Praise for
The HEART does not BEND
“The Heart Does Not Bend is as much a story of familial love and loss as it is an important and interesting exercise in writing—and for the reader, in reading—against the grain.”
—The Globe and Mail
“The Heart Does Not Bend is guided by an emotional and intellectual honesty, making it both a highly entertaining and a thoroughly rewarding novel.”
—Quill and Quire
“The Heart Does Not Bend is an achingly rich, sensuous text…. Keep an eye on this author, because The Heart Does Not Bend is a refreshingly simple but undeniably intense addition to this country’s literary legacy.”
—NOW (Toronto)
“This is a frank, vivid and sad tale about a family divided by distance, jealousy and disappointment. But Makeda Silvera’s first novel is also a tale about love and hope restored as it details the life of Maria Galloway, a fiery matriarch, and her familial web, which stretches from lush Jamaica to urban Toronto…. Silvera weaves wonderful descriptions throughout the story, engaging every sense.”
—Victoria Times Colonist
“[The Heart Does Not Bend is] a novel of delicate eloquence…. Silvera does several things that impress when it comes to language…. Her dialogue is pure patois, delightfully expressive, but democratically measured…. [T]his portrait of a family is also a poignant saga of Jamaican society. In Maria, Silvera has created a completely idiosyncratic figure, strong and weak, generous and intolerant, the novel’s unbending heart.”
—The Toronto Star
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prolegomenon
Chapter 1 - What is Said Over The: Dead Lioness’s Body Could Not: Be Said to Her Alive
Chapter 2 - Earth is the Queen of Beds
Part One
Chapter 3 - You Cannot Shave a Man’s Head: In His Absence
Part Two
Chapter 4 - No One Tests the Depth of a River with Both Feet
Part Three
Chapter 5 - A Round a Flowering Tree One Finds Many Insects
Part Four
Chapter 6 - He Who is Free of Faults Will Never Die
Epilogue
The Heart is Not a Knee; It Does Not Bend
Copyright
For Lucille
There Are No Honest Poems
About Dead Women
AUDRE LORDE
Prolegomenon
WHAT IS SAID OVER THE
DEAD LIONESS’S BODY COULD NOT
BE SAID TO HER ALIVE
EVERYONE IS SITTING at Grand-aunt Ruth’s breakfast table in Kingston—Uncle Peppie and Aunt Val; Uncle Mikey; Glory, my mother and the executor of my grandmother’s estate; the grand-aunts, Ruth and Joyce; cousins Icie, Ivan and Vittorio; and my daughter, Ciboney, and her eleven-month-old baby. Uncle Freddie is the only one missing.
The muttering around the table gives way to the crackling of the papers in Glory’s hand. Except for the three youngest, we are nervous. Ciboney, just fifteen, looks bored, but the hint of malice around her mouth makes me wonder what she is thinking. Vittorio, handsome at nineteen, idly plays with his brick-coloured, shoulder-length dreadlocks. Aunt Val has an arm protectively around Uncle Peppie’s shoulder. Uncle Mikey crosses and uncrosses his legs. Grand-aunt Ruth wipes sweat from her face with an old washrag, and Aunt Joyce fans herself profusely with a rattan fan she brought back from America. Cousin Icie and Cousin Ivan sit like tin soldiers. My thoughts are a muddle, and my heart is thumping so hard that I am convinced everyone can hear it.
“Okay, we all here?” Glory asks.
“Uh-hum,” we respond as one.
“Well ah think we should just get it over wid,” Glory says as she straightens the papers once more.
“‘I, Maria Maud Galloway, of sound mind and body, make this my Last Will and Testament.’”
“‘I hereby revoke all my former wills and other testamentary dispositions of every nature and kind whatsoever hereto before made by me.’”
Glory pauses, inhales heavily and says, “Dis is not Mama’s first will. Dis is about de tenth. De lawyer dem love her.”
“‘I nominate, constitute and appoint my daughter, Glory May Galloway, to be the sole executor of this my will.’”
She pauses again. “Ah skipping some of de legal talk.”
“‘To my grandson, Vittorio Oliver Galloway, I bequeath the properties known as 100 Pear Avenue, in the Municipality of Metropolitan Toronto, Canada, and the fifty-five acres of land in the township of Muskoka free and clear of all liens and encumbrances whatsoever, for his own use absolutely.’”
“‘To my grandson, Vittorio Oliver Galloway, I also bequeath the property at 3 Wigton Street, in the City of Kingston, Jamaica, free and clear of all liens and encumbrances whatsoever, for his own use absolutely.’”
A loud gasp escapes from Uncle Peppie; Aunt Val strokes his shoulder. Glory sighs. Uncle Mikey uncrosses his legs and plants his feet firmly on the ground, his face an ugly mask. Uncle Peppie slumps further into his chair.
“Lawd God Almighty!” Aunt Joyce shouts.
“Calm down. Quiet, Joyce, mek we hear de rest of de will,” Grand-aunt Ruth commands.
Glory’s mouth is clamped tight as she reads the rest of the will silently.
“Go on, Glory,” Grand-aunt Ruth says, gently resting her hand on Glory’s arm. Glory takes a sip of her coffee, as if to help loosen her mouth.
“‘To transfer my hope chest to my great-granddaughter, Ciboney Galloway, for her own use absolutely.
“‘To transfer all other household items on the properties to my grandson, Vittorio Oliver Galloway.
“‘To transfer all moneys from my bank account in the Municipality of Metropolitan Toronto and in the City of Kingston, Jamaica, to my grandson, Vittorio Oliver Galloway.’”
Glory is still reading. By now I am only half listening. I see Maria, Mama to me, in the hospital bed, me changing her soaked diaper. She grips my hands, her eyes pleading, the words coming out with difficulty.
“Molly, tek mi outa dis iron coffin. Tek me out, carry mi home. Mek mi dead in mi own bed.”
“‘Should my said grandson predecease me, or die at the same time or in circumstances rendering it uncertain which of us survived the other, or die within thirty days of my death, then I direct my Trustee to give my grandson’s share of my estate to charity, for the charity’s use absolutely.’”
Glory’s voice breaks. Her body sags from the weight of the will. Uncle Mikey offers her a glass of water.
“Here, Glory, drink dis.”
“Dis is madness. Dis is plain, outright madness,” Glory says. “Ah should have certified her a long time ago.” Her voice is full of contempt and she is trembling.
“Ah wonder if Maria was in her right mind for truth?” Aunt Joyce adds, shaking her head in disbelief.
Uncle Mikey’s voice is bitter. “Mama is a wicked, revengeful ’oman. How she could do dis? Wherever she gone, she won’t find peace.” He pushes his chair back, ready to leave the table.
“Mikey, tek it easy. Sit down. Yuh not massa God. And only Him can judge,” Grand-aunt Ruth says. He opens his mouth to argue, but one look from Grand-aunt Ruth and he changes his mind.
“Ah try mi best all dese years to be a good daughter, and for what? Ah use to parcel up de whole of Canada and send home to her.”
“Yes, Glory, yuh give her your best, and she did love you very much. Don’t cuss and don’t harbour bad feelings. God not sleeping and Him work in mysterious ways. Dis is why life and death is a mystery to us all,” Grand-aunt Ruth says.
I remember Mama at the ho
spital, her eyes wild, her panicked whisper pleading with me to take her home.
“De man calling mi, Molly. Him ready to tek mi.” Her breathing was harsh, her mouth caving in without her dentures.
I didn’t have to look across the table at Uncle Peppie to feel his shame. He was Maria’s first-born, the faithful, obedient son. It’s as if she’s in the room, sitting at the table, and he won’t say anything bad about her. Like me, he never stood up to her, and her death changes nothing. When Uncle Peppie finally speaks, he doesn’t mention the will.
“Well, at least she get her final wish. She bury right next to Mammy, in Port Maria Cemetery.”
“You too kind-hearted, Peppie,” Uncle Mikey jumps in, sucking his teeth.
Glory, in full agreement, cuts her eyes across the table.
“Is Peppie save her. Is him give her a second life.”
“Dis is her idea of revenge,” Mikey spits out. “She was always harbouring some anger. Freddie right fi nuh come.”
“Molly remember de dresses,” Uncle Peppie quietly reminds me.
They have forgotten Vittorio. It’s as if he weren’t there. Grand-aunt Ruth comes to his rescue.
“What time is yuh flight, Vic?”
“Soon, Aunt Ruth. I should get back to packing.” He pushes back his chair, eager to get away.
“Let we hold we head in prayer before yuh leave, Vic. Dis bickering and bad feeling toward de living and de dead nuh good,” Grand-aunt Ruth says, determined to bank the fire. “Okay, let we all hold hands. ‘Please, dear Father, help us to bury dis hatred and to ward off de temptation of Satan. Let us receive not de spirit of de world, but de Spirit which is of God.’” Her eyes are closed. She doesn’t need her Bible for this. “Praise de Lord and may Him Spirit and de goodness of Him heart be wid us.”
Uncle Peppie slowly pushes back his chair and excuses himself. Aunt Val follows. Vittorio mumbles something about finishing his packing. Uncle Mikey says he needs fresh air. Glory follows. The grand-aunts retire to the kitchen. Cousin Icie and Cousin Ivan escape to the backyard.
I nurse my cold cup of coffee. Just Ciboney, the baby and I are left sitting there. We stare out the window, oblivious to the flies swarming the table. She looks like me when I was her age: tall and willowy, molasses complexion, full lips and ackee-seed eyes. I want to fold her in my arms, tell her I love her, but it seems too late.
How could Mama do this? How? I was her only granddaughter. I was there. I was always there. Vittorio never was, and what did he know of Wigton Street?
Outside it’s bleak. It rained all night and the clouds are just hanging. I don’t know what I expected from my grandmother, but if I am not careful, I might say things I’ll regret, especially to Vittorio. But I want my daughter back and he is the only person who can get her back for me.
Early the next morning I leave the house, hire a car, take the dresses to the cousins, and then drive out to the cemetery.
EARTH IS THE QUEEN OF BEDS
I AM WEARING your old lady’s dress today, Mama, one of the many you left behind. You asked for us to take them to the country and give them to your cousins, but I kept two for myself. One is sea-blue with white hyacinths threaded together, floating in the blue. The other is salmon-pink with white roses on a spread of green leaves. Both dresses have buttons all the way down to the hem and a pocket on each side.
I am here sitting on your grave, wearing the blue dress. It’s all washed out; it was your favourite. Your grave is only a few weeks old, and your scent is still in the dress that feels so soft on my skin. I want to take in every hint of your old lady’s smell. I didn’t wash the dress, though Grand-aunt Ruth said that every dress, every blouse, every slip, every piece of drawers had to be washed, then put away for ten days before wearing.
I wish there weren’t this concrete between us, wish I could slide right into your silver-blue coffin. We got it custom-made in your favourite colour, the lining a softer blue, folded in accordion pleats. Glory lay two Daily Word pamphlets inside. Ciboney and Vittorio placed a single white orchid in your hands. I lined the inside of your casket with pepper-red hibiscus flowers. A cross of white carnations and a bouquet of blue Bengal trumpets and lavender chrysanthemums are wilting on your grave.
Your mother, Mammy, my great-grandmother, is buried in this cemetery, only a few yards from here, next to the poinciana tree; its clusters of red blossoms shade her headstone. Your father, Pappy, is buried here, too. He has no headstone, he’s covered over in crabgrass and bush.
You couldn’t have chosen a nicer place to rest. This is quiet country, peaceful, away from the posses and the city. No gunfire here, no thieves to watch out for, no one shooting up.
Here birds fly easy and butterflies drink from morning glory vines. Woodpeckers and doves chatter. The grounds are patchy with crabgrass and ferns growing between broken rocks. Flowering trees shower the dirt with their sweet blossoms.
The gravediggers are out in full force, shirtless, sweat running down their backs, pickaxes digging into the hard, dry dirt. They talk loud and laugh hard, but they take no notice of my old lady’s dress.
The land you grew up on isn’t far from here. The wooden house is gone, swept away by the sea after Mammy died. I think of when we used to go there, about the waves coming up on the sand, washing back just a bit, then coming up again, covering my little girl toes, then up my legs. I was afraid of the waves carrying me back out with them. You held me, steadied me so I could float till I wasn’t afraid anymore. I always started off in your arms, even after you had taught me how to swim. Sometimes you’d pile the rust-brown sand over me, covering me till only my face peeked out, you counting backwards from twenty as I thrashed my way free.
It’s just past noon and the gravediggers’ women come with hot cooked lunches and ice water to drink. One woman brings a bottle of white rum and five enamel mugs.
A mourning dove twitters above your grave, and the sunlight streams through the trees. Beyond them is a funeral procession. I can hear the loved ones wailing, disrupting the quiet of the graveyard. Still, seeing and hearing them is a relief. I don’t feel so alone.
Watching them, I try to figure out who died and how. The mourners are young, their clothes bright, and the women’s hair a rainbow of colours. Everyone sports dark sunglasses. I suspect they might be burying a young man, maybe around eighteen, who was gunned down. A loud screech comes from a girl no more than sixteen. I think briefly of Ciboney. The girl is wearing a black dress that fits her body tightly, the neck scooped so low I can see the dance of her breasts as she sobs and jumps toward the open grave. Three people grab and pull her away, but she is strong and they have a hard time holding her.
“Patrick, Patrick, nuh lef mi! Mi and de baby need yuh,” she wails. “Patrick!” Confusion abounds as she tries again to jump in with the coffin. All this time a video camera records the mourners’ rites to the dead.
Glory wanted one, too. She wanted us to record your funeral, Mama, but with all the confusion, we forgot. It’s just as well. What would it show us? How would it comfort us?
We dressed you and made up your face at the funeral parlour for the mourners to view—Glory wanted it that way. It was not the custom of the funeral parlour to allow relatives to dress the dead, but Glory wore the attendant down, and she finally gave in. She stood in the doorway and watched. Uncle Peppie, Uncle Mikey, Ciboney and Vittorio were also there. Glory and I sponged you clean. We powdered you from neck to toe with Johnson’s Baby Powder, put on a brand-new white pair of drawers, then took them off because the attendant said we had to fit you in a diaper first. She said that was the way God wanted to receive the dead. We didn’t question her, though we suspected her advice, like Grand-aunt Ruth’s instructions about washing Mama’s clothes before wearing them, was an old wives’ tale. Glory had brought a lovely slip of a white dress, and we fitted it over your body, along with a pair of white silk stockings and soft, white pull-on sandals. I plaited your hair for the last time.
Ciboney and Vittorio put long white gloves on your hands. Glory applied Pond’s makeup to your face. Your lips were shut tight as a zippered purse, but with the help of some tweezers we arranged them in a half smile—that’s all you would give. Still, your face looked rested, so different from those last days in the hospital bed when you were shouting, “Tek mi out of dis iron coffin!” Glory added a bit of lipstick to your mouth, and Uncle Peppie helped me pin a flower of hibiscus in your hair. We put a touch of flowery perfume at each ear. You never wore makeup, you didn’t like lipstick, but Glory said it would be a beautiful farewell gesture.
We took photographs with a throwaway camera: you in your silver-blue coffin, me plaiting your hair, Ciboney and Vittorio each slipping on a glove, Glory and Uncle Peppie’s hands holding yours, me kissing you for the last time.
The videotape has run its course and the young mourners are gone now. All is quiet again, except for the sound of the gravediggers’ pickaxes and their occasional laughter. The sun is beating down on me, but I don’t want to leave you. I want to crawl into the cool earth and snuggle up right next to you. A gravedigger passes by, watches me and says, “A so sun hot pon dis island, but a little ease soon come, darlin’.” The sweat pours down my face like sea water and onto my old lady’s dress.
Yes, I know this is only a holding ground—a place for the living to mourn, to remember.
My first memory is of our house on the dead-end street. I went to live with you there in 1957, two days after my birth in a Kingston hospital. My mother, Glory, was fifteen years old. She named me Marlene, Molly for short. My birth certificate reads “father unknown.” My mother left for Canada two and a half years later to seek opportunity, to get an education, to better herself. She never did come back to live here.
The house was painted sky-blue, trimmed in soft baby-pink, with steps leading up to a balcony. Some nights when the air was still, we’d climb the steps and sit on a bamboo bench, my head in your lap, counting the stars until the distant croaking of toads, the chatter of crickets and the familiar singsong voices of the neighbours lulled me to sleep. You would pick me up gently, carry me off to bed and tuck me in.
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