If I Never Went Home

by Ingrid Persaud

  When Mira and Michael returned, the house was in darkness. Bea heard them open the front door, telling each other that she must not be home. She did not answer their calls, and hoped that when they did discover her they would think she was asleep and go away. Which was indeed what happened.

  ‘You remember all the places we went today?’ Mira asked Michael.

  ‘Some,’ said Michael. ‘I don’t recall Trinidad having fancy restaurants like the sushi place we had lunch at the other day. We could’ve been in Boston.’

  ‘One thing we should have done today was buy some doubles to bring home,’ said Mira.

  ‘My favourite,’ Michael laughed.

  ‘I buy mine from a man named George in Woodbrook,’ said Mira. ‘Man, that doubles is the bomb. But you know what is the best part? Right next to George have a lady selling doubles too. Is only George ex-wife! And look, nah. She have a big sign saying buy your doubles from George’s X. Only in Trinidad, yes.’

  ‘And thanks for the shark and bake sandwich,’ said Michael. ‘I love Maracas beach for that, plus the views out to the sea as we were coming through the Northern Range mountains were spectacular. It was like a postcard.’

  After that Bea could not make out what they were saying. They seemed to have moved from the kitchen to some other part of the house. They were probably in the living room or outside on the porch, enjoying the night breeze. Pretending to be asleep until the next morning was impossible. With a huge effort she pulled on her jeans and ventured out of the bedroom. The house was quiet and dimly lit. They were not inside or on the porch. The hallway clock chimed eight.

  She thought she heard faint laughter coming from outside. She walked out onto the porch and into the garden. The only illumination came from the twinkling city lights below. Following the sound of low voices, she walked around to the back of the house and there on the little bench were Michael and Mira laughing and talking. Mira’s hand appeared to be touching Michael’s. Bea felt her blood turn to ice.

  ‘Is now you wake up?’ asked Mira, straightening up and putting her hands in her lap. ‘We didn’t want to bother you.’

  ‘How was today?’ asked Michael.

  ‘All right,’ said Bea, folding her arms.

  Michael rose. ‘Have my seat.’

  ‘Yes, sit down,’ said Mira. ‘Plenty stars out tonight. The sky clear-clear.’

  ‘No. I need to go back to bed,’ said Bea, rubbing her temples. ‘I have a massive headache.’

  With that she turned and fled back into the house, locking the bedroom door behind her. She took deep long breaths. Maybe their hands had touched accidentally for a brief moment and she happened to arrive at that precise instant. But why sit in the dark out back? Why not sit on the comfortable porch chairs with the ceiling fan and light fixtures?

  There was a knock on the bedroom door.

  ‘Bea, it’s me,’ said Michael.

  She sat still, holding her breath, but he would know she was awake. ‘One second.’ Bea closed her eyes for a moment and, with a long, noisy exhalation, she rose and opened the door.

  ‘You okay?’ asked Michael. ‘You didn’t seem so well.’

  ‘Yes. Fine,’ she replied, coldly.

  He raked his fingers through his hair and asked her again: ‘How did it go this morning?’

  ‘He forgot to mention he had a daughter.’

  ‘Oh, Bea,’ he whispered, pulling her close for a hug.

  Bea allowed herself to be held but did not reciprocate.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘That is mean. Gosh. I don’t know what to say.’

  Bea tried for a little longer to make conversation, but the effort was too much and she pleaded to be left alone to rest. He tried to kiss her on the lips, but she moved her face so the kiss barely brushed her cheek instead. Later she crawled into bed without taking off her clothes, pulled the blankets around her foetal figure and rocked and cried and rocked and cried through the endless night.

  Everything’s all right, she told herself. In two days she would leave Trinidad and she need never come back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Bea woke early and was surprised to find Michael already sipping tea on the front porch. He offered to share the pot he had boiled a few minutes before, but she declined. It was enough to sit and watch Port of Spain coming alive. She was anxious to ask Michael about what she had seen the night before, or what she thought she had seen. But in this new day it all seemed absurd. She was tired of imagining things. What if he didn’t care for her the way she cared for him? What if he was attracted to the older woman fussing over him?

  ‘Why are you up so early?’ she asked.

  ‘Had an important email to deal with,’ he replied.

  ‘And?’

  ‘You know my firm is bidding on a project in Trinidad. They have more meetings here next week and want me to stay on for them.’

  ‘So you’re not going back with me tomorrow?’ she asked, looking out at the tankers waiting in the bay beyond the city.

  ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘But I’ll be back soon. The meetings are scheduled for three days at the end of next week.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I spoke to Mira about it last night and she insisted I stay here.’

  ‘Well, it’s her house.’

  ‘Only if it’s okay with you,’ he said. ‘Otherwise I could stay in a hotel. The firm will pay.’

  ‘No need,’ said Bea. ‘If she invited you then knock yourself out.’

  They sat silently concentrating on the sky as it changed from purples to light blues. Bea announced she would have a shower and head out to say a last goodbye to Granny Gwen and to her father’s grave. He declined to join her, claiming work had caught up with him. Mira was due back in the office that morning and would take Michael downtown, while Uncle Kevin would be Bea’s chauffeur. An hour later his car horn sounded and Mira rushed to greet him. They disappeared into the kitchen while Bea went to get her shoes and bag.

  When she walked back to the kitchen to let them know she was ready, there by the kitchen sink was Uncle Kevin bending over Mira, his hand up the back of her blouse. There was no mistaking the intimacy of the scene. Bea immediately walked backwards, trying to be soundless, but they had heard something. Mira’s hushed voice asked if they had been seen. Uncle Kevin reassured her that it was probably a stray cat.

  Bea went back to her room and sat on the edge of the bed, her heart racing. Colliding thoughts bombarded her mind. Even though she had suspected they were lovers, she could not process what she had seen. When had Mira taken such a keen interest in Uncle Kevin? He had always been around, a shadow at Clark family events, but he had never emerged as a whole person. He was either Alan’s half-brother or a distant relation adopted into the fold. His exact affiliation had never been clear. Still, he was related to Mira’s ex-husband. Bea knew she was unfairly judging them, but her instinct saw it as incestuous.

  How long had they been together? What would Uncle Robin or Granny Gwen think if they found out? Maybe they already knew, though she doubted it. Of all the men Mira could have had, she had latched onto one from a family she had never liked. Now Bea would have to gather herself to be with Uncle Kevin. She would be saying her last goodbyes to her father with this trespasser hovering around. A knock at the door brought her out of herself.

  ‘Bea, you know Kevin waiting on you,’ said Mira. ‘Hurry up.’

  She couldn’t hide in the room forever, though right now it seemed the safest place to be. Everyone was in the kitchen talking about the rise of casinos in Trinidad, and Uncle Kevin was explaining to Michael a hugely popular national gambling game called Play Whe.

  ‘You ready?’ he asked.

  Bea forced a smile. ‘Ready.’

  ‘Okay. See you tonight,’ said Michael and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘I’ll see all you after work, then,’ said Mira.

  Bea felt lightheaded with all the unanswered questions, hemmed in from all sides. It was not her bus
iness who Mira slept with, but while they were at the graveside thoughts of Mira and Uncle Kevin intruded on her silent conversation with Alan. The flowers on the grave were fresh enough to stay there a while longer. A headstone would be coming within the next week or two to mark Alan’s place next to his father Ignatius and brother Matthew. Granny Gwen was always boasting that she had been the first to buy a huge family plot when this cemetery opened. There was enough room for her and all her boys. Back then it had cost a whole fifty dollars.

  ‘I sure he at peace,’ said Uncle Kevin, fixing a bunch of flowers that dangled precariously on the grave. ‘He was at peace in life so he must be at peace in heaven.’

  Bea felt the tears welling up. ‘Doesn’t feel real.’

  ‘You don’t come home enough,’ said Uncle Kevin. ‘Maybe now you will come to see his grave and pay your respects.’

  ‘I will,’ said Bea. ‘And Michael might have to be in Trinidad for some time if his firm wins the contract they are bidding on, so I have another excuse.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Uncle Kevin.

  ‘Yes, he’s not going back with me tomorrow.’

  ‘So where’s he staying?’ asked Uncle Kevin.

  ‘With Mira.’

  Uncle Kevin twisted his face and rubbed his chin. ‘Well, if I were you I would keep an eye on that situation.’

  Bea was taken aback. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, and turned to walk back to the parked car. ‘Just watch out for yourself. Young boys these days.’

  ‘Michael isn’t like that,’ she retorted.

  He didn’t reply.

  Bea climbed into the passenger seat desperate to press him further. Did he mean that all men were untrustworthy, or Michael in particular? Anyone who had met Michael would know what a decent person he was. She wanted to leave the island having made amends with Mira and Granny Gwen, but the morning’s events were pushing her to an edge where she could no longer trust herself.

  The mood did not lighten when they called at Granny Gwen’s to say goodbye. The old woman was sitting alone on a chair under the chenette tree staring into the middle distance, occasionally rubbing her eyes.

  ‘Kevin, boy,’ she said. ‘I glad you come and bring Bea.’

  Granny Gwen pulled Bea down to her for a sweaty hug. ‘So you going back America tomorrow, darling?’

  ‘Yes, Granny Gwen. Back to Boston.’

  Granny Gwen beamed at Kevin. ‘Well, look at that. I have a granddaughter working quite in Boston. You know how proud Alan was of she? He was always telling people about Bea.’

  They sat and chatted while Granny Gwen reminisced about the son she had just buried. Alan the devoted son. Alan the sharp business man. Alan the heart of every social function. Alan perfected in death. Kevin joined in, reminding them of the many good times he had shared with Alan, including a party on the lush muddy banks of Matelot River where they barbecued meat, drank rum and talked nonsense until sunrise. It was overwhelming to Bea, these shared memories. She closed her eyes and let the tears escape. Granny Gwen leaned over and held her hand.

  ‘Bea, I sorry you didn’t get nothing from the will,’ she said. ‘But I hope you will keep the little thing I sent for you.’

  ‘What thing?’ asked Bea.

  ‘Mira didn’t give you what I sent?’

  ‘No. What was it?’

  ‘Is nothing expensive, but it was your father special gold cufflinks. Those cufflinks used to come out the box once a year for the Christmas morning service. After that it would get put straight back in the box till Christmas reach again.’

  ‘I remember them. Thanks. I promise to treasure them.’

  ‘And don’t go giving no man that, you hear?’ said Granny Gwen, playfully nudging her in the ribs.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘If you have a son and you want to give him, that is a different matter.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Granny Gwen held Bea’s hand and they both cried as they said their goodbyes. Bea promised to make the gap between visits shorter and to phone once in a while to check on the old lady. But there was more to come. Before they could leave Granny Gwen turned to Uncle Kevin.

  ‘My boy, is you and Robin left,’ she said. ‘You must come see me. I not going to live for ever.’

  ‘Yes, Granny Gwen. I will pass and check you out.’ He put an arm around the old woman.

  ‘Come and eat lunch Sunday,’ she commanded. ‘I cooking macaroni pie, stew chicken and red beans. And I’m making my coconut ice cream. You know my ice cream better than any of that Håagen-Dazs they does sell in town.’

  ‘Thanks, Granny Gwen,’ he said. ‘I’ll see.’

  ‘Man, you could do better than that,’ she said. ‘Robin and Doris coming and you should come. I want the whole family here Sunday if God spare life.’

  He smiled and gave the old lady a squeeze. ‘Okay.’

  Granny Gwen opened her mouth to say something then closed it again. She paused and looked ready to spring fresh tears. With a deep sigh she slowly got up and held onto Uncle Kevin’s forearm.

  ‘Bea, I want you to hear this too,’ she said. ‘As Jesus Christ is me witness, I want to say something. Kevin, I know I didn’t treat you good when you was growing up. And I know things was hard for you. I was grieving for Matthew for so long, and Alan was only a baby, born weeks after you. But I not making no excuse. I already bury two sons and I want to make sure I don’t dead without saying how sorry I am.’

  Her words gave way to noisy sobbing and she held on to Kevin for support. He was rigid, staring at the ground.

  ‘Kevin,’ she said, struggling to control her quivering voice. ‘You is Matthew son. If I show you a picture of Matthew you will see how much you resemble your father. You have his same nose and his build. This is your rightful family, boy. You belong with we.’

  There was silence. Granny Gwen let go of his forearm and sank back into her chair. Kevin was roughly wiping his cheeks with the backs of his hands. Bea sat trying not to move a muscle. This was the first time Uncle Kevin’s relationship to the Clark family had been acknowledged. Alan, almost his exact age, had been his uncle, not his half-brother. Grandpa Ignatius had not strayed as Bea had imagined. Uncle Kevin was not an uncle – he was her cousin. Her mother was sleeping with her daughter’s cousin. Bea wasn’t sure if this made things better or worse.

  Kevin’s creaky voice cut through the silence. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Is all right, Granny Gwen. We good,’ he said. ‘Is all right.’

  Before she could answer he had bolted and sped off, leaving Bea and Granny Gwen to sit under the chenette tree each lost in their uneasy thoughts.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Bea was left stranded at Granny Gwen’s, so she called Mira. There was no need to explain what had transpired, only that she had stayed at her grandmother’s and would be grateful for a ride home. From the way Uncle Kevin’s hand had been thrust up her blouse, Mira would know the details of Granny Gwen’s confession soon enough.

  ‘And can I bother you for one more thing?’ asked Bea.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Granny Gwen said you have some cufflinks for me?’

  ‘I’m busy now, but remind me later,’ said Mira.

  Bea ripped herself away from a tearful Granny Gwen. The old woman repeatedly reminded her that she was all that remained of Alan, and with this came a duty to spend time together. The last thing she told Bea was that Alan’s old home also belonged to her and as a granddaughter she was always welcome, at any time and for as long as she wanted. The house with the living room sealed off for special occasions, the chenette tree that never seemed to stop bearing fruit – these would be waiting for her.

  There was only one more goodbye to say. When they got home Mira did not even change out of her work clothes but went straight to the kitchen to cook Bea’s favourite foods for their last supper. Bea interrupted the preparations to ask for the cufflinks again. They were her bon
d to Alan and she wanted them now.

  ‘Oh, Jesus, you bothering me about the cufflinks when I cooking?’ asked Mira. ‘You can’t see my hands in flour? Let me finish making the roti.’

  Bea tried to control her anxiety. ‘If you tell me where they are I can get them myself.’

  ‘They’re somewhere in my bedroom. Probably in the safe,’ said Mira. ‘I’m not sure. You go have to wait till I done in here.’

  ‘I could open the safe,’ said Bea. ‘Could you give me the combination?’

  Mira continued kneading the dough with her fists.

  ‘That safe have all kind of things in there,’ she replied, wiping the sweat off her brow with her forearm. ‘Let me open it when I done.’

  As Bea turned to go Mira added, ‘I don’t know why you so hurry. Is not like you could wear them.’

  Dinner was a feast. Michael, Bea and Mira ate the softest dhalpouri roti. It melted with the curried channa and pumpkin, and with the tender curried goat seasoned with herbs like the pungent chadon beni, a spicier version of coriander, fresh from the garden. Bea tried to show her gratitude by being cheerful even though the day’s events had left her depleted, longing to retreat to some small space where she would be safe. But where was that safe place that would ease the anxiety rising in her belly?

  Michael, who might have comforted her, seemed to have shifted his focus entirely to work and was preoccupied, talking excitedly about being part of the team bidding for the Trinidad project. He found it thrilling to know the country again as an adult. Bea’s isolation seemed to be in direct proportion to his exuberance. Nothing could be more terrifying than sinking further into Trinidad. To be caught in the incestuous world of Mira and Uncle Kevin, Granny Gwen and the endlessly circling caravan of relatives, would unmask her. On a small island, where everyone lived in each other’s pockets, it would be impossible to hide the times when she fell into the deep dark pit and feared the world. The cycle of falling into that pit and trying to crawl back up would be exposed. Soon, everyone would know she was an imposter, fresh from a psychiatric facility.