Secrets We Kept

by Krystal A. Sital

  Ah know somebuddy back hwome in Trinidad, she continues, ignoring my mother. Ahgo call im. Me and you goh geh everyting.

  No, meh eh doin nutten widout Mammy.

  Ahright, come back tomorrow, Pooja says before she leaves.

  My mother does not return the next day. The idea of fabricating a will gnaws at her conscience, and so does her eldest brother’s lack of interest in trying to keep their father alive.

  —E was so cold, Krys, she says to me, so cold. Meh doh undahstahnd how e could be money hungry so, e eh care if e own faddah dead oh how e goh dead if e goh suffah oh anyting. All meh see is de greed een everyting e doin.

  They all agree that their eldest brother must have the last will and testament, but he never produces it. Since my mother’s is the only one that surfaces, Rebecca has more power than anyone.

  My grandmother calls my mother. Arya, meh geh ah lawyer willin toh make ah will foh meh on Pappy behalf. All e need is e tumbprint. We hah toh geh im out ah dat ospital.

  Wah lawyah yuh geh, Ma? Arya asks her mother.

  Meh geh one eh. E not so good boh e good enough foh wah ah need.

  Rebecca tells my mother she has divided everything Shiva owns between their two sons, she too thinking only of the crippling tradition that pretends women do not exist.

  Ma, how could you? Arya says. Rahul nevah evah come toh see im, treat im like ah dawg. E nevah even come toh see you!

  Arya, Rebecca interrupts, if de bois and dem evah sell de estate ah puh someting een de will dat say dey hah toh gih each ah de gyuls an dem $10,000 TT.

  Some of my grandfather’s properties can sell for close to a million Trinidadian dollars, approximately $170,000 each. The stipulation my grandmother includes in the will for the girls will give them around $1600 each.

  My mother insists on seeing this will, goes to my grandmother’s house straight away and holds that paper in her hands. After reading it, she brandishes the stapled papers in front of my grandmother’s face and says, Dis is enough foh all yuh gyul chilren toh nevah tawk toh yuh oh see yuh evah again.

  As the bickering swirls around me, my grandfather now a mist vaporizing in the background, I wander back in my mind to lazy Trinidadian days, where the heat lingered at the backs of our knees and around our necks.

  In our open living room in Trinidad, we sat on the couch as we often did when he visited. I learned to spell his name, finishing the round letters and curves with a flourish. He enunciated each letter with a calm in his voice that was reserved only for me, something I understood even at this tender age. S-H-I-V-A S-I-N-G-H, he spelled. I didn’t know then, as I practiced my writing on our floor, that my grandfather was illiterate.

  Lun meh dis and lun meh dat, was what he said to me with each visit. Is teach meh, Grampa, teach, not lun. He grabbed a pencil and wrapped his fingers awkwardly around it, unsure of what to do next. He stared at the crooked letters that I’d pressed into the page, my handwriting that of a little girl still learning the alphabet. With a shaky hand, he copied what I’d written, but his ­fingers trembled from fatigue by the time he wrote the last letter. This man, who had labored with his hands well into his later years, ­collapsed from trying to write the letters of the alphabet.

  When my mother walked into the room to scoop me up for a bath, he shuffled the papers together and cleared his throat. Ever gruff, he said, Pass meh de remote dey, and she did as she was told, obsequious in her compliance.

  Wah allyuh was doin? she asked as she spun me from one end of the towel to the next. I told her, Nutten, juss writin. Meh show Grampa how to sign e name. I laughed as she flipped me upside down then right side up again. Yuh know why e doin dat, chile? E practisin foh when e write e will. Yuh goh geh someting. Truss meh, e leavin yuh someting.

  In a place like the islands, where land begets identity, power, and wealth, children pick up on these subtleties, and I knew what this meant.

  Boh you is e dawtah, Ma, I said. To which she replied, Boh Krys gyul, e hah a special love foh yuh and everybody know it, chile. Everybody.

  I grinned and grew up assuming I’d be included in his legacy, but Shiva deceived us all.

  BOND

  GROWING UP, we regularly visited my mother’s parents on the farm, leaving the city behind, following roads as thin as veins into the mountains, until we got to a narrow gravel path that our car hissed and spat over.

  On one of these visits, my mother’s older sister was at the house with all six of her children. As we were all close in age, we often spent time together. Yet my grandfather took me alone with him around the farm in the mornings, and I ambled behind him, tired but happy. After food and a nap—sometimes while he was still asleep—I would jump on top of him reminding him that I wanted ice cream. Grampa, Grampa, Grampa. Wake up! Doh play yuh fohget yuh know, cause meh wahn meh ice cream and meh wahn it now! In one sweeping motion, he pulled me into his arms and leapt off the couch, laughing. Going for ice cream was a ritual of my visits. I didn’t choose the most convenient location, but he took me anyway because I wanted peanut ice cream and there were only a few places that sold it.

  He grabbed his keys, holding me on his hip. We passed my parents, my grandmother, my aunt, and my cousins. They knew where we were going, and while my cousins were too young to hide their yearning, their bodies leaning toward us, their fear kept them in place. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulled myself up higher on his hip, and turned to them. We gone toh geh we ice cream. Ahgo be back in ah bit. Doh miss we nah.

  We traveled in his sleek new car: a Blue Bird the color of liquid gold that shimmered in the sunlight, a car that was envied for miles around. He buckled me into the front seat, a place where only adults had sat before. I knew my cousins’ eyes were on me, but never did I turn to look at them. We peeled off. My grandfather allowed me to eat ice cream in his car, though he never permitted anyone else to bring in food or drink, far less to eat or drink. I knew what a special privilege this was and was always careful to let the ice cream drip onto my skirt, shorts, or top instead of on his seat. By the time we returned, I was almost finished or already done, jumping around everyone with a smeared face and sticky clothes. My mother made a halfhearted attempt to stop my gloating, but she herself was pleased that my grandfather favored me, and so after a while her chiding faded to laughter at my naughtiness.

  We returned to the city in the early evening, before the sun touched the horizon. My aunt and cousins lived close, but we had at least an hour’s drive. Okay gih Gramma and Grampa ah hug, lewwe goh now. Make sure yuh tell everbuddy bye, yuh hear? my mother said.

  I bounced around kissing and hugging everyone, leaving my grandfather for last. When I broke away from him, he leaned against the wall with a smile on his face. Okay, lewwe goh, my mother called to me. A A Grampa, I piped up, boh whey meh money? Yuh does always gimmeh money. Whey meh money? Everyone turned to look at us. My mother marched toward me and grabbed me by my arm. Krystal! Apologize now. My grandfather’s face betrayed no rage, not even a hint of displeasure. He winked at me. I wrenched my arm free from my mother’s grasp and put one hand on my hip and one palm out. With his soft heh heh heh heh heh, a laugh only discernible in the silence, he plunged his hand into his pocket, extracted his wallet, and gave me a red dollar bill. Already saucy, I waved it around and said, Wah is dis? Dah is all? Meh wahn twenty. He pulled out a green five, and I shook my head. He gave me the purple twenty-dollar bill; it was crispy new, straight from the bank. Okay gimmeh back de dollah since yuh geh yuh twenty. I flounced away saying over my shoulder, A A dah is wah yuh geh foh foolin meh. Ah takin de extra dollar. My mother stepped in again. Krystal give it back now before ah give yuh ah good cutass in yuh skin. I stopped and turned to my grandfather. He said to my mother, Leave she nah, is ahright. Allyuh reach hwome safe. With that he turned and left, only reappearing when he wanted his dinner. My cousins, I knew, never got anything from him.

  ANXIOUS, I ASK MYSELF why there is a special bond between my grandfather and me. What does tha
t say about me? Did he see something of himself in me?

  —Is because we do everyting right, Krys—me and yuh faddah. My mother tries to explain it away. E get toh gih meh ahwey de way e was supposed to and everyting between me and yuh faddah was done de right way. Parents on both sides give we ahwey to each uddah. It was a blessed marriage. Dat love and blessin di juss pass on toh you.

  But not my sister. Throughout our entire lives, she was invisible to him. She never kissed him on the cheek, got money from him, or settled in the crevice of the couch next to him. They just never connected, his indifference to her matched by hers to him. I never point out to my mother that this love she attributed to her traditional marriage didn’t pass through to my sister. She either didn’t want to acknowledge this or couldn’t see it.

  I think of how I’d speed through the chicken pens with him from the time I could walk, plucking one yellow puff of feathers after another off the ground, feeling their bellies squirm against my palms. I think of how much I wanted to squeeze them, to squish the fluffiness and stop their squirming. Did he recognize something in me at those moments, and did it please him? Was he grooming me? Did I make it easy?

  A memory, wave-like, washes over me: back up at the house in the living room, while my grandfather took a nap, I waggled my index fingers at my captured birds, ones he’d allowed me to herd into a tall cardboard box and bring along.

  My mother appeared and whispered, Yuh hah toh feed dem and gih dem watah, Krys, oh dey go dead. She went downstairs and tiptoed around the room, trying desperately not to wake and anger my grandfather. I was oblivious, falling into the safety of his love for me. The gray pellets she carried reeked, and I retched when she handed them to me.

  My grandfather grumbled from the couch, and my mother stood pin straight, glanced in his direction, and patted my head. Ah gone downstairs, come nah. I refused, knowing I could stay up here and do what I pleased.

  The chicks scrambled for food, climbing over one another. I tripped them as they skipped from one end of the box to another, I petted their heads while they pecked my hands, I picked them up and squeezed them, I played and played until they shit everywhere, and then I left them alone.

  I went to my grandfather lying on the couch. Grampa, Grampa, Grampa, ah bored, rheal bored. He unhinged his arm from over his eyes and glared at me. Stan up dey by meh foot and kill any mosquito yuh see. When ah wake up ah wahn see plenty dead body.

  —E use toh do dat to meh, Krys, my mother tells me, make meh watch and make sure no mosquito bitin him while e sleepin. If meh hit im too hahd is lix, if de mosquito bite im is lix, if e wake up and it eh hah no dead mosquito is lix, everyting is lix, lix, lix. Beatin was e ansah toh every question. So I use toh find dead mosquito all een de cornah and just put it juss so on e leg so when e wake up e see dem dey.

  I situated myself at the end of the couch and watched. Mosquitoes flittered around, but they were too small and too fast for me to catch. I started slapping his legs with my palms. Ah geh one two tree! Foh fih six, meh geh plenty plenty plenty. He sat up and laughed. He reserved this part of himself for me. My mother had never seen it.

  The midafternoon heat mingled with the fullness from lunch settled over me. Come hyah, he said, patting the cranny next to him on the couch. I clambered over his legs and nestled comfortably between him and the cool sheets over the sofa. He sang his special song for me, Dodo popo dooodoooo, yuh Mammmy gone toh Toco toh buy ah bunch ah moco so dodo popo dooodooo. My mother never went to Toco without us, and I undoubtedly wanted to sleep but still managed to mumble, Grampa, wah is moco? I dozed off before I could hear him tell me it was a bundle of cooking figs.

  Sometimes he dozed off again, and unable to sleep, I left via the balcony steps, the same stairs my mother and her sisters checked before going to Carnival. I skipped quietly down and slunk off the gravel pathway so no one downstairs could see I was leaving the property. I jumped over the yard chickens and crawled through the bushes, following that meandering road until I got to Radica’s house. She, her brother, and I were almost the same age, and though we sensed we were not supposed to play together, we did it anyway.

  They lived in a tiny, one-bedroom hut at the entrance to my grandparents’ property. Radica was sweeping the ground with a coconut broom, and her brother was feeding the chickens. They told me they still had to milk the cows and gather the goats. Their arms and legs, though thin, were muscular from farm labor. Their skin was caked with dust and grime from working all day long.

  Boh come, Krystal gyul, she says, Mummy and Daddy gone dung de hill foh ah lil bit, lewwe goan inside before dey come back and see we togeddah.

  Radica and Raj’s father is Sachin, my grandfather’s nephew. There was a feud between the brothers, and though Sachin wasn’t a part of it, the animosity traveled down through the generations, touching but not infecting us. We knew enough to understand we shouldn’t play together.

  I knew they couldn’t come up to my grandparents’ house, or de big house as they called it, to visit me, so I always snuck away to play with them. They tried once and got a beating from Sachin, so I now steered clear of him completely.

  There were two beds in the corner of the room with only a narrow gap between them. We jumped up and down, touching the ceiling and then cannonballing from one bed to the other. At first I didn’t notice how we dirtied their sheets, and even once I did I didn’t think about the trouble they would get into, or wonder if they had money to afford soap to clean them.

  —Dem eh bet see trouble, my mother later tells me. Dey was rheal poor and ah know yuh juss wantah toh play dahlin, boh yuh grandfaddah din wahn it so nobody couldah hah it.

  Over our squealing, Radica heard something and shushed us. She rushed to the window and saw her father and mother clanking up the hill with pails.

  Krystal, she said, jump troo de window, walk to dat bush right dey, yuh go see ah tall tall tree, just walk straight and it goh lead yuh back to de gravel road. Yuh hah to goh now.

  I didn’t have time to hug or say goodbye; I just did as she said, and sure enough I was back on the gravel path in no time, weaving my way through the grass back up to the house.

  We were caught a handful of times, and it was always worse for them than me, as though Sachin punishing them before my grandfather’s eyes was what they deserved, what pleased him.

  UNSETTLING

  AT THE HOSPITAL ONE DAY, in response to the words Lewwe juss leh him go, doh hol on toh nutten, one brother lunges at the other.

  —E say dat because ah de will, Krys, says my mother, so Pappy could dead now.

  The sisters attempt to claw them apart. Their fight, my mother told me later, was a buildup from years of animosity stemming from Rahul treating his younger brother like his servant and taking advantage of him once they were in America.

  My mother screams for security. They show up with their batons, pulling Rahul one way and Amrit the other. Ahgo keel yuh, they holler to one another as they’re dragged down the corridor. Ahgo keel yuh, ahgo keel yuh dead! Though Amrit is now a cook and Rahul a postman, neither has lost the muscles and build they earned in Trinidad.

  Two strong men wasting their energy like that, and sadder yet, brothers.

  —Rahul use toh treat Amrit rheal bhad, my mother tells me, use toh hah im like ah caddy when e fuss move hyah een America, always hah toh hol im dung, tellin im take meh hyah take meh dey, goh do dis, goh do dat. When Amrit hah toh go off by eself—and foh e own good too—Rahul din help im one ass. Rheal rheal treat im bhad.

  Amrit cools down and is allowed back into the hospital, where he drags a chair closer to my grandfather’s bedside and wrings his hands as though they are soaked sheets.

  I pity my Uncle Amrit as I watch him, for he has the most complicated relationship with my grandfather: the son who has been shot at and beaten worst is the one now struck with a sense of obligation.

  —Krys, my mother says, e beat some ah we woss dan uddahs and Amrit geh it de woss. When e staht on Amrit ah d
o everyting toh juss protek im. Someting een Amrit make im not wantah stop.

  They were younger than sixteen when my mother heard my grandfather yelling at Amrit one day. She ran outside, and that’s when her father said, Arya, goh an geh de gun foh meh now. But my mother couldn’t do it. As dangerous as her father was, he hadn’t yet crossed that line of life and murder. But the hatred he had for Amrit made her think he could do it one day. She wouldn’t be the one to place the gun in his hands if today were that day.

  Amrit looked at his sister, and Arya mouthed the word run, and he did. Amrit turned and ran with everything he had, weaving his way in and around a stray chicken, a startled cow, a tire-filled garden. Shiva leapt after him.

  Dozens of young coconut trees anchored down by their heavy base hadn’t been planted yet. They littered the escape route Amrit chose. Shiva seized one of the delicate stalks and lassoed a coconut palm above his head before aiming and flinging the coconut at his son.

  —E look like ah real madman dat day, my mother says to me.

  The solid shell landed on Amrit’s ankle, crippling him, and sent him rolling over and over, writhing with pain. While his son was incapacitated, Shiva darted into the house and returned, gun aimed and ready to shoot.

  Amrit, run nah boi, git up and run, oh Gawd run! Arya screamed.

  Her father clipped her with the gun round her head for trying to protect her brother, and in response Arya pushed the barrel to the side, buying Amrit as much time as she could. Shiva positioned himself and leveled the shotgun on his shoulder. He aimed. Shot. Gravel and dust pitched up. Missed. Amrit was still running.

  —Oh Gawd Krys, my mother exclaims holding her head in her hands, ah know een meh haht if e ketch im e wuddah shoot im dat day. No doubt about dat.

  Amrit kept running, weaving like a drunkard until he was out of sight. Shiva kept shooting long after Amrit disappeared, but Arya didn’t wait around for him to beat up on her. She slipped away to finish her work along with her brother’s.