Easier Said Than Done (14 page)

“Wasn't quite right toward the end?” Bianca repeated, edging closer to the tip of her chair. The clock in the front room chimed on the half hour. They hadn't even been here thirty minutes and it was already on. “What's that supposed to mean? Not quite right?”

Auntie Dawn pulled the handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “I just mean that as she got older, she wasn't quite as sharp.”

“And you would know this how? I mean, let's think about this, Aunt Dawn. How much time did you actually spend with her to come to this brilliant conclusion?”

“Well,” Aunt Dawn hedged.

But she was waved off by Uncle Winston. “Don't go getting on your high horse, Bianca. You weren't exactly a regular visitor either.”

That one must have hurt considering our conversation last night. But she handled it. “ You're right. I wasn't here like I should have been, but at least I have the guts to be honest about it. And I'm not the one looking for handouts now that she's gone. You don't even bother to come around while she's alive; but then before her body is even cold, you swoop through here like a bunch of vultures. She's probably turning over in her grave right now. No, I take that back.
Mama Grace is probably resting easy. She expected this. That's why she put Kingston in charge of her estate and not you.” Bianca's voice broke with tears.

Auntie Dawn was fanning herself at full speed, her thin mouth still hanging open. Over the years she had turned looking offended into an art form. Adana giggled a bit behind her hand, which earned her a swat from her brother. Neither one of them really had a clue—they were just sitting there with stupid looks on their faces, both legs crossed, feet swinging in the same direction. Twenty-five years old and still living at home. They worked for their father at his printing company and didn't even have management positions. Uncle Winston said he wanted them to learn and work their way up from the bottom. Eight years later, they were still hovering closer to the bottom than top. They'd never even left the island without either their mother or father —normally a rite of passage for Jamaican teenagers with relatives in the states or in Europe. But then, they had always been different, as if the sins of the father have marked them as well.

When my mother was alive, she encouraged me to keep in touch with all of my first cousins; so I would painstakingly write letters and cards, making sure they were tailored for each cousin. Horses for Bianca. Ballerinas for Terry Anne. Anything dead or bleeding for Steven. For Andrew and Adana, I sent generic stuff like baseball for him, rainbows for her. But they never bothered to answer a letter, never sent a card. After my mother died, I gave up trying to keep in touch. Still, I couldn't help but feel sorry for them. They'd probably be pretty nice people if their parents didn't have so many problems.

Queenie bustled into the room at just the right time. She had lemonade, sliced fruit, and crackers with three different kinds of cheeses laid out on a silver-serving tray. Setting it down on an end table, she left the room just as quickly as she came. “Dinner soon be ready,” floated over her shoulder.

Uncle Winston looked at the food as if trying to add how much of his inheritance Queenie was spending. Auntie Dawn was pricing the silver tray. I looked away in disgust.

Turning to my cousins, I asked, “So Adana, Andrew, how's everything going?”

Both looked at me like a deer caught in headlights, as if they'd never anticipated being asked such a question.

“Well,” they both started then stopped together. Adana nodded to her brother and he finished the sentence, “Things are fine.”

“What are you guys doing now?” I continued already knowing the answer while Bianca sucked her teeth.

“Well . . .” again in surround sound. Andrew nodded to his sister.

“We're still working with Daddy.”

Bianca steepled her fingers underneath her chin. “Do you think you'll be moving out of mommy and daddy's house anytime soon?” Her venomous words were packaged with wide-eyed innocence — she was determined to get something started.

Her question made Andrew and Adana hem and haw while Auntie Dawn sped up the fanning process.

Then, Uncle Winston slithered to the rescue again. “My children are more than welcome to stay with me until they are married or ready to leave. It doesn't make sense to waste money on rent when there is plenty of room at our house.”

The twins bobbed their heads absently.

“Obviously,” Bianca said. “But how do you expect them to meet anyone if they can't leave the house without you holding their hand?” She smiled and paused.

Adana giggled behind her hand again while Andrew absently slapped at a mosquito.

Auntie Dawn sent them an admonishing look before narrowing her gaze on Bianca. “ Speaking of parents, where's your mother, Bianca? I'd think Lonnie would want to be here.”

“Mommy's at home. She and daddy will be here tomorrow. They wanted to come sooner, but couldn't get away.” Bianca's tone was matter of fact, but she crossed her arms in front of her like a shield, containing the rage bubbling beneath the surface.

Auntie Lonnie had been a not-so-undercover closet alcoholic most of her life. Uncle Lee had the same problem, but functioned much better.

Uncle Winston aimed directly for Bianca's most vulnerable spot. “I see,” he rolled the words slowly around on his tongue. “Is your mother not feeling well, again?”

She was ready. “Actually she feels just fine considering the fact that her mother just died. But then, you wouldn't know how that feels, would you, considering you don't have any idea who your mother is?”

“You know I've had just about enough of you, young lady.” The wind off Auntie Dawn's fan was so strong that it sent some of the pictures flying from the coffee table to the floor. No one moved to pick them up.

Bianca flopped back in her chair, a smug grin distorted her face, satisfied that she'd gotten a rise out of someone. “Have you? Then leave.”

Uncle Winston jumped to his feet with Bianca on hers right behind him. Obscenities flew back and forth with Auntie Dawn adding her two cents every few seconds. Andrew and Adana cowered against the back of the flowered settee. Even Toy had left her post outside to check out the commotion.

I counted to ten before saying, “Enough,” but the word didn't even make a dent in the ruckus. “I said, enough!” I shoved my hands on my hips. “Why can't we be in the same room for more than fifteen minutes without it turning into a WWF wrestling match? Mama Grace is dead, but this is still her house. Now, you may not like it, but you owe her more respect than this. Y'all are acting like a bunch of little kids!”

“But, Kingston . . .”

I held up a warning finger in her face. “Don't try me, Bianca. Now we're going into the dining room, sit at that goddamn table and eat whatever Queenie has cooked and we're going to act like a family. I don't want to hear a word that is not polite even if you have to lie through your teeth. We're burying Mama Grace tomorrow. All hell can break out after that. I don't give a damn; but until then, there will be peace and quiet or all of you can get the hell up out this house. ”

No one responded—each one picking a different spot on the floor to study. A red blush slowly made its way up from Uncle Winston's scrawny neck. I turned on my heel and went in the dining room.

One stubborn tear fell and I rubbed at my cheeks until no sign of it remained. And they wondered why Mama Grace wanted me to oversee her estate. Didn't anybody else in this family have any sense? I understood that Bianca was just defending me, but she was the main one starting the fight, not knowing that you had to pick your battles. Today's fight didn't add up to anything but a waste of time.

The war that really needed to be fought would start after we buried Mama Grace.

Dinner had already been laid out and the table was well on its way to looking like Martha Stewart had flown in to set it for royalty. I could only hope nobody ended up throwing any of the good stuff. The spicy aromas from the chicken, rice and catfish danced slowly from each dish, and set my stomach to growling.

As Queenie finished folding the napkins, dismay was etched on her face. She had heard every word. She had probably spent more time with Mama Grace than any of us and simply showed her allegiance to me by smiling and nodding. Her eyes said, “You done right by Mama Grace.”

I grabbed the silverware from the china cabinet and helped her finish setting the table. It was so quiet you could hear a mouse dancing in Africa, but I knew everyone was still here—sitting in the same place, staring at the same spot. They had too much pride to leave.

“Dinner's ready, Ma'am and I'll clean up after dinner. Tray is coming for me in a couple of hours.”

“Thanks, Queenie,” I said, “For everything you did for Mama Grace and for me.” Emotions swelled, threatening to overwhelm us as I hugged her. She tensed, then embraced me back.

“Mama Grace was always good to me. Gave me a job when I didn't know how I was going to feed my babies. Staying now is the least I can do.” She smiled. “Yes, Lord, it's the least that I can do.” Her bare feet sounded her quick retreat on the cold kitchen tile.

“Dinner's ready,” I yelled, forcing a lightness that I hoped would help reset the tone; but when everyone filed in like they were headed for their last meal, I knew it wasn't going to be easy to turn this evening around. They kept shuffling, playing musical chairs until I assigned
seats. Bianca sat between Auntie Dawn and Andrew. I pulled out the chair separating Uncle Winston and Adana who were seated on the opposite side of the table. No one sat at the head of the table—one less power struggle. Bianca shot me a look full of piss and vinegar. We were just about to bless the table when Toy started fussing up front.

Before I could push my chair back and stand up, Queenie whisked past me headed towards the front door.

“I'll get it, Ma'am,” she called.

Bianca scooped some callaloo on her plate and added a generous portion of scotch bonnet peppers. She started to replace the bowl, but I cleared my throat and she passed the bowl to Auntie Dawn with a slight scowl, careful to avoid the slightest contact between hands. I wanted to remind her that frowning inspired a faster onslaught of wrinkles, but feared for my safety as she attacked the rice and peas, digging into the bowl as if they personally had placed her in this unfortunate position. When she was finished and passed the bowl, I smiled, nodding as if rewarding a child for a new behavior learned.

“So,” I directed to no one in particular, “I heard all the way in the states about the Prime Minister's education-reform package. I was impressed. Is it being received well?”

Uncle Winston angrily swiped a piece of rice from his mustache with the napkin and swung a half-eaten chicken bone around like a sword. “P.J. Patterson and his reform package are full of rubbishness! Only an idiot would think that putting more money toward after school-activities is going to improve the opportunities for our youngsters when they graduate. Jamaica's
going to hell in a handbasket with Patterson in the driver's seat and I've said so since Michael Manley left office, isn't that right Dawn?”

As Auntie Dawn nodded, I said, “It works in the states. Sometimes kids just need something to do other than hang out on the street.”

“Well, if their parents took control of their families like I did, we wouldn't need any kind of after school nothing.”

Bianca and I both looked at Andrew and Adana. I should have known that politics was not a safe topic of discussion. Next time I would stick to the weather and the uses for pickapeppa sauce in Jamaican cuisine. I speared another piece of catfish and stuck it in my mouth.

As we sat at the table, Queenie tried in vain to hush Toy's excited barking. Soon another voice joined Queenie's—this one with more bass. Even before they entered the living room, I knew it was him.

When Queenie came back into the dining room with Damon and pulled out the chair at the head of the table for him, my recently consumed rice and peas tumbled in my stomach like Mexican jumping beans on speed.

“Good evening, all.” Damon placed his hands on top of the walnut-back chair, and his class ring sparkled from his pinky finger. He looked like a king about to address his advisors. His locks were unbound and touched his shoulders; he wore a yellow linen summer suit that flowed around him like sunshine. It might have looked feminine on any other man, but only added to
Damon's regal carriage. His forearms were bare and the fine hair that covered them glistened with sweat. A vision of his left hand covering my right breast caused licks of fire, hotter than the curried catfish, to shoot downward and I had to cross my legs.

“Good evening, Damon,” Uncle Winston said and made introductions all around.

“An evening that just got better.” Bianca angled closer. “Hello, Doctor Damon.” His name oozed from her lips and in her mind, I knew Bianca was already sporting a three-karat wedding ring and signing Christmas cards from Dr. and Mrs. Whitfield. I restrained myself from kicking her under the table. Barely.

“Glad you could make it, Damon.” I assumed the role of gracious hostess, even going so far as to get up and scoop generous helpings of each dish onto his plate.

“Thanks, Kingston.” He sat down and bowed his head slightly before picking up his fork.

“No problem,” I murmured, my left breast grazing his right shoulder as I poured his lemonade. He smiled up at me—his teeth still perfect rows of enameled white pearl—and my breath caught in my throat.

Damon sampled the curried catfish and Queenie hovered until a satisfactory smile spread across his face. He touched fingers to thumb and brought them to his lips, kissing them in salute and sending her away with a schoolgirl blush as if the Pope had deemed her meal the next best thing to heaven. Damon had always had charisma more powerful than a magnet. Even Toy had taken up court at his feet, resting contentedly.