If I Never Went Home

by Ingrid Persaud

  ‘Did my father ever go into details about what happened when he left?’

  Michael popped a strawberry into his mouth. ‘Gosh. Well, if he did, I don’t know about it. I was just a kid. Why are you asking?’

  ‘I need to know.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t remember anything.’

  ‘Do you think my Dad remembers the music that was playing? I mean, if it happened to you, would you remember?’

  ‘Beezy, this is an odd conversation.’

  She chewed the nail of her left index finger.

  Michael leaned closer. ‘Why are you asking me about stuff that happened decades ago?’

  ‘Our parents were close. You were next door, for goodness sake. You must have heard every blessed detail.’

  He got up and refilled his glass.

  ‘A top up?’

  ‘No. Thank you. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be morbid,’ said Bea. ‘But this music. It was playing. He listened to it the day he left. When it was all over, he sat there listening to it.’

  ‘A favourite?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Maybe he wanted to hear some music. Any music. To calm down.’

  ‘Probably.’

  They fell back into an awkward silence. Why was this slimy mess seeping out now? Michael squeezed her hand.

  ‘I’m going to change this music,’ he said firmly. He bent close to her face and kissed her forehead. She inhaled his warm, comforting smell. ‘It’s going to be okay, Beezy. Lie down here and relax while I wash up.’

  Her mind drifted to the BBC Radio 4 programme, Desert Island Discs, where celebrities were interviewed about the music they would select if marooned – the soundtrack of a life. The ‘Air’ would definitely be high on her list. What if she dared ask her father? If he had blocked out the events, then bringing them up would be an act of insensitivity, even ruthlessness. It was a silly piece of near ubiquitous music. But nothing could erase the image behind her eyes of his sad, slumped form in the old Morris mahogany sofa, the one with chocolate-brown cushions.

  ‘Play some music, Beezy,’ her father had said.

  She selected a CD and held it up for him to see.

  ‘Yeah, that one,’ he had said. ‘That’s good.’

  Christ, that was a day to forget.

  But how do you do the actual physical and mental forgetting? Does Amazon stock Forgetting For Idiots with a step-by-carefully-planned-step of erasure? The details had invaded the cells of Bea’s body, rearranged her DNA. Putting years and thousands of miles between herself and Trinidad had done nothing to block the memory of that airless July day.

  She was a little girl playing in Michael’s back yard that day, as they did most days that summer. He was the lucky one with a big garden and a hoard of toys. Over the fence they could hear the sound of water spraying from a hose. Her Daddy was washing the car. By the time she came home he was sitting on the front porch steps staring at a gleaming, spotless white Mazda.

  ‘What time you call this?’ he snapped as she walked toward him. ‘You know how long I here waiting for you?’

  ‘Sorry, Daddy.’ She smiled. ‘I didn’t know you wanted me to come home. I got sweeties.’

  ‘You always in the people house!’ he yelled.

  Her smile evaporated.

  ‘Day and night you playing there.’ He glowered at her. ‘What, you living next door now? I have a mind to throw your clothes over the fence.’ He pointed to Michael’s house. ‘If you like it so much then go live by them!’

  The ferocity of his words was like a punch in the stomach.

  ‘Sorry, Daddy. I didn’t know I should’ve come home.’

  He glared down at her, his eyes wild.

  ‘You didn’t know?’ He gripped her arm tight and yanked her closer. ‘You didn’t know?’ His other hand rose as if to strike.

  She froze while his hand was suspended in mid-air. He had never struck her or held her so roughly.

  ‘Get out of my sight!’ he shouted. ‘Get out before I put one beating on you right here in front the whole street.’ His mouth twisted in revulsion. ‘You disgusting like your mother.’ He let out a scary, grunting sound and pushed her away.

  She wanted to run but her legs would not move. It seemed forever before she could will them to take her away, first walking tentatively, then faster and faster until she was safely in her bedroom. Her throat felt dry and her hands were sweating. The four o’clock sun streamed through her window. Her mother was probably having an afternoon nap in the next room. Disturbing her would guarantee being screamed at. It was impossible to predict what would happen if they were both angry. Her father’s anger was not unusual but she had never been subjected to this irrational, volatile temper. It had jolted her, making her little heart race and her knees shake.

  She did not understand. Why would he threaten to beat her for playing where she played every day? Why today? She was his special girl. She wore a lemon coloured T-shirt with ‘Daddy’s Girl’ in black felt letters across the front. Not ‘Mummy’s Girl’. Mummy didn’t even want to be a Mummy. She had said so. Bea took too much of her mother’s time and energy. It suited everyone that Bea was, and always would be, Daddy’s Girl. And Daddy’s Girl got special protection. He provided his little girl with an invisible, magical force field that no bad person could penetrate. With it nothing bad, absolutely nothing, would happen to her.

  Soon his heavy footsteps passed her bedroom on the way to his. ‘The door locked!’ he shouted, jiggling the doorknob. ‘Open the blasted door.’

  Silence.

  ‘You better open this door or I go break it down right now.’

  Bea heard the door as it banged hard against the wall.

  ‘Oh, Jesus Christ, I was taking a rest,’ her mother said. ‘Why you have to carry on so?’

  ‘Who was on the phone this afternoon?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Stop taking me for a fool. Who were you talking to on the phone? You think I don’t know you was talking to that red nigger?’

  Bea heard furniture being thrown over.

  ‘I wasn’t on the phone. Stop talking like that. Bea will hear you.’

  ‘You lying bitch! I had enough of your shit! You think I stupid because I don’t have your fancy qualifications? Eh? You take me for a fool? Answer me.’

  ‘No one take you for a fool.’

  ‘Well, you must really think I dumb not to see what going on right under my nose. I know exactly which red nigger you fucking!’

  ‘Stop it!’ her mother screamed.

  ‘You think nobody see you, eh? Well, let me tell you something. I see you.’

  ‘What you talking about?’

  ‘I see you with my own eye park up in the car with him!’

  ‘We were only talking.’

  ‘Oh, so that is how you does talk now?’

  ‘Stop it!’

  ‘No, you stop it! Fucking bitch!’

  This was not the first time the neighbourhood had heard their voices echo through the street. Michael must have heard every word.

  It’s just as well Daddy did not to want me to play next door any more. I am so ashamed to face Michael again.

  Bea’s head hurt. Her parents went on screaming accusations at each other. Then the strangest thing happened. Bea stopped hearing. In a split second, she became deaf. Part of her knew they were still yelling, but their voices were silent. She shut her eyes tight and tried to control the overwhelming urge to vomit.

  Bea floated gently towards the ceiling. The house was so quiet from up here. Up and out she glided into her parents’ bedroom. Daddy was yanking a frame off the wall. He smashed it, then snatched the photograph and viciously shredded it.

  Careful of the glass, Dad.

  Mom, watch out.

  He must have thrown the frame at the window because that was smashed too. Glass was everywhere. There were perfume bottles and picture frames on the bedroom dressing table that could break. Better to stay in the corner by the bedside table. Saf
e for now. Suddenly her ears popped and she could once again hear the shouting.

  ‘I never plan to hurt you. I never wanted it to be so,’ her mother cried.

  ‘So what exactly you expected to happen?’

  ‘I so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I so sorry.’

  The words were swallowed by loud sobs.

  ‘Sorry?’ He sneered. ‘Sorry? You can kiss my ass.’

  For the first time he seemed to notice Bea shaking in the corner.

  ‘Bea, pack your clothes. We’re leaving this damn house right now.’

  So it had finally come to this. The End. Bea did not move.

  ‘You can’t take my child!’ her mother screamed.

  Daddy pushed his face right up to Mummy’s.

  ‘A whore like you trying to tell me what I can and can’t do?’

  ‘I am the mother!’ she shouted between sobs. ‘Is my child!’

  He turned to find Bea. ‘I said get your clothes. I not making joke. Now!’

  Bea floated over and hovered between her parents.

  Her mother was clutching the other Bea and her snot and tears were dampening the front of the child’s dress. Bea had been warned this might happen one day. But Daddy had told her they would be okay. They would always have each other, and Daddy loved Bea more than anything or anyone else in the whole wide world.

  ‘She’s not leaving this house,’ her mother cried. ‘You go have to kill me first before you take Bea!’

  They would live at Granny Gwen’s house, safe in the warmth of the extended family. There would always be people around to talk to and play with. And on Sundays Granny Gwen would bring rice cakes from the market and make her special lentil soup. And only Daddy loved her and only Daddy would always love her the most.

  ‘Hurry up, Bea!’ her Daddy snarled.

  Mummy would be fine. She probably wouldn’t even notice Bea was gone. To deserve maternal love she had to be prettier, brighter or better mannered. So why then was her mother howling like a wounded dog and gripping Bea’s hand?

  ‘I said she not going. You deaf?’

  Bea felt her body floating over to inspect the torn edges of the photograph peeking through shards of glass. It must have hurt too much to see them both young and unbearably beautiful on their wedding day. Where was Daddy now? Ah, throwing his clothes out of the cupboard and into an old black suitcase. He was moving quickly in and out of the room.

  Bea stood in the corner with her mother curled up next to her holding on tight. Her father threw another suitcase on the bed next to Bea and then went into Bea’s room and yanked the clothes out of her closet.

  Bea rubbed her eyes, crying.

  ‘It’s time to leave, Bea. Help Daddy pack.’

  Disentangling from her mother was impossible. The grip around her was too tight.

  ‘No, baby, you have to stay with Mummy,’ she pleaded through tears. ‘Stay with Mummy, darling.’

  ‘Don’t cry,’ said Bea. ‘I’ll come back to see you.’

  ‘If you leave this house I’ll kill myself. I swear I will kill myself.’

  ‘Mummy, don’t say that! Don’t say that!’

  ‘I will! You know I will!’

  Bea knew exactly where she hid the stockpile of pills. The open whiskey bottle was in full view.

  Her father was almost done packing while her mother hung onto her tightly.

  Would her mother survive the simultaneous loss of a husband and a daughter on this July afternoon?

  Tick, tock.

  Tick, tock.

  Tick, tock.

  Bea had to make up her mind.

  Tick, tock.

  Tick, tock.

  Save father or kill mother? Betray father or save mother?

  Eeny-Meeny-Miney-Mo

  Catch a fellow by his toe

  If he hollers, let him go

  Eeny-Meeny-Miney-Mo.

  ‘I’m staying with Mummy,’ said Bea, roughly wiping her tears away.

  Mummy stopped crying. Both parents seemed shocked at the little girl’s sudden resolve.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said her Daddy. ‘Get your clothes now.’

  ‘I’m not leaving Mummy,’ Bea repeated with the same newfound clarity.

  Eeny-Meeny.

  Betrayed father.

  Miney-Mo.

  Saved mother.

  He sneered. ‘Oh, I see. You think your mother have time for you? All right. But Bea, when I gone, I gone for good. You hear me?’

  Her father dragged his suitcase down to the car, then returned to the bedroom for a bag left in the corner of the bedroom. He looked at Bea, telling her with his eyes that this was the last chance to change her mind. She knew from his look of anger and determination that if she didn’t follow him she’d never again be Daddy’s Girl.

  Bea followed him out. As they walked through the living room, her father stopped and collapsed onto the old chocolate brown sofa. He closed his eyes and inhaled loud deep breaths. ‘I’m going now, baby. Give Daddy a hug.’

  ‘Daddy!’

  He began to cry quietly.

  ‘Come sit by Daddy before I go.’

  ‘Don’t go!’

  He put his warm arm around her.

  ‘Play some music, Beezy,’ he whispered.

  Bea held onto her Daddy. In between their sobs they inhaled the ‘Air on the G string’.

  *

  A phone was ringing in Michael’s apartment. Bea assumed it was Michael’s but soon realised the sound was coming from her handbag. Mira was on the line.

  Michael eventually called from the kitchen. ‘Is everything okay?’

  In a daze Bea walked into the kitchen and told him the devastating news.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Two days later, Bea and Michael were on a plane to Trinidad for Alan Clark’s funeral. Michael’s company had a project on the island and thought he could combine the funeral with work. Bea was thankful for the emotional and practical support. It was Michael who organised the plane tickets and spoke with Mira. She was there to pick them up at Piarco airport.

  They drove in near complete silence, afraid of saying the wrong thing, afraid of each other. Although they had come off a six-hour flight, Bea wanted to drop her bags, change and head straight to her father’s house where family and friends had been keeping wake for the past two nights. Michael followed her lead. She had not said much during the flight, and every time she had tried to talk she broke down in tears.

  They arrived to a wake in full swing. Cars lined the street and Mira was forced to park some way from the house. It was easy to mistake the scene for a party. Well-dressed women arrived with covered pots of cooked provisions to share. The men were bringing bottles of Old Oak rum, often with fresh coconut water to chase it.

  Bea followed the trail around to the back yard. The small space was packed. In one glance she was drenched by a wave of faces at once familiar and unfamiliar. She was afraid she would burst into tears at the slightest mention of her dead father. A group of men playing poker at a plastic table paused to take in the newcomers. One of the men with thick grey sideburns, his cheeks red from drink and heat, raised his hands, beckoning to them to come near.

  ‘You is Alan daughter?’ he asked. ‘I recognise the face.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Bea softly.

  ‘You now reach?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You come from America?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  He pushed his chair away and stood up shakily to offer his hand. ‘Tate Walker. Please accept my condolences on your father passing. Me and the boys here was real tight with Alan. Every Friday we used to lime with your father, playing poker right here under the chenette tree.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Bea softly. ‘Do you know where my Granny is?’

  ‘Granny Gwen right over there. She ain’t stop crying since the news. You know he was she eyeball. Granny lived she life for Alan.’

  Tate Walker peered behind Bea. She smelt the rum on his breath. ‘And you
is the mother?’

  Before Mira could answer, Granny Gwen had spotted them and pushed her way through the clusters of people sitting around on plastic chairs.

  ‘Well, look at my crosses,’ Granny Gwen said, holding Bea in a tight hug and bursting into fresh hot tears. ‘I nearly didn’t make out me own grandchild. Miss Glenda say she see somebody looking just like Bea so I say let me come see for myself. Let me look at you. I been waiting for you to come.’

  Bea sobbed aloud. She felt close to collapsing.

  Her grandmother wailed. ‘You is all I have now of your father.’ She held Bea’s tear-stained face in her hand and kept repeating, ‘Alan’s only child. Alan’s only child.’

  Gradually she and Bea let each other go. Granny Gwen led her to a group of older women. ‘All you know me granddaughter, Bea? She is the one teaching university in America.’

  ‘Hello, Granny Gwen,’ said Mira.

  ‘Mira girl, he gone,’ bawled Granny Gwen. ‘He with the Heavenly Father now.’

  She pulled Mira close. ‘This is me daughter-in-law. Never mind she and Alan wasn’t together when he pass. Ain’t she still me daughter-in-law? I use to say that Alan would never meet another woman good like you. But people don’t listen to an old lady.’

  If Mira was surprised by this interpretation of her marriage and subsequent divorce, she was magnanimous enough to keep it to herself. Bea had told Michael that from early courtship and throughout the marriage, Granny Gwen had kept Mira on the periphery of the Clark family, viewing her with the suspicion and jealousy a lover might feel for a rival. In the years following the breakdown of the marriage they had rarely seen each other.

  ‘I don’t know if you remember Corrie and Rupert who were Alan’s good friends long time now?’ asked Mira, pulling away slightly.

  ‘You mean the friends them living England somewhere?’ inquired Granny Gwen.

  ‘Yes,’ Mira confirmed. ‘This is their son, Michael. You remember little Mike? Well, he ain’t no little Mike no more. He’s a big man now. A handsome man.’

  ‘Well, oh gosh, I would’ve never know is you!’ Granny Gwen looked him up and down. ‘Last time I see this child he was little so,’ she said with her hand at hip height. ‘Come let me take a good look at you.’ Granny Gwen gripped his forearm and Michael kissed the old woman’s wet, marshmallow-soft cheek.