Patsy

by Patsy (retail) (epub)

  Patsy nods as she memorizes her stop. Atlantic Avenue. People enter and leave the train at every stop, each one more interesting, intriguing to look at—the white guy with the T-shirt that reads DEMOCRACY TODAY and tattoos like sleeves down his arms, holding a lamp he probably bought just like that off the street; the young woman with bright red hair—is it a wig? Patsy can’t tell—wearing a pink see-through dress that looks like a slip, her nipples like dark eyes glaring at Patsy; the black man with the Mets baseball cap who is fervently scratching off a lotto ticket with a dime and yelling, “Argh!” every time he fails to win. Many other commuters bury their noses inside books or newspapers. Some stare out into space. Most have placid looks on their faces. When Patsy gets bored of watching them (or paranoid when she notices that they stare back at her), she steals glances at Cicely. Patsy is taken by her—her maturity and her beauty; how she’s in command of this foreign land where Patsy takes trepid steps; her ability to speak to shopowners, bargain prices, request a transfer on the bus, sit next to a white person on the train without apology, since here white people are natives, not tourists like they are back home, and here they might see Cicely as kin. And then there’s her skill as a mother, how she seems so good at it; a real woman. She’s everything Patsy isn’t.

  “What is it?” Cicely asks.

  Patsy drops her gaze. “Nothing. Jus’ remembering when we was girls.”

  Cicely smiles. “What yuh remembering ’bout dat?”

  “How yuh always seem suh sure of everyt’ing. Even when yuh situation change wid Mabley’s death . . .”

  “Dat’s because ah had you,” Cicely says.

  Patsy’s face warms despite the cool air-conditioning inside the subway car. She looks up at a poster with a poem near the double doors: Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words and never stops at all . . . Underneath the poem is the name Emily Dickinson. She commits the name and poem to memory.

  WHEN THEY GET OFF AT GRAND CENTRAL, PATSY IS IMMEDIATELY overwhelmed by the tide of people coming toward her, swerving this way and that way. She almost crouches to avoid being knocked over. “Come dis way.” Cicely pulls her along, linking her arm with Patsy’s toward the exit. Patsy admires the cosmopolitan vibe of the city—the women with high-heeled shoes, graceful even with the uneven sidewalks; the ones that hail cabs, holding out their pale arms like the beginning of a choreographed dance; the men with their hands stuffed inside their pockets, looking straight ahead like they are on a runway. Cicely was right. This is where the white people are. She instructs Patsy to move swiftly, to never make eye contact with anyone, to clutch her bag at all times, to look over her shoulders, to be nice to other people’s children since here you can’t scold strangers’ children like you do in Jamaica unless you want your throat slit by the parent. Cicely also tells her not to mind the white people who may walk two paces quicker, glancing behind them, then crossing to the other side of the street; or the ones who may move away from her when she sits, or follow her inside stores. “Jus’ know yuh place, be polite, work hard, an’ get yuh money so dat yuh can tek care of yuh family. Dat’s di only t’ing dat mattah. Be as invisible as possible.”

  On a corner, a group of black teenagers dance inside a circle. The people that crowd around them push dollar bills toward the smallest boy carrying a bucket to collect money. On another street corner is a group of black men dressed in purple and gold T-shirts. BLACK HEBREW ISRAELITES is written in bold black letters on a banner. One of the men pushes a flyer to Patsy. “That’s the white man’s sickness!” he says, looking at Cicely and Patsy with their arms linked. In the chaos, Cicely’s arm feels good, safe. Cicely pulls Patsy along before the man can say anything else. “Asshole!” Cicely hisses, sounding American with those curse words Patsy has never heard her use, her face reddening with fury. She picks up her pace. Patsy’s bubble breaks and disturbs her reverie of the city once she’s aware of Cicely’s annoyance. “Why should it mattah what he says? What can he do to us in America?”

  The scar on Cicely’s forehead, just above her left eyebrow, seems more prominent when she frowns, “We too old fah dis.”

  Patsy lets go of Cicely’s hand midstride and succumbs to the roaring tide of expressionless faces on the crowded sidewalks. “What yuh mean?” she asks. Manhattan comes into focus, with its soaring skyscrapers, indifferent with grim, geometric faces; the wide, busy streets where taxis race to an indefinite finish line; the scaffolding around construction sites looking like bat wings arched toward the sliver of blue sky; the smell of sewer and hot piss rising with the steam coming from underground like a dragon’s breath; the foreign tongues speaking all at once like on the tower of Babel, maddening with the honking of horns, the screeching of wheels, the high-pitched soprano of sirens; and above it all, the roar of Cicely’s words. “We too old fah dis.” Patsy cannot take it all at once. She stumbles, blinded by daylight and bodies coming toward her. The sidewalk and street lift to meet her, and she can smell the molten tar spread across the road, hot with its blood smell.

  “She all right?” someone asks. It’s a man. When Patsy regains consciousness, she notices his white apron and the five o’clock shadow on his face, though it’s midday. Both he and Cicely are hovering over her, their faces eclipsing each other. “Don’t worry, I know CPR,” Cicely says to him. A few people slow down to look at what’s going on.

  “You okay?” Cicely asks Patsy, scanning her eyes with her blue-green ones, the way she probably would’ve done with her patients had she gone to nursing school as planned.

  “I’m fine,” Patsy says as soon as she catches her breath.

  Cicely pulls Patsy close and clamps her hands against Patsy’s temples. “Just breathe with me,” Cicely says, her mouth forming an O. She moves one hand and presses it against Patsy’s chest. Patsy does as she is told, sensing their breath synching and the tightness in her chest go away as her heartbeat slows. “There,” Cicely says, her voice gentle, soothing. “Just like dat. Don’t scare me like dat again.”

  “I’m all right,” Patsy says.

  “Maybe dis is too much fah you today,” Cicely says.

  “I’m not ready fah dis by myself,” Patsy confesses.

  “Don’t worry. Yuh not alone. Not while I’m here.” Cicely takes off her fuchsia shawl and puts it around Patsy’s shoulders. Patsy almost protests until she feels its warmth, unable to imagine another moment without it. Cicely stands and stretches out her hands for Patsy to take them. Manhattan with all its buzzing holds still, and the years rub away like smoke from glass as Patsy presses her palms into Cicely’s.

  THE JOB AGENCY WHERE CICELY TAKES HER IS ON NINTH AVENUE. It’s a hole-in-the-wall place sandwiched between a pizza restaurant and an office building, called Ray of Hope. There goes that word again—hope. It must be a good sign to see it twice in one day, Patsy thinks as she steps inside the place with bright purple walls. There are posters of people of different ethnicities posing in uniforms: a black woman wearing pink scrubs; a Spanish man in work boots, overalls, and hard hat; an Indian woman pushing a stroller on a pristine tree-lined sidewalk; an African man in a tuxedo holding the car door for a white man; a Chinese woman smiling with a whistle in her mouth, wearing a shocking-green vest as she directs traffic and pedestrians in the middle of what looks like a busy intersection. Above the images is the statement: WE ARE THE BACKBONE OF AMERICA. The receptionist is sitting at her desk, too busy toying with her horse-hair to hear the telephone ringing off the hook or see Cicely and Patsy standing there waiting to be acknowledged.

  “Can I help you?” she asks in a faint Caribbean accent. Patsy can’t place the island. It’s obvious that she has been in the States for a long time.

  Cicely clears her throat. “Ah, yes. We have an appointment.”

  The receptionist grudgingly opens a big book and flips through. “Your name?”

  “It’s for Patricia Reynolds,” Cicely says.

  The receptionist sighs as th
ough it will take an exhorbitant amount of energy to tick off Patsy’s name and hand her a clipboard with a form to fill out. “Answer all the questions and bring it back to me. They’ll be with you shortly. You may have a seat.” She flicks her wrist in the direction of the crowded waiting area filled with other foreigners. Patsy and Cicely take a seat on the padded chairs. There is a television mounted on a wall, playing the news on mute. President Bill Clinton is on the TV, talking to a journalist who seems to be challenging him on something. A photograph of a dark-haired woman keeps coming up, as do the words Case for Impeachment flashing across the screen as breaking news.

  Patsy fills out her name, date of birth, country of origin, primary language, and her current address. She uses Cicely’s address and telephone number. She also fills out a sheet asking for her work experience and educational background. (Though Cicely told her that no one would care about the two courses she took at Excelsior Community College. And certainly no one would care that once upon a time she solved a hundred math questions correctly in record time at Roman Phillips Secondary and was head of her class before things fell apart.) She pauses when the form requests her skills. Truth be told, Patsy isn’t sure what exactly she could put down. What am I good at? She leaves it blank. She then signs an agreement form that everything she wrote is correct. When she hands the form to the receptionist she takes it, scans it, and gives Patsy a number. “Be seated till they call you.”

  Cicely and Patsy wait in silence. It feels to Patsy like they’ve run out of things to talk about. Perhaps Cicely’s mind is still on what happened earlier with the man on the street. Patsy is almost relieved when a woman comes out and calls her name. She’s young too, maybe in her mid-twenties, with dreadlocks—a hairstyle Patsy has never seen on a working woman, since most of the Rastas she knows back home are men; and if you do catch glimpses of their women, they’re hunched over or squatting beside a stall of handmade things in the streets or craft markets, their long skirts sweeping the ground they walk on. But this Rasta has her dreadlocks twisted neatly into a style mimicking a coif. She’s wearing a lilac cardigan and a green pencil skirt and clutching the clipboard to her chest. “Sorry for the wait, ladies,” she says. “Follow me.”

  Patsy and Cicely follow the girl down a small hallway and into another section filled with rows of cubicles. There are computers set up where people are sitting with an aide—most of them young like the girl Patsy is assigned. Patsy passes by an open space with a white screen and a video camera where a man is practicing for an interview. The aide tells him to slow down and enunciate each word to lessen his thick African accent. The man acquiesces, sounding to Patsy worse than he did before—like someone took his tongue and severed it—”Please, nice to meet you”—yet the aide gives him a thumbs-up sign. “Good job, Kweku!”

  “This way,” the girl says. The aide waits for Patsy and Cicely to take their seats in a cramped cubicle before she sits. “I’m so excited that you chose Ray of Hope as your go-to place for job hunting,” she says, sounding to Patsy like she’s reading from a teleprompter. “Let’s get you started.”

  The younger woman pulls up a blank screen on her computer. She begins to type the information Patsy wrote on the application. Her long fingers jump all over the keyboard like she’s playing a church organ. Patsy is fascinated by the girl’s dexterity on the machine.

  “Where yuh learn to use dat?” Patsy asks the girl.

  “In school,” the girl says without stopping. She seems like a robot, with her back straight and shoulders braced, her expressionless brown face washed by the light on the screen as her fingers speedily and lithely maneuver the keyboard. She only pauses for less than a second to manipulate the small black thing attached to the keyboard on the right, which she constantly clicks. Patsy watches in awe.

  “Ah took a course at Medgar Evers College not too long ago,” Cicely says. “Marcus say technology g’wan be di way of life in di new millennium.”

  Patsy cringes at the mention of Marcus. But instead of rolling her eyes like she wants to, she continues to pay close attention to the girl’s fingers and the words spreading across the screen. Meanwhile, Cicely is going on and on about how Shamar is good at computers, and how she has to call him into the study plenty of times to show her how to save a document or insert bullet points.

  The girl pauses when she gets to the second page of Patsy’s application. “I notice that you left your skills blank,” she says to Patsy with a questioning look. “Employers will need to know what you’re good at to determine whether to hire you. I see here that you’re interested in applying for nanny positions? What will make you a good nanny?”

  “Is it possible to apply fah ah office job? Ah was a secretary at my old job,” Patsy says.

  “No company hires undocumented workers as administrative staff,” the girl says. “They don’t want to be held responsible, especially with U.S. code. It’s a federal felony to hire anyone without proper paperwork. Companies shy away from such liability.” The girl bites her bottom lip, apologetic and helpless, reminding Patsy of her youth. “Sorry. But perhaps you can apply as a cleaning lady. You wouldn’t have to go through HR. The cleaning company takes care of paperwork. Unfortunately, those company positions are full at this time.”

  “An’ if I want to go back to school?” Patsy asks. From beside her she sees Cicely shifting in her chair. She knows she’s veering away from their plan by asking this question. Who does she think she is to come to a white man’s country, expecting to walk into their positions without crawling first? Patsy knows this is going through her friend’s mind just by the frown on her face. The girl doesn’t seem to think anything of it. She shrugs. “That’s easy. You just have to pay your tuition up front. Schools don’t give aid to undocumented students. It doesn’t say on your application that you came on a student visa, so you might not be eligible for work-study either. Your best bet is to take what you can get and save every penny to put towards your tuition.”

  Patsy swallows, reality rushing in like the chilled air inside the office. It will be impossible to save for tuition and send money home. She has no choice but to take what she can get, as the girl puts it.

  “So, we’re all set with the nanny position?” the girl asks.

  Patsy glances at Cicely. It’s hard to read the expression on her friend’s face at this point.

  “Yes,” Patsy finally replies, wondering what exactly she can put on a résumé that would make sense for a nanny position. Is not like me g’wan be expected to perform surgery, she thinks. All there is to it is making sure the child stays alive, fed, cleaned, and hydrated. At least she’ll be getting paid. The girl asks if she has children.

  “Yes,” Patsy replies. “One.”

  “That’s fantastic! I can put that in your cover letter. “It brings me great joy to be around children and if it were up to me I could do this forever.”

  Patsy reads the letter aloud, furrowing her brows. “What kinda statement is dat?”

  “I’m making sure to highlight the thing that will make you an excellent fit for this job.”

  Cicely, who has been quietly observing, speaks up. “Yuh want dis job or not? You’re a mother. There mus’ be somet’ing to be said about dat too, isn’t there?” When Patsy doesn’t answer immediately, Cicely asks again, quietly this time, fixing her with a look of tragic concern. “Is there?”

  Something dims in Cicely’s eyes as they narrow, questioning.

  “I want to be more than just . . .” Patsy pauses as she fishes for the right words. “I want to go back to school,” she finally says, emboldened by her frustration to lift her hand toward the computer. “I want to learn how to use a computer. Learn what’s inside it. Like how di world can be reached through yuh fingah by clicking one button. How yuh can connect wid other people. How ah can do anyt’ing. Go anywhere. Be someone. Someone else . . .”

  But those words sound incriminating—enough to deepen the lines in Cicely’s forehead, close her entire face as i
f the words have rested hot and offensive on her flesh. “What yuh really saying?” she asks.

  The girl sits quietly at the computer, her once-busy fingers now resting in her lap. “I’ll give you two a moment,” she says softly. “I need more coffee anyway.” She excuses herself and leaves Patsy and Cicely alone at the cubicle.

  All around them there is chatter and the pecking of keyboards. Patsy’s lips move to reply to Cicely, but no sound comes. It is apparent that Patsy’s personal defect as a woman threatens something sacred for Cicely. Cicely’s own mother, Miss Mabley, was the object of perpetual scorn in Pennyfield, the women in town rebuking her wild ways. “Dat woman g’waan like she nuh ’ave no pickney.” Cicely, as a mother, has become her own mother’s opposite. The incredulity and disdain on her face now echoes the judgmental gazes aimed at Miss Mabley.

  Patsy understands this history and forgives Cicely her scorn. But what angers Patsy is the things her friend doesn’t recall. The sacrifices Patsy made so that Cicely could be where she is now—all because she thought she had no dreams of her own, a future as empty as her insides, scraped clean of yearnings.

  Cicely had fallen a grade behind and desperately needed to pass. Patsy took the Caribbean Examinations Council math assessment exam a day before Cicely and gave her all the answers. Cicely hid the cheat sheet in the thick bun she wore to take the exam that day. No one thought to check Cicely’s hair. No one dared to think that hair so fine and straight could cover a lie.

  That summer Patsy found out that she won a distinction—the highest CXC mathematics score in the whole country. Prestigious schools lined up to accept her into their sixth form. But her excitement was short-lived when her deed was discovered due to the suspiciously similar calculations on both her and Cicely’s exams. When the girls were called in for questioning, the principal took one look at Patsy and asked Patsy why she’d copied Cicely’s work and didn’t have sense to know that she’d get caught. Patsy didn’t deny it. She took the blame, which got her disqualified and expelled. Cicely wanted to come forward and tell the truth, but Patsy discouraged her, “You’ll have bettah use fah a good score,” she said. It was only right to listen to her heart and not her head. For she had neither the right nor the permission to think she’d amount to anything other than a secretary. Her place in society was already established by her skin color and wrong address. Had she taken the chance to go to university, they would’ve handed her a useless piece of paper, promising her advancement as a cruel joke, then would turn around to snatch every penny she would earn. And if she couldn’t pay them back, they would publish her photograph in the Jamaica Gleaner like they did every week to those poor working-class souls who fell into their trap. Cicely did one year of university, then vanished without a trace until her first letter arrived a couple years later.