Easier Said Than Done (20 page)

When I woke up, Bianca and Queenie were already moving around. I stretched lazily and inhaled, the only things left from my encounter with Damon was an imprint on the bed beside me and Damon's familiar scent that still lingered. It enfolded me in a brief and comforting embrace before my bare feet hit the cold tile floor and reality rushed in like a splash of cold water against my face.

Today we would be putting my grandmother in the ground.

Chapter 16

I moved through my early-morning
rituals mechanically, all while trying to wrap my mind around the fact that we would bury Mama Grace shortly. Today seemed like every other day. The sun was shining. The birds were chirping and the normal hustle and bustle was taking place right outside our front door. As if my rock, my very foundation, my Mama Grace hadn't been snatched from me.

The salty smell of codfish mixed with the sweetness of fried plantain, lingered in the air. Queenie was laying out a veritable feast—fortifying the troops for the battle that lay ahead.

Clad in a silk floral kimono, Bianca was seated at the table, nibbling on a triangularly cut piece of hard-dough bread toast smothered in guava jelly. She had bypassed the traditional ackee and codfish, spicy pork sausage, bubbling grits with pats of butter floating on top, sardine and cheese omelets, fried plantain, and homemade dumplings Queenie had placed on the side serving table.

The steam from her coffee cup swirled lazily upward, adding to the humidity already thickening the morning air. Her bare legs were crossed and a strappy, silver sandal dangled from her swinging foot, the Jamaican Gleaner newspaper spread out in front of her.

“Mornin',” I said. The anger from last night tagged along, ebbing out the joy left by my time spent with Damon. It would serve her right if she had one hell of a hangover. And she did. She grumbled her response, then grabbed her head with a slight moan.

“How ya' feeling?” I kept on, filling my plate with ackee and salt fish, hoping the smell would aggravate my traitor cousin.

“I had a bit too much to drink last night,” she responded, flipping a page of the newspaper.

“I would say it was more than a bit too much.”

“I haven't had a hangover like this since I was a teenager.”

“Yeah, well you had much more than a hangover last night.”

“Hmmm?” Bianca grunted before taking another sip of coffee.

I sopped up some ackee with a piece of dumpling and shoved it in my mouth. “Is that all you have to say? Hmmm?”

“What do you want me to say, Kingston? You're obviously fishing for something.”

“You made a fool of yourself last night with Damon.”

“Says who? You? I didn't hear Damon complaining.”

“You were too drunk to hear anything.”

“What's wrong? Mad because you didn't get to it first? Mad because once again a man was more interested in me than you?” She casually flipped another page.

“You really think he wanted you? Damon was being polite. If you weren't so conceited, Bianca, maybe you could see that!” I stood up so quickly the blood rushed to my head and my plate almost overturned. Bianca felt the impending onslaught and buried her face in her hands.

“Why does somebody always have to be jealous of you? That's always the answer for you, isn't it? If something doesn't go your way, you always find a way to work it back around to them being jealous. Well, that's not what this is about. I'm not jealous, Bianca. Trust me, you are more than welcome to your sad, little lonely life. Thirty years old and you still walk around flipping your hair, flashing your diamonds, and bragging about your interracial heritage as if that's supposed to impress people. Newsflash: it doesn't anymore. It's the new millennium, sweetheart. Step into it. Being light-skinned doesn't make you better. Being rich doesn't make you better. And looks will fade. It's your heart that matters. What does your heart look like, Bianca? In the end, that is what's going to count.”

At her muffled sobs, I softened. “Bianca, there's more to you than being beautiful and rich. You are kind and generous and most of the time fun to be around. You're the only one who doesn't know it. So, no, Bianca, I'm not jealous of you. Because when it comes to Damon, been
there and done that. We dated for almost a year at Howard.” I sat down and pushed the rest of my breakfast around the plate.

Before Bianca could respond, Queenie bustled into the room her apron swishing around her legs, her red scarf tied neatly as if she were expecting company.

She paused, her brow furrowed. “Well, aren't you two a fine pair this morning? I heard the bickering all the way in the kitchen. And on your grandmother's funeral day too. God rest her soul. You should be ashamed of yourselves.” She reprimanded in a harsh whisper and a suck of her teeth. “Your family will be arriving soon, so I suggest both of you pull it together.” With a flounce of her skirt, she left just as regally as she'd entered. Queenie had spoken.

* * *

The sun was no longer shining as brightly as it was earlier this morning. Fat, angry, gray clouds gathered, pregnant with the possibility of severe thunderstorms, reflecting my mood perfectly.

The white limousine pulled up curbside at the cathedral at ten forty-five—Mama Grace's funeral scheduled to begin promptly at eleven. The majority of attendees were already seated with the exception of a few people lingering on the tall, concrete steps leading to Coke Methodist. They strutted like peacocks decked out in their Sunday finest as if this were their party, content to take their seats after they were sure everyone else had been seated.

Planting my classic black-leather pump on the sidewalk, I stepped into the heavy Jamaican air. People strolled up and down the sidewalk attending to their day-to-day business. Bianca was next from the limo and we linked arms as soon as she stepped out. Her mother and father exited, followed by Uncle Winston, Auntie Dawn, Andrew, and Adana. Aunt Bea had opted to be chauffeured by a friend, pooh-poohing the need for, as she called it, “such ostentations transportation.”

That was it for immediate family. The phone calls from other family members started early this morning. Calls saddled with the expected, but still pitiful excuses. She was in death as she was in life, with few gathered around her. But it didn't matter. As mama used to say, “One monkey don't stop no show.”

We were dressed in stoic black. Bianca added a hat with a veil and I wore sunglasses. We were trying to conceal our eyes, already brimmed red from crying. We paused briefly before starting up the steps with resigned hearts—we presented a united front—accepting stale hugs and kisses delivered by the peacocks as we stopped to thank them for coming.

Standing beneath the arched, stained-glass doors leading to the sanctuary stood Damon, his hands crossed formally in front of him, looking so handsome in his tailored, navy blue summer suit. He smiled, his warm brown eyes embracing mine and I realized that I was actually proud of the man that Damon had become.

“I was waiting for you,” he said before easing between Bianca and me, escorting us through the doors.

In contrast to our attire, a sea of color greeted us in the form of hats and suits fit for Easter Sunday. Church issued fans advertising for
The Royal Bank of Kingston
waved back and forth, doing little to alleviate the overwhelming heat. Gossipy conversations were whispered behind gloved hands. Children sat prim and proper, on their very best behavior, legs crossed at the ankles, swinging back and forth. Activity ceased immediately upon our entry. Two ushers dressed in white and black rushed to meet us. They turned and marched ahead, leading the way down the aisle passing the stained-glass windows lining each side of the sanctuary.

Mama Grace's coffin rested in front of us—smooth, dark, rich mahogany lined elegantly with ivory satin. The ushers parted in perfect formation, each going a different way and there we stood in front of Mama Grace. Clad in her best silk violet dress, hair coifed and curled under, pale pink on her lips, she looked as beautiful in death as she did in life and even more peaceful. I wiped away a tear, Damon's hand reassuringly rested on my waist. I knew that she was in a better place, smiling down on us and that provided some comfort. Still, shock and a sense of abandonment stomped through me as if another piece of my soul had been ripped away.

The Very Reverend Arturo Pegue descended grandly from the pulpit, greeting us with perfunctory kisses on each cheek, and then releasing us into the capable hands of the ushers who directed us to the front pews. Despite the fact that he was not family, no one blinked twice when Damon sat, sandwiched between Bianca and me. Aunt Bea was already seated and dabbing at her eyes. I slid next to her and she tilted her head, presenting her overly rouged cheek to be kissed. I obliged, cringing when my lips met her leathery skin that smelled of Dove soap and olive oil. Damon reached out with one hand and held mine while throwing the other arm around my shoulders.

The organ kicked into high gear and on cue, the peacocks flocked from their perch on the steps and filed into the sanctuary.

The Reverend's voice boomed over the congregation, his shiny, purple robe reflecting the light and starched white collar standing at attention. With wagging jowls, he welcomed us to his church, waving a bible in one hand and grasping the podium with the other.

“Saints,” he sang.

“Yes, Lords” and “Amens” sprang up like dandelions from the congregation. “Saints!” he yelled with more vigor this time. “This scripture is from the book of John.”

Damon squeezed my hand before letting it go to flip open a program, a long finger following the text as it was read.

The Reverend continued, “Jesus said ‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.' And I want us to remember that as we gather here today to commemorate the home going of Grace Marie Montague, a beloved member of this congregation for more than sixty years. She has been a beacon of light to her family, friends and community. Let's lift our voices in celebration of Mama Grace's life as the choir leads us in singing one of her favorite hymns, ‘Amazing Grace'."

The organ zipped to life, the organist's fingers danced over the black and white keys as the congregation stood. “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see.”

When the hymn was finished, Reverend Pegue looked at the family. I nudged Bianca and whispered, “It's your turn.”

She stood and scooted past us, heading to the front. Bianca tried her best to keep her composure, reciting one of Mama Graces's favorite poems. She'd heard it at Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth's funeral, loved it, and saved it for her own ceremony. Bianca now held the same piece of paper on which she'd written it in her hand. “You can shed tears that she is gone or you can smile because she lived. You can close your eyes and pray that she'll come back or you can open your eyes and see all she's left. Your heart can be empty because you can't see her or you can be full of the love you shared. You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday. You can remember her and only that she's gone or you can cherish her memory and let it live on. You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back or you can do what she'd want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on.”

After Aunt Lonnie and Uncle Winston finished saying a few words about Mama Grace, I read the obituary and thanked everyone for attending before turning the podium back to the Reverend. He reclaimed it with zeal, concluding the service with a fiery monologue designed to
save our souls from a damned eternity before saying a final prayer. “May God in his infinite love and mercy bring the whole Church, living and departed in the Lord Jesus, to a joyful resurrection and the fulfillment of his eternal kingdom; and the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, be upon you and remain with you always.”

Once again, like magic, the ushers appeared and led us back down the middle aisle of the church and out of the sanctuary.

Many “How do you dos?” and “Thank yous for coming” and “Yes, Ma'ams, she sure will be missed” were exchanged in the foyer before our group—still including Damon—was once again tucked in the limo and headed for the cemetery.

The skies had opened up, as if they too were grieving for Mama Grace, and very few people braved the weather as we committed Mama Grace's body to dust. The solemn words of the Reverend Arturo Pegue punctuated the still, damp air. “In gratitude, we bid farewell to a greatly loved woman. For her grace, humanity, and sympathy, for her courage in adversity, for the happiness she brought to so many, for her steadfast pilgrimage of faith, for her example of service, and for the duty which she rendered unflinchingly to her community, we thank and praise Almighty God. As we commend Grace Montague, his servant, to God's mercy, let us especially pray for her family.”

I leaned on Damon as I picked up a handful of dirt and tossed it onto the lowering casket. I felt alone, the same as when I had done this for my mother. Sobs ripped through my body and I
swayed against Damon. The clouds burst again, rain falling steadily as he wrapped his arms around me and turned me from the pile of dirt that would soon cover my grandmother.

Chapter 17

The one upside to a funeral: when it's over, you get to throw one hell of a party. Queenie had stayed at the house preparing for the onslaught of family, friends, and neighbors that would occupy every space at Mama Grace's eating, drinking, and catching up.

An impressive crowd had gathered when we returned. The glorious blend of curry, pimento and ginger met us at the door, wafting on the Calypso music that played softly. Dominoes clicked on card tables, and children laughed as they chased Toy around the yard. It had been an exhausting day and drained from the roller coaster ride of emotions, I wanted to lie down. Damon offered no solution, shrugging helplessly as he kissed me on the cheek before setting out in search of food. It would have been politically incorrect to shut myself in the room and wallow in self-pity, so I squared my shoulders, sucked in a lungful of air, and allowed myself to be dissolved into one perfumed hug after another.