I spent some of the best years of my life at university. It was my first taste of real independence. I could come and go as I pleased. It was almost like being a child again. I was free from responsibility except to myself. Rose and I took our classes together, we ate together and shared a room. Soon we were inseparable.
Mama was still taking in children when I left for college, still cooking and tending to Uncle Mel. She visited Glory and Uncle Peppie a few times in Atlanta, and they tried to persuade her to spend more time there. She always refused. At first I felt guilty, knowing that Ciboney was part of the reason, but later I realized that Mama needed people who needed her, and her own children had long outgrown her.
I came back to Toronto for Christmas and over the summer, and even though I enjoyed the freedom and space Texas afforded me, I was always happy to be at Mama’s house, to be fed, to listen to Uncle Mel’s stories and, more than anything, to see Ciboney and Vittorio. I was glad they were growing up like brother and sister.
During the holidays I caught up on the activities of the family. Mama always had an earful waiting for me. Uncle Peppie had no guts, Glory didn’t love her enough, Freddie had abandoned her, and Mikey was on the road to destruction. Mama encouraged me in my studies and assured me that all was well with Ciboney. Each time I visited, I brought games, educational toys and books for her and Vittorio. I took them to movies, to the park and the zoo, to give Mama a little holiday.
The second year, I began to be troubled by Vittorio’s behaviour and the way Mama dealt with it. The day before Christmas I was sitting watching television with the family. The tree was loaded with gifts. An electric train appeared in one of the commercials, and Vittorio pointed to it, yelling, “That’s what I want!” and jumped around excitedly.
“We bought you a lot of other things,” Uncle Mel said. “Next year, if that’s still what you want.” Vittorio pouted and badgered. I sat there and watched Mama hushing him, telling him not to mind. On Christmas day he unwrapped a brand-new electric train.
There were other incidents I should have taken seriously but didn’t. I trusted Mama and never questioned her judgment. One evening there was shouting in the living room and toys flying about. I heard a scream and the sound of a slap. Mama was the first in the room. “Unnu stop de fighting, what wrong wid unnu. Yuh both mus learn to live like brother and sister. Unnu clean up de mess.” I would have been satisfied had I not overheard the rest of the conversation.
“It’s not my fault, it’s not me!” Vittorio shouted.
Then Ciboney’s voice: “Mama, I didn’t start it. He hit me first.”
“Never mind, just clean up de games, don’t tek no notice of him,” Mama said to Ciboney. I heard Vittorio in the background, teasing Ciboney. Mama repeated, “Don’t mind, put away de things, ignore him.”
During the rest of the holiday I watched that scene play again and again. I reassured myself that I had less than two years to go at college, and I would make things right when I got back.
Each time I returned to Texas, I’d soon forget my worries. Rose had the ability to smooth them all away. Just being outdoors, sifting the dirt through my fingers was soothing. The campus was so beautiful, with its manicured lawns, mature trees, nature trails to get lost in, greenhouses, decorative beds and a full research farm. Were it not for Ciboney and Mama, I could have spent my life there.
In those first years Rose didn’t come back to Toronto for the holidays. She went home to Grenada for Christmas, and over the summers she worked in Texas. Mama was fond of her and grateful that she had encouraged me to go to college. She always packed me off with a Christmas black cake, puddings and other baked goods to share with Rose. And with Rose’s mother’s cakes and jams and jellies, we had enough desserts to last us through the school year.
With each trip to Grenada, Rose came back with rich family anecdotes. I admired her dramatic flair and her openness. Though she adored her family, she did not shoulder their problems. I wished I could be like her, free of the responsibility of family history, free of its disappointments.
When did things change between Rose and me? I can’t say precisely. At some point I began to take notice of her short, stumpy toes. Her large ears, which she hid with her locks. The smell of Japanese musk and sweat next to me in the greenhouse.
When I returned after one Christmas in Toronto, Rose wanted to celebrate her birthday by going dancing. And she wanted to choose the place. Where she took me that night wasn’t really a surprise, though I would have been too shy to suggest a bar for women. Later that night, back in our apartment, Japanese musk was warm and sweaty on my tongue. Her hands touched me everywhere. We soaked up glasses of rosé wine and savoured the taste of each other’s tongues. I let her suck on my breasts and held my breath as her teeth grazed them. I pulled her up on me, caressed the nape of her neck and her black locks, rich with the smell of spice. I tasted her nipples, then rolled on top of her, my tongue tracing her sinuous body. I knelt between her legs to sweet pleasure. Spent, I luxuriated in her scent into the morning.
In our passion we promised each other that we’d be together forever. Someday we’d open a botanical garden, complete with butterflies, exotic tropical plants, caterpillars and even lizards. When we weren’t making love or studying for an exam, we talked for hours about our future. We read up on new plants, ran experiments at the research farm and read botany as if it were poetry.
Though I continued to go to Toronto for the holidays, I was always eager to return to Rose and the world we had created for ourselves. But I couldn’t pretend that things were not changing all around me, and where I least expected it, at Mama’s house. During my third year away, she found religion and was attending the Open Door Pentecostal Church of Jesus Christ, which met in a basement around the corner from our house. That summer both Vittorio and Ciboney were going to services with her. She tried to get Uncle Mel interested, but he preferred to drink and entertain his friends. She seemed content with just the children going with her. Over the summer I went to one or two services with her, but I couldn’t muster up much enthusiasm. She often sang hymns around the house, her voice rich and warm as always:
What a wonderful change in my life has been wrought
Since Jesus came into my heart!
I have light in my soul for which long I had sought,
Since Je’sus came into my heart!
More than anything I wanted to share my happiness with Mama, but I knew better.
Ciboney and Vittorio were growing fast. They had grown close, too, and were as inseparable as Rose and I were. I wanted time to talk with Ciboney alone, to discuss things that would set the stage for my and Rose’s return. But Ciboney went nowhere without Vittorio. Whenever we planned to go out, she asked if Vittorio could come. It would have been selfish of me to say no, so I gave in every time.
It bothered me that Vittorio always wanted to be taken shopping for new clothes, new toys. Mama didn’t share my concern. She laughed it off. “But, Molly, look how much clothes you use to have. Yuh forget? Mek de pickney dem enjoy dem youth.” It sounded so simple that I felt like a grouch. I tried to ignore the two brand-new bicycles he had, the Nintendo games he insisted were his and would share with Ciboney if she was good, the drum set Uncle Mel had bought him and the guitar he now wanted, tired of the drum set, the piles of running shoes and clothes, the boxing gloves. Ciboney did receive the occasional gift from Mama and Uncle Mel, but not nearly as often as Vittorio. She wasn’t as demanding as he was, and she didn’t complain.
I returned to Texas and to Rose with mixed feelings. Soon after, Mama called and said she had given up taking in children and was embracing the church fully. She announced that she was saved and was attending the basement service twice a week. Vittorio was enrolled in a Seventh Day Adventist school.
“Ah don’t like de marks him getting on him report card and dem say him not concentrating, but ah don’t believe dem. Him say certain children in de class pick on him and dat de teacher don�
��t like him. Ah have to believe him, for a mi grow him from him small. De Seventh Day school expensive, but de discipline will do him good. Dem wear uniform, yuh know,” she explained.
I asked if it wouldn’t be confusing for Vittorio to attend a Seventh Day school and go to the Open Door Pentecostal Church. He was thirteen then and I had genuine misgivings about the mixed messages of the different denominations. But Mama didn’t seem worried. “Don’t be a fool, Molly, is one God, yuh know.”
Ciboney was doing well in school and I was relieved that there were no plans to move her.
Later that year I began to hear worry in Mama’s voice. At first she brushed it aside. “Mi just a bit tired, must be getting de flu,” she said simply. But after I pressed her, she slowly confessed that she was concerned about Uncle Mel’s health and about Vittorio.
“Ah don’t know what fi do. Dem say him come late some mornings and sometimes him don’t come to school at all. Dem seh money missing from de teacher bag and is him. Dem seh dem catch him hand in her bag. Him seh is lie dem telling on him. Him marks don’t improve either.”
“What about homework, Mama?” I asked.
“Him do it. Him even stop coming to the Open Door Church so him will have more time. Ah try to help him wid de lessons, but me and Mel don’t understand much wid all dis modern-day teaching.”
I reminded her that my graduation was close and I would be home soon to help out. My family had planned a grand celebration, for I was the first in the family to graduate from college. Mama, Uncle Mel, Ciboney, Vittorio, Uncle Peppie, Aunt Val and even Glory all planned to be there. I had done well and was the valedictorian.
The night before my graduation Mama phoned. Vittorio had been caught breaking into a car with a group of friends. He couldn’t travel until the matter was cleared up, and under the circumstances she didn’t want to leave him alone. Uncle Mel couldn’t come either—he was not well enough to travel without her.
I wanted more than anything for Mama to be with me, to hear my speech, which I had dedicated to her, to watch the pride on her face as I received my degree. Glory, Uncle Peppie and Aunt Val flew in from Atlanta, and Ciboney flew in from Toronto. They took photographs and we went out to dinner, but it wasn’t the same. I tried to hide my disappointment.
Ciboney spent a few days with me before she went back. Rose and I took her to the zoo and the movies, we fed her junk food, watched television with her, put on makeup, painted each other’s toes in wild colours and generally acted silly. I was surprised how much she had grown. She was ten going on fourteen, and I was determined to spend more time with her. I didn’t want to make my mother’s mistakes.
I saw her steal glances at Rose and me. Even though we tried our best to act like just good friends, it was hard to keep words like “darling” and “love” and “sweetie” from coming out. She must have noticed how we looked at each other, seen the way our hands touched carelessly. Rose had wanted me to tell her about us, but I wasn’t ready. I hadn’t told Mama, and I didn’t want Ciboney to tell her. I didn’t know how to tell Ciboney not to tell.
“Do you think the girl is a baby?” Rose exploded just after Ciboney left. “How are we supposed to have a life together if you can’t be honest with your own child?”
I didn’t answer. There was nothing I could say; she was right. But Ciboney was my child, and though I didn’t say it to Rose, I sensed that had Ciboney been her daughter, she might have thought differently.
On our last night together before I returned to Toronto, Rose opened me with her tongue and I vowed to her, trembling, “Ah give yuh all of me. Dis is forever.”
“Hush,” she said.
“Softer, softer,” I murmured.
“I want you to burst with mi tongue and sing loud. I don’ want you to forget tonight.”
My voice was thick with want. “Forget …never …”
“Is dis love?” she teased.
“Yes, YES, water, air, de breath mi tek.”
I rose to meet her full on the mouth. A swollen river found its way to the sea. I pushed her back on the bed. Her laughter was sweet and thick, like molasses.
“Ah love de feel of yuh nipples in mi mouth …is like raisins in ginger wine with all kind of spice,” I whispered.
Her laughter became sweet murmurs. She moaned, then sucked back her breath. “I not ready …not yet …don’t want to. Oh Gawd …” She bit her lips.
I had fully intended to tell Mama about Rose and me when I returned to Toronto. I came back to find her in a deep religious fervour. She was attending church three nights a week, dragging an unwilling Ciboney with her. My daughter immediately saw me as an ally. I wanted to rebuild my relationship with her—I hardly knew her. Rose was spending a few months in Grenada visiting family before coming back to Toronto to find a job and an apartment. Mama often asked about her and spoke affectionately about what a good friend she was. I felt sure then that when I told her about us, it would be all right. But I wanted to wait for the right time. Cowardly as I was—and despite my vows—I never did tell Mama.
Uncle Mel’s health was failing. The smoking and drinking had taken their toll on him, and he had trouble breathing. Though his cough was rough and crusty, he continued to smoke and drink. His memory wandered in and out, and he told his boxing stories over and over again.
Things with Vittorio had not improved, either. He’d done very poorly at the Seventh Day Adventist school and had been suspended several times for theft and fighting. The worry was etched on Mama’s face. I tried my best to help. I took Vittorio and Ciboney to the movies and signed them up at the local Y. He became interested in boxing and we found a club not far away, but he soon tired of that, just as he had tired of guitar and drumming lessons. Once when he was caught shoplifting at the local corner store, I begged the woman not to call the police, reminding her that we had been regular customers for many years. She finally agreed on the condition that he never enter her store again. We didn’t tell Mama, and for a while he kept out of trouble.
There were some good times. Some evenings we played cards, Monopoly or games we made up as we went along. We’d rent videos, make popcorn. I helped Mama as much as I could with the washing, which was too much for her now that she had arthritic pain in her right knee.
On the surface things looked fine. Rose decided to spend a few extra months in Grenada. Although I missed her badly, I was thankful in a way, for I still hadn’t said anything to Mama or Ciboney, and I wanted to spend more time helping out at home and giving back something to Mama and Uncle Mel.
I found a job in the Department of Botany at the University of Toronto and settled into it. Mama was pleased and told all her friends that her granddaughter held a big position working and researching at the university. I was only an assistant to the researcher’s assistant, but her face was so full of pride when she told people that I didn’t have the heart to correct her.
Vittorio was asked to leave the Adventist school because of his behaviour, and we enrolled him in a technical high school. He had decided that he was interested in fixing musical instruments, not playing them. Predictably, after one semester he decided that he really wanted to be in electronics. He’d made friends with some older aspiring musicians, and they, no doubt, had filled his head with dreams of travelling and a job as their technician. Reports came from school about his absence and his behaviour, yet Mama steadfastly blamed the teachers and the school. I was thankful that Ciboney continued to do well.
Uncle Mel started to miss coins from his pant pockets and then bills. He complained about it, but no one owned up to taking the money. Mama convinced him that he was forgetful, that he had just misplaced it. Then larger bills went missing. She still told him that he was mistaken. One day he caught Vittorio in the act. When he complained to Mama she said, “Yuh mek mistake. Vittorio wouldn’t tief from yuh—yuh is like a father to him.” Uncle Mel was adamant that he’d caught Vittorio and it was no mistake. Mama called Vittorio into the kitchen. In front of Uncle Me
l, Vittorio denied that he had stolen any money. Mama asked him to swear on the Bible and he did. I was upstairs in my room and her voice carried clearly from the kitchen.
“Mel, mi love yuh, and thank yuh for everything, but mi have to say yuh mek a mistake. Vittorio wouldn’t steal from yuh. A de drinks turn yuh head. Vittorio have no reason to steal yuh money. Him could ask me for anything him want.”
“Maria, I don’t have any reason to lie, he’s my son,” Mel said. Then to Vittorio he said, “Vittorio, tell your mother the truth.”
“I did,” I heard Vittorio say.
For the first time since I’d known Uncle Mel, he spoke harshly. “Boy, you know I’m not lying. Why are you lying?”
“I didn’t,” Vittorio answered, meek and innocent as a small boy.
“Okay, mek it pass, him say is not him,” Mama said quickly.
Mama became more heavily involved in the church and continued to insist that Ciboney go with her. Saturday nights Ciboney stayed up late with Vittorio in front of the television, and Sunday mornings she slept late. No amount of yelling from Mama could rouse her. “Molly, wake her up. Mek her get ready for church. Ah doing this for her own good, not mine,” Mama said.
“Vittorio don’t have to go, why me?” Ciboney shouted at me one Sunday morning.
“Why don’t you go and ask Mama?” I said roughly. “Is not me taking you to church.”
Guilty at once, I promised Ciboney that I would talk to Mama that evening.
“What are you going to say?” she asked.
“That you don’t want to go to church and that I support you.”
Her response surprised me. “No, you can’t say that.”
The Heart Does Not Bend Page 14