.

  Dig your nails in.

  All I’ve known how to do so far is

  walk.

  quirk

  You are one of life’s

  anomalies

  and this is

  how I fell.

  up home

  Stuff that you remind me of.

  Home. Wherever that is. I’m

  confused

  and in the same way that my grandma

  (who hasn’t seen my brother or me for

  two years because he has been lost

  somewhere between despair and

  north Manchester

  and I’ve been away in Africa)

  in the same way that she just smiles

  and puts on the kettle

  I’m beginning to feel a lot like I’ll

  wait for you

  against my better judgment.

  She gives us macaroni and brown

  stew chicken in a Tupperware box

  (which she asks him to return but

  everyone knows he won’t).

  Core loneliness is a terrible thing.

  I suppose we all have each other, but

  only up to a certain point.

  I suppose we all die stubbornly and

  separately, in the end.

  Someone reads Psalms 139

  and, in the verse that mentions how

  we are fearfully and wonderfully

  made,

  I’m beginning to see the light

  and I trace the outlines of your

  tattoos on my arm.

  My brother takes all of the food

  because he had mouths to feed.

  Nobody knows how many. Nobody

  has asked or kept count and he

  doesn’t say much. Anyway, I will soon

  be en route to London. Can’t

  have food and memories weighing

  me down, however delicious.

  Some things you just have to leave up

  North, like short a’s, Morrisons,

  Ovaltine, pictures of your late parents

  in graduation caps and gowns

  carrot juice the way West Indian

  people make it with the nutmeg a
nd

  condensed milk

  and the look on your grandparents’

  faces, always, when you say,

  “Oh well, must get going. Don’t want

  to miss my train.”

  I’m beginning to miss you terribly, by

  the way.

  It’s a stunning day up here

  despite the rain.

  mum

  Mum. Where you are

  I hope that there is Tia Maria and

  Coca-Cola

  and people don’t talk too loudly

  when you’re trying to sleep.

  I hope you have a daughter with a

  plan and a dream

  and sons who aren’t on first-name

  terms with the police.

  I hope you have your pick of a few

  good men

  and none of them know how to

  cheat.

  Mum, where you are . . . I hope that

  there are grandfathers who don’t

  stare at you for too long

  and grandmas who aren’t sick

  I hope that they don’t scream because

  your mother left

  and tell you,

  you ain’t shit.

  I hope that you don’t bathe old men

  for a living

  who call you nigger bitch

  Mum, where you are, I hope that God

  comes down and shows you what

  goes where

  and doesn’t shout because you’re far

  too tired to care.

  I hope that there’s someone to tease

  the knots out of your hair.

  I hope that good is good and right is

  right and fair is fair.

  kid

  You can fit two thousand four

  hundred and ninety-six

  tiny letter a’s on an a4 page

  based on fitting four of them firmly

  into the space of a

  centimeter square.

  Dad will say, “That’s diligence for

  you.”

  Everyone else will call it a waste of

  time.

  You can fit a whole tube of Smarties

  in your mouth

  while dressing your little brother up

  in your Sunday best.

  Grandma will laugh at the boy in the

  dress.

  Granddad will nearly hit someone.

  Your brother will be sent upstairs to

  change

  head bowed in shame.