The Heart Does Not Bend (3 page)

“Tek care a mi son. Ah going to send for de two a yuh soon. Send mi a picture when him born.”

He promised the grand-aunts, cousins and friends everything foreign had to offer. He promised Monica that he would write and send money. For Dennis’s ten-year-old sister, Punsie, he promised a camera. He saved his last goodbye for me. He lifted me high off the ground, squeezed me tight against his big chest. “Ah going to miss yuh, Moll.” He kissed me from ear to ear, then whispered, “Ah won’t feget yuh, yuh my special girl.”

Uncle Mikey hadn’t come to see him off.

My grandmother was still sitting on the verandah when we got back. Inside the house the air was thick with the smell of roasted yellow-heart breadfruit and yam, ackee and saltfish and golden-brown flour dumplings.

The grand-aunts took their plates to the verandah, while the rest of us sat around the table eating, drinking and talking about the good times we shared with Freddie. Monica was all teary-eyed. Cousin Ivan and Dennis and Freddie’s other friends said they would miss him for his skilled kite-flying, the soccer matches at the end of the street, crab season and street dances.

Punsie said she’d miss the Chinese sweeties and the paradise plums Freddie bought for her. And me, I was losing the best and kindest uncle in the world.

I couldn’t begin to think what life would be like without Uncle Freddie. He was the heart of the street. All the guys liked and respected him, even the older ones, for his easy manner and his contagious laughter. He took me to my only cockfight, in Dennis’s backyard.

When everyone left the table, I went out to the verandah to join my grandmother and grand-aunts.

“Ah going to miss mi little nephew. No more Mr. Freddie. He was such a sharp dresser, and a ladies’ man,” Aunt Joyce said, a faraway smile gracing her face.

Aunt Joyce was the youngest of the sisters and the most fun. She laughed at everything, said whatever came into her head without thinking. She seemed to live only for the moment, so carefree. Joyce was three times divorced and had a string of suitors at her beck and call, but they never came close to her passion for clothes and shoes and gold jewellery.

“If dressing was all dere was to life and having whole heap of ‘oman, him would be king,” my grandmother replied sourly, dragging on her Craven A. “Ah only hope him remember poor Monica and de baby,” she added.

“Nuh talk like dat, Maria, him love de girl,” Aunt Joyce protested.

“Yuh mark my word, when him reach foreign all will be forgotten.”

“Nuh mind, Maria. Him will change. Remember the Lord is within all of we,” Grand-aunt Ruth added.

My grandmother didn’t answer, but the tightening of her mouth and the steel in her brown eyes was enough. Nobody said anything for a while. I stared at the comic strip in the newspaper. Dennis’s mother’s voice travelled from several houses down the street, reaching our verandah. “Dennis, come water de yard.”

Then my grandmother spoke. “Well, put bad and bad aside, ah will miss Freddie. Him really use to help me wid de garden,” she said, softening slightly.

I decided it was safe for me to speak.

“Mama, yuh won’t miss him for de crab season?”

She nodded. “Ah suppose so. Mm-hmm.”

“Nuh bother even talk ’bout crab,” Grand-aunt Ruth said. “Mi restaurant will really miss him, de crab soup and de crab fritter.”

“Ivan can go wid Dennis and de rest a boys fi catch crab, him old enough,” Mama said.

Ivan and Icie lived with Grand-aunt Ruth; they were cousins four times removed. Their mother was my grandmother and the grand-aunts’ second cousin, who lived in Port Maria; she had several children and not enough food to go around. Icie was thirteen and Ivan fourteen.

“Dennis!” Aunt Joyce shouted across the three yards.

“Yes m’am?” he shouted back.

“Ah putting in mi order now fi next crab season, since mi favourite nephew gone.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Joyce, you and Miss Ruth and Miss Maria covered.”

“All right, don’t forget,” Aunt Joyce shouted back.

“No m’am.”

I remembered crab season. Uncle Freddie and his friends dragged crocus bags full of crabs into the backyard and threw them in huge drums. Punsie and I would watch them trying to climb out. Everyone on the street came to our yard to join in the excitement. There were always crab races. I hear Uncle Freddie now, shouting above the voices of his friends as he egged his crab on: “Run, run, crab, run fi yuh life!” During the season, we ate crabs so often we forgot the taste of other meat. We ate crab run-down cooked in coconut cream, and crab fritters spiced with curry powder, and my grandmother’s favourite, crab shell stuffed with callaloo, sautéed onion, minced fresh hot peppers, then baked in an open wood fire. Uncle Freddie and his friends played music late into the night as we filled our bellies with crab.

Aunt Joyce brought my mind back to the verandah.

“Den, Maria, it won’t cold when him get dere?” she asked.

“Ah think so, but Peppie and Glory will have clothes for him.”

“Ah really going to miss him. Ah can’t lie, him is mi favourite nephew,” Aunt Joyce said.

Mama sucked her teeth. “Yuh know how much money dat bwoy tief from mi? If me never smart and one step ahead of him, ah would be in de poorhouse.”

“Nuh mind, Maria, him gone. Try forgive him,” Grand-aunt Ruth said.

“Ah because you two never have no children or unnu would be singing a different tune. Yuh think it easy fi raise four pickney alone?” Mama’s voice was bitter. Neither of the grand-aunts answered, but a look passed between the two.
I never found out whether they couldn’t have children or chose not to have them.

I stole a glance at Mama. She took another drag of her cigarette and went on as if she had not said something vexing.

“Mikey get a job, yuh know. Him working at Paul and Paul Fashion. Him get a job sewing dresses,” she said proudly.

“Ah hear is a lot of fancy people go dere to get clothes mek. Ah wonder how much dem would charge to mek a dress for me?” Aunt Joyce asked excitedly.

“Yuh can ask Mikey when yuh see him, ah sure yuh would get a good deal,” my grandmother said, her voice lighter.

“Dat’s real nice, ah glad for him. Now wid God’s blessings all him need is to find a girlfriend,” Grand-aunt Ruth said, little enthusiasm in her voice. Then she added in the same lifeless tone, “How come him wasn’t at the airport?” I had never heard that tone in Grand-aunt Ruth’s voice. As far back as I could remember, she was the paddle in the boat. She never spoke much, but when she did, her words were always balanced and encouraging. She was as slight as the shoot of a tree, and hedged about five feet tall, yet she carried command. She had a long face and a straight nose, a big head of coffee-coloured hair and a honey complexion. She was also a God-fearing woman who went to church every Sunday.

“Him have him business fi do.” My grandmother drew on her cigarette again, and a look of defiance crossed her face. I wanted to hug her, even though I didn’t understand. “Him did tell Freddie goodbye from last night. Him couldn’t go to de airport, him had to prepare for him job. Freddie understan’. Dem understan’ each other,” Mama said. I winced,
for I could not remember ever seeing her so sad. I muttered that I had to tell Punsie something and disappeared through the front gate.

When night was almost down, I heard Mama calling me. I washed off the dirt and excitement of the day, ate dinner, and then we went to bed. We didn’t wait up for Uncle Mikey.

In Mama’s big mahogany bed, I snuggled next to her. She stroked my hair. Her cigarette breath was warm and soothing on my face. She squeezed me tight in her arms and I felt a tear fall on my cheek. I buried my head in her bosom, and in the dark she sang to me.

It didn’t matter to me what she’d said to the grand-aunts about Uncle Freddie. I knew she loved him.

I awoke to the smell of scrambled eggs and bacon fried to a crisp. The house was too quiet. No music blared from the room next door. Uncle Freddie wasn’t here anymore. It was a week to the day since he’d left. Mama had already come back from Coronation Market. I dressed myself and went to the
kitchen to eat. Miss Gatty, our washerwoman, was already at work. I could hear the sound of clothes being rubbed against the scrub board through the open kitchen door. Mama was back there with her. They were gossiping like they always did when Miss Gatty came around. They were the same age, forty-two. Miss Gatty was a tall, thin Maroon-looking woman, with a face full of worry and fuss. She wore her hair in neat plaits, tied with a piece of cloth. I remember her fingers, long and bony, and the thick gold band that she never took off her left hand. She and Mama had been friends ever since I could remember.

“Gatty, is de best thing dat could happen. De bwoy woulda stay right here and drive mi to destruction.”

I should have known that Freddie would be the talk; Mama hadn’t seen Miss Gatty since he left.

“Him seh him wan’ learn trade. Send him go learn trade, him nuh go. Send him go learn mechanics, him seh him nuh like lie down under dutty car. Cabinet-mekin’, him seh cut up him hand; and is not seh him head tek to book, so him can tek learning fi doctor or lawyer. Him no have no job and yet him was de biggest spender and dresser pon de street.”

“Miss Maria, yuh don’t got to tell me. Is seven of dem me got, six bwoys, and not one a dem turn out good. Ah wish ah did have smaddy abroad fi get dem off de island, maybe dere would be a chance, especially fi de younger ones. Already mi have more grandpickney dan mi can count. Some of dem ah don’t even know dem names.”

“A Peppie why dem up dere. Him encourage and help mi to send dem. Dat bwoy is as dependable as salt inna sea.
Ah only hope Freddie find work and behave himself. Sometimes ah wonder if him woulda did benefit from a father, him so wild.”

Mama ended the conversation. “Gatty, mek mi leave yuh to de washing. Ah have a set of baking to do for de Chinese pastry shop.”

Mama worked at home from her kitchen, making pastries, delivering them twice a week to the two Chinese shops in our neighbourhood and to Grand-aunt Ruth’s restaurant. I finished eating just as Mama came into the kitchen.

The dogs were barking at the gate and I knew it would be Baboo. I raced outside, my braids flying, not wanting to miss him. Baboo was a short, wiry Indian man dressed from a bag of rags. Torn pants, torn overshirt, running shoes with so many holes they looked as if rats had mistaken them for cheese. His long, knotted hair was in a clump. He came with his hand-drawn cart from the local bus stop to deliver market provisions to the houses on the street, and for that he was paid a few shillings.

Punsie and I and the rest of the gang on the street waited outside for him to make his last delivery, so he could give us a ride in his cart. It wasn’t just the ride we enjoyed, it was Baboo himself. He was a walking storybook, painting colourful pictures of people dressed in finery, jewels and gold, of royalty in a faraway land—Calcutta, India. He spoke in a nasal voice, which made us laugh as we pressed against each other in his cart. He told us the scratchy sound of his voice came from smoking ganja, the “wisdom weed.” But this Saturday held a different attraction. A new family was moving into the house next door. It had been empty for a long time. Trees and
bushes had overgrown, hiding the house from passersby. We used the yard as a playground when we got tired of the street. It was the only yard around with a stinking toe tree, a jumbelin tree and a gineppe tree, and during the season we’d climb them and shake the fruit down. Sometimes Punsie and I would dare each other to stand and try to piss against the walls of the house like the boys did.

What caught our attention that morning was the girl moving into the old house. She was about my age, but that was where the similarity stopped. As we passed in Baboo’s cart, I realized that I was staring into the face of a
dundus
. We all saw her at once and pointed in amazement—we had never seen an albino before. We hurried back to my yard and peeked through the red bougainvillea bush hanging from the barbed-wire fence, but we could see very little.

Mama shouted for me to come in. “Girl, yuh forget yuh Saturday chores. Come in here now. Yuh romp too much!” I sucked my teeth in protest and reluctantly sent the others through the gate. Mama was still baking, and Miss Gatty had finished the washing when I told them about the dundus girl next door.

They didn’t seem too interested. Mama only cautioned, “Watch yuh mouth and don’t start teasing de pickney.” I paid no attention to her warning. I was too excited to care.

The smell of burnt molasses, fresh-ground nutmeg, slivers of fresh ginger floated in the air. I loved to watch Mama turn plain white flour into plantain tarts, gizzadas with sugared coconut inside, totos, bulla cakes, molasses almond tarts and rose-apple cupcakes with yellow icing on top.

That day she wore a cotton print dress covered with a
flour-bag apron. Perspiration ran down her face as she lifted baked goods from the oven. She was a handsome woman, not given to easy smiles, but when she did smile, it was like the warm glow of candles on a birthday cake.