The Heart Does Not Bend (15 page)

“Lawd, Mama.” Glory sounded embarrassed.

Aunt Val’s version was not unlike Mama’s. One Sunday evening when we were there for supper, I heard Aunt Val and
Glory talking in the bedroom. Aunt Val confided, “I really don’t like to complain, because she’s your mother and my mother-in-law but, Glory, she is a handful. There is nothing I can do right. I don’t even recognize my own kitchen. She has to cook every meal, changed up my kitchen completely. It’s not that I don’t appreciate her help, but I love to cook. Then she told Peppie that I resent any time she spends with him. That’s so untrue, Glory. Of course there are times I wish to spend alone with Peppie. Even watching television is a chore, because your mother talks incessantly. She is the authority on everything.” She paused. “I hope you won’t say anything to Peppie, because he does love having his mother around.”

“Val, yuh don’t have to apologize. Is mi mother and in the short time we live together, ah realize is not de mother mi think mi did know. In fact, sometimes she is like a stranger. Is Mammy, mi grandmother, mi and Freddie, we all grow up wid. Peppie and Mikey leave Mammy house and join her in Kingston sooner than us. Ah can count de amount of years on mi finger that mi actually spend wid her. Nuh worry yuhself, Val,” Glory offered.

I hated to hear them criticize my grandmother. Ungrateful bitches. I waited for them to leave the bedroom before I flushed the toilet.

I was in my room writing Punsie a letter when I heard Glory screaming. I vaguely remembered the phone ringing, but hadn’t bothered to get up because the phone rarely rang for me.

“Lord mi God, Lord mi God.” Her voice broke. “Jesus.”
Then the phone hit the floor with a loud bang. I ran out to find Glory on the floor wailing like a spirit had taken hold of her.

“What wrong, Glory?” I asked. She was in no condition to answer.

I picked up the phone, but heard only the dial tone.

“Glory,” I tried again, shaking her shoulders. I ran to the kitchen, got some water and made her drink it. I knelt on the floor by her, but still couldn’t get anything out of her. All I could think to do was hold her. I curled up against her on the floor and hugged her.

I offered the hem of my skirt for her to wipe her tears and she took it. We rocked back and forth on the floor. My hand stroked the length of her hair, and her thin body pressed against mine.

“Call Freddie,” she said at last. “Tell him he must come over now.”

While we waited for Uncle Freddie, she told me that Grand-aunt Ruth had called with the news that Mammy was dead. I was shocked. I had always thought that Mama and I would go back to Jamaica with gifts of clothes and canned goods for Mammy. I felt heavy with grief. Freddie came quickly and drove us to Uncle Peppie’s house to see Mama. Everyone huddled together on the living-room couch. Even Aunt Val, who had never met Mammy, was crying.

“Open de door, Molly. Ah feel faint,” Mama said.

“Ah going to call Mikey,” Glory said.

“Yes, poor bwoy, him must be feeling alone,” Peppie added.

“Call him,” Mama agreed in a trembling voice.

I didn’t go to Mammy’s funeral, nor did Aunt Val or Sid, but the rest of the family went. I had wanted to go, too, but no amount of begging would change my mother’s mind. She said I shouldn’t miss the last weeks of school and that there wasn’t enough money for an extra fare.

The family stayed on the island for a few weeks, and when they returned, Mama moved back to Glory and Sid’s apartment. I don’t know why she came back, but I was happy to have her there. I’d missed her company and our talks.

“Molly, de funeral was lovely. Yuh see people like rice. She was truly loved, twelve busload of people gather round fi bid her goodbye. Dem come from all over de island. Mi never know mi mother know so much people,” she said proudly. “Ah wish yuh was dere, gal. Everybody ask fi yuh: Ruth, Icie, Ivan, Gatty, Baboo, Punsie, Monica, Little Freddie. Him was so glad fi see him father, but Freddie never mek much of him.” She paused, shook her head and cleared her throat in disgust. “Is a shame. Imagine him never even give de bwoy pickney a little sweetie, or money fi jingle in him pocket. Nutten! Is a shame, and Monica wasn’t nuh better. After di man nuh fart pon her since him left, she up and down wid him like a blasted kite. I don’t even know if she get any money from him.”

“So what de street look like, Mama? It change?”

“De same, few people move and new people move in. Petal and her family move. Ah hear dem gwan to America. And Punsie just have a baby, but mi sure yuh know dat, for yuh correspond wid her.”

“What about Uncle Mikey?” I asked. She had made no mention of him.

“Ah, girl, dat is another chapter and mi too tired fi get into dat right now.” She got up and walked to the kitchen to prepare dinner.

The summer holidays came and somehow, with the help of Uncle Freddie, I managed to persuade my mother to let me work. The local supermarket was hiring part-time help and I got a job as a packer to replace items on the shelves. I’d have loved to have been working outdoors, especially in a park or nursery, but I wasn’t that lucky. Still, with this job I had money to spend however I wanted, and most important, I was out of the house.

Things weren’t going so well for Mama. The problem began with one of those thick white envelopes marked “To the Household.” I was getting ready for work when the mailman delivered it.

“Mek we open it, Mama, because Glory will just dump it,” I urged. “She don’t read dese things. She say is a waste of time.”

We tore it open and out fell several colourful coupons for magazines:
Homemaker’s, Chatelaine, Canadian Home and Garden, Maclean’s
. A few of the magazines offered free sample issues; if you were satisfied you could continue to receive the magazines.

“Ah going to send fi dem. Dem will give Glory some decorating ideas when she and Sid buy dem house, and in de days when mi home alone, mi can catch up on more Canadian news.”

She filled out the forms and I mailed them for her on my way to work.

The first set of magazines arrived and we spent an afternoon leafing through them, admiring the lovely towels and sheets, the bathroom fixtures, the renovated kitchens and luxurious bedrooms. Mama cut out a few recipes.

“Mek mi try a few of dem dishes. We can’t just eat island food—sometime mi get tired of cooking de same thing.” I especially liked
Home and Garden
and began to plan the flower beds for the yard. Even Glory was excited about the magazines, and we discussed what flowers I’d plant in the garden once she and Sid bought a house.

“Whatever yuh do, mek sure we have place to walk, so we not tiptoeing through nuh tulips,” she joked. Since the funeral she seemed more relaxed with me, but we still didn’t have the warmth and closeness I’d hoped for.

Four months later the bill came. Glory was home that day with the flu and she opened it. It said nothing about a trial period. Clearly irritated, she said, “Mama, Molly, is what dis? Is what unnu do? Dese people demanding money from mi, and mi never send away fi magazine. How unnu can do dis without consulting mi?”

“But, Glory, you know about de magazine trial period,” I said.

“Don’t bother, ah don’t want to hear nutten. Ah will just tek care of de blasted mess misself before Sid find out,” she said, sounding weary and angry. She went to her room and shut the door.

In defiance Mama began to sing:

She sang and she sang, her voice rising with each verse. Finally Glory came out of her room.

“Mama, please, remember we have neighbours, dis is not Wigton Street.”

She went back into her room and shut the door again.

Some weeks later I saw a notice on the bulletin board at work: “B
ABYSITTTER
N
EEDED
. I am West Indian and will bring baby to your home. 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. weekdays. Older woman preferred.”

I took down the number and Mama called. She got the job immediately, for the woman lived close by. At first my mother and Sid were fine with the arrangement.

“Yes, is a good idea, Mother Galloway. It will mek yuh a little change and ah know dat can come in handy,” Sid said good-naturedly.

So it was settled and the five-month-old baby arrived. Sid and Glory hardly saw him. They left for work long before the child arrived, and most evenings he was gone before they came home. Mama was delighted by the success of her business, and a certain kind of light that had been shadowed since we got here was lit again. Even when Uncle Freddie got yet another girl pregnant and refused to look after the child, she didn’t get upset.

Word quickly got out that there was a West Indian woman in the neighbourhood who took in children. Before our eyes,
the one child multiplied into six in our two-bedroom apartment. They varied in age from three months to three years. It might have worked—Mama was a woman who could cook, clean, look after children, watch her soaps, read her newspaper, crochet and keep everything under control. But four months later, Sid went on the night shift, which meant he was home all day trying to sleep, with half a dozen children crying, chattering, shrieking, dropping bottles and spoons, running from one end of the apartment to the other.

He must have complained to Glory. It wasn’t his style to confront Mama.

“Mama, yuh have to get rid of some of dem pickney, it too much, and we never have any discussion past de one baby. And now de apartment is like a orphanage! Dat nuh right, Mama, ah mean, people live here. Dis is a home, not a institution. Beg yuh please, mek dem tek dem pickneys elsewhere,” she finished bluntly. Like her mother, Glory was not given to mincing words.

“Yuh right, missus, ah don’t know how ah could pass mi place in yuh apartment. Nuh worry, de broom soon clean out yuh house.”

The children were gone by November. Mama told the parents that she was moving to her son’s place, and that’s what she did. One morning she called Uncle Peppie to come get her, and she packed her clothes and left.

“Girl, tek care,” she said, hugging me tight. “Mi not deserting yuh, so nuh worry, is just time fi mi leave here.”