They still wouldn’t release the goods. We were told to go to the building next door and wait in line. We waited and waited, in the heat and confusion. Cousin Ivan grew impatient and began to pace the floor. “Ah don’t have time for dis kind of crap. I is a busy man,” he said loudly in the direction of the receptionist. The woman looked at him with indifference and said, “Sir, I don’t control de storage, and I doesn’t work at the wharf. I’m just de receptionist.”
It was clear from her tone that this wasn’t the first time she’d run into the likes of Cousin Ivan. He walked away from her desk, cursing the whole country—its inefficiency, the people in the office, customs. A woman sitting on a chair nearby agreed with him.
“Yessir, ah know exactly what yuh mean. Is seven weeks mi waiting for mi barrels. I have been in dis office every day since, and mi still cyaan get a straight answer ’bout mi barrels. Dem think everybody is a tief when is dem is de real tief.”
Another man, about fifty, wearing starched white pants and a white shirt, gave his piece. “Some a dem a more tief dan de prisoners in Kingston Pen. Last year dem tek away four turkey and five ham from mi. Seh dem cyaan come in unless dem cook. I sure dem never throw dem away—dem carry dem home and nyam dem.”
The broker in Canada had given me his word that there would be no problem: “I will tek care of everything from up here. Mi have contacts wid people out dere, dat’s why mi in de business.” After I paid him he added, “Just show dem de letter from de doctor. De one saying she is a cripple and everything will be okay. Dem have more sympathy fi ole people.”
I handed the receptionist the letter from Mama’s doctor, which said she was disabled and couldn’t move around with ease.
“Mi still have to see her—anybody could get a doctor’s note from foreign,” the woman said leisurely.
“How yuh a go see her and she cripple, yuh have wheelbarrow fi carry her?” Ivan asked. She ignored him, and I shook my head in slight disgust, hoping she’d see I was different from him.
“Get a letter from yuh grandmother and bring it in tomorrow.”
When we were home and I told Mama what had happened, she wasn’t happy. I assured her that I would write the letter and would go back early the next day. It didn’t help much; her mood was downcast all through dinner.
“Mi want mi own bed to sleep in. Ah doubt if ah will ever see de television set and de VCR, or de hairdryer and all mi other things,” she said gloomily. “Dem will probably tief dem. Dis country nuh change at all. Mi come back after all dese years and de same waiting game. Everything is a lineup.”
Aunt Joyce joined in and said her piece about government corruption.
Next morning I left early with Cousin Ivan. I went back to the same woman, and this time I didn’t wait long in the line. I handed her the letter.
“Okay, just go down de hall and out de door through to de other building. They will make arrangements for de goods to be delivered.”
Cousin Ivan went off to get something cold to drink. I took a number and sat and waited. When my number was called, a man motioned me into his office. I handed him the papers, and he looked them over for several minutes, then set them on his desk and asked about the contents of the barrels. It was all written on the paper in front of him; nevertheless, I ran through the contents. Next he wanted to know my relationship to the owner, which was also in the letter right in front of him. Then he wanted to know how long I would be staying in the country.
“A few weeks,” I replied in as friendly a manner as I could muster.
“Dat mean dere is enough time for me to show you what our country have to offer. How about tonight?”
“No, tonight is not good,” I said, regretting my friendliness. “I have to settle all of this barrel stuff first.”
He was persistent. “Come on, sister, yuh need to relax, enjoy de weather.”
“I have someone,” I said.
“Him on de island?”
“No, but …”
“No problem, den. How him going to know?” He laughed, exposing a chipped tooth. “Ah tell yuh what, give mi yuh phone number. Ah will see dat everything go through with these barrels.”
A knock at the door saved me. It was another worker reporting a shipment gone bad, confusion about the billing, the woman outside cussing. I was quickly handed back my papers and sent off to another building.
Outside, the heat was sweltering. Cousin Ivan sat with a drink under a shady tree. I waved to him and pointed to the next building. There I was led into another small room, where I went through the details again. The official said I’d have to pay taxes on the goods. I told him I had already done that with the customs broker in Canada. “Dis is a different tax,” he said confidently.
“But we’re not bringing in excess goods. We’re taking in less than an average returnee.”
“Well, dat is true,” he said, running his tongue over his teeth. “Dat true …but de lady old, and she coming wid washer, dryer, car parts; now what a old lady do wid car parts?”
“She can’t carry gifts fi family members?” I asked.
“Yes, anybody can carry in anything. It will just cost them.”
He sat there cool, while I wiped the sweat off my face and sat upright in the chair.
“How much is the tax?” I asked him in a tone that made it clear that I understood this was robbery.
He rubbed the corner of his eye sheepishly, then said, “Just give mi a money and mek we settle it right here. No need for a pretty lady like you going through all dis trouble.” He gave me a broad smile.
We bartered until we came to an agreement. The money went into his pocket, and he stamped the paper and gave it back to me.
“All right, ah will send dese down to de wharf. Yuh things should arrive sometime dis evening. Walk good.”
Nothing arrived that evening, and by the next morning Mama was vexed. “Just give mi a cup of coffee and a slice a bread, mi nuh hungry,” she said at the breakfast table.
Aunt Joyce was ready to start up the talk about the laxness in the country, but a look from Grand-aunt Ruth changed her mind.
“Maria, yuh look tired. Why yuh don’t go back to bed?” Ruth asked.
I went off to make phone calls. Before I got through to the right person, I’d talked to six different people. Each time I repeated the story. Finally the official I’d seen the day before came on the line.
“Hello, this is Molly Galloway. What happen to de delivery?”
He put me on hold, then the phone went dead. I called back.
“What happen, lovely lady? It might be dere dis evening, tomorrow morning or evening. It all depends. Ah can’t guarantee delivery time.”
“Mi granny need her things, her bed—”
He cut me off. “Listen, sis, ah doing mi best, but understand me is not de driver, and de driver have lots of stop fi mek. Everybody in de same rush.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, defeated.
“What ’bout de phone number?” he asked. I hung up.
Mama sat in the kitchen folding some kitchen towels. Aunt Joyce whispered, “Any luck?” She could tell the answer from my face. “Dem blasted old farts, dem cyaan run business. Dem want fi go America and learn something ’bout business. Dat is why mi will forever love America, for dis shit couldn’t happen dere. Once yuh pay yuh money everything all right, but dis blasted place full dutty tief. Even when yuh give dem something under de table, yuh still haffi beg.”
Just then the dogs started barking, and we heard men at the gate.
“Shut up, dog. Settle!” Cousin Ivan shouted, tying three of the dogs to the mango tree. A truck backed into the yard and came to a stop next to the verandah. Mama’s shoulders straightened as though a heavy weight had been lifted from them. She wheeled her walker onto the verandah and took a seat where she could see into the back of the truck. The four young men who’d made the delivery volunteered to break open the crates and help set up her bed and easy chair. I gave them a few extra U.S. dollars an
d they left happy.
That night the household was exhausted but content, and it was another late night with talk and laughter. The next few days were busy with unpacking boxes and setting things up. Our energy ran high and our mood was cheerful. Mama’s religious tapes filled the house. She sat and watched and added her opinion here and there. Aunt Joyce was full of excitement. “All dese new things, ah love de foreign smell,” she said.
“De curtains will look good in the living room on Christmas morning,” Grand-aunt Ruth said.
I put Mama’s clothes away and set her toiletries within easy reach on the dresser. The Depends went into a drawer close to her bed, her panties and merinos in another. I hung her dresses in the closet and set out photographs of Ciboney and Maud, two of Vittorio, a group shot of Peppie, Glory, Aunt Val, Sid and me taken one Christmas, a wedding picture of Freddie and Bella, and one of Mikey and Mama at his birthday party years ago.
The days passed peacefully. There was always music in the house or in the yard, drifting through the open windows, often religious tapes, too, but sometimes Cousin Ivan set up his stereo in the backyard and played reggae and rhythm and blues. Frequently my grand-aunts and grandmother would be in the house talking about the news or a soap opera on television.
Mama reacquainted herself with dasheen yam, negro yam, doctor fish, fried sprat, and her appetite grew daily. “Ah cyaan tell de last time ah eat susumba,” she said, smiling. Or, “Some mackerel and banana would be good fi lunch.” Cousin Icie promised to pick some up at the market, and it appeared on Mama’s plate for lunch the very next day.
I was glad that I’d brought her home. I hardly thought about Rose. Every evening I helped Mama bathe, and then we’d sit on the verandah. We talked long into the nights about everything except Rose and Frank, and she rarely mentioned Vittorio or Ciboney. We talked about her banking and where to open an account.
My bedroom was next to Mama’s, separated by the bathroom. Grand-aunt Ruth and Icie and Aunt Joyce had bedrooms on the other side of the house. The large living room, dining room and kitchen were in the centre.
From my room I could hear her old lady’s snore, saw when her lights came on in the middle of the night and heard her turning and tossing. Some nights I heard the sound of her urine tinkling in the commode. Sometimes she’d call out that she had gas, and I’d get up and make her tea, talk with her until she fell asleep. One of those nights she began to talk about her father.
“Same way Pappy use to have de gas, yuh know. Sometime it have him curl up like a baby an’ him would bawl. Me and Mammy use to look after him and when Mammy at work, me after him. We use to boil bush tea and give him fi drink. Sometimes mi haffi rub him chest and him stomach fi mek him belch and mek de pain go way. But him never really appreciate it—always love mi sisters more dan me. Maybe a true mi did look more like him, why him treat mi so. Him do mi some bad things. But mi forgive him, for him never know better …”
I hadn’t taken any real notice, until that night, of the devastating change age had handed to her. Her face had grown more severe with age, her skin blotchy and lined, her jaw loose. When she talked about her father, she looked even worse. Mornings, she’d sit with my grand-aunts, and the three would recollect having only one pair of shoes between them and that pair being for Sunday school. They walked to school barefoot, helping Mammy with chores after school, setting bundles of clothes on their heads and walking miles to deliver them. The talk was never dull and never sad, even when it came to Pappy. Yes, Pappy was a womanizer and, yes, sometimes he didn’t bring all his money home to Mammy. But he never drank, smoked or gambled. Grand-aunt Ruth and Aunt Joyce remembered his tenderness, the sweets he passed to them behind Mammy’s back, the piggyback rides he gave them.
Some nights I sat with Cousin Ivan and Cousin Icie after Mama fell asleep, watching B-grade movies on television, the ones that don’t make it in North America. Sometimes we played cards and listened to the various deejays on the radio and the latest in dance-hall music.
We settled into a routine. Every morning I boiled water for Mama’s bath. I emptied and cleaned her commode, made her bed. Every night, I read to her, sometimes from The Daily Word, other times from the scriptures or a bit of Louise Bennet’s poetry.
Grand-aunt Ruth did a little handwashing every day for herself and Mama. She wouldn’t put panties and slips and bras in the washer, firmly believing they must be washed by hand. She, too, was getting on in years, but she was strong and steady on her feet. Cousin Icie took charge of the kitchen and cooked most meals, except when her job didn’t permit it, and then Grand-aunt Ruth took over. Aunt Joyce supervised the kitchen, made the menus and wrote out the shopping list. She also put up new curtains and changed the furniture around. A woman came in once a week to give the house a good cleaning. Cousin Ivan looked after the yard, but his garden did not have half the magic of our old garden under Myers’s care.
There were scheduled times set aside for television. Aunt Joyce watched Good Morning America at six every morning. The television woke us at five-thirty when she turned it on to warm up. She liked to keep up with what was happening in New York. At breakfast she’d talk about all the designer clothing worn on the show that morning. Not to be outdone, Mama talked about Canada A.M., but the grand-aunts paid little attention, because there were no Canadian television stations in Jamaica and not much news of Canada. Mama quickly changed to talking about 60 Minutes and CNN.
“Dem program more intelligent, mi never have time fi listen to fool-fool talk,” she said.
Aunt Joyce laughed. “Maria, serious news is not all there is in life. Mi come in dis world fi enjoy miself. Ah don’t care what yuh say, I love to keep up wid de fashion and news of society people.”
Then Grand-aunt Ruth laughed, too, and said, “Well since mi never go foreign yet, ah will just stay out of dis.”
“Mi can talk, for mi in Canada long time, and de U.S. was just cross de way,” Mama maintained. “We get a lot of dem programming and mi never rate Good Morning America.”
Grand-aunt Ruth had Mama’s serious and practical bent—she always thought of making provisions for tomorrow—while Aunt Joyce lived for the day. She wasn’t ashamed of saying that she’d take her last penny to buy a new pair of shoes or cloth for a new dress. Her stories about her boss in America became an inside joke for the rest of us. “Dat woman,” she’d say, “don’t wear nutten but designer clothes, and yuh should see her jewellery. Everything real. Age don’t have nutten on dat woman. Yuh name it and she is dere every summer—Paris, Rome, France, Italy.”
Then she’d go on about the foods she had tasted at her employer’s house. “A pure rich-people food she eat, yuh know. Smoked salmon, de very best. Mi nuh mean nuh fool-fool salmon, kosher and de best. Caviar, champagne. Is right dere mi learn what wine and what drinks go wid which food.”
Mama would interrupt about then. “Ah glad yuh employer treat yuh so good, mek yuh eat caviar, drink champagne and all dem fancy things. Yuh lucky, for dem is not de story mi hear in Canada. Girls come Canada and work hard in domestic service, and mi never hear dem talk like you. an’ is not dat mi read in de papers.”
“Mi talking about my experience,” Aunt Joyce maintained. “Ah don’t know ’bout anybody else, ah just know some of dem don’t get anywhere because dem go foreign and tun fool. Dem come America wid de same ‘no problem’ attitude and expect too much. America is a good place. Yuh can mek life.”
Occasionally Grand-aunt Ruth threw in a neutral comment. “As mi never go to America and taste dem deh breed a food, mi nuh have much to say, except mi nuh feel deprived of de caviar or smoke salmon, or even Paris. Thank God Him bring we out of poverty, and we comfortable.”
Two or three times a week Mama held Bible studies on the verandah. Those days, I took myself to the garden in the backyard or went to visit Punsie, who now had six children and had moved to Molynes Road. Grand-aunt Ruth and Aunt Joyce had been going to a Baptist church every Sunday for years, but Grand-aunt Ruth a
lso studied with a group of Jehovah’s Witnesses every Wednesday on the verandah, and Mama, never one to pass up the opportunity to debate, joined in. Cousin Icie was Roman Catholic and went to a church nearby, and Cousin Ivan was a “turn-back” Seventh Day Adventist. Thursday evenings, Mother J, a member of the Church of Redemption (Pentecostal), came to hold prayer meetings, and everyone but Cousin Ivan and me joined in. Given the tolerance shown to all these different beliefs, I found it unforgivable that they wouldn’t accept Mikey’s difference. I won’t say my difference. The grand-aunts and cousins knew little about my personal life back in Canada, for Mama had not mentioned anything about Rose.
We didn’t see much of Uncle Mikey for the first two weeks. He called and was always cheerful, but he had visited Mama only twice since her arrival. The rainy season had begun, and he came with flowers and fruit and a large bottle of fresh coconut water. Patches of his hair had turned silver and shone about his face. He wore a well-cut blue suit and sported handmade brown leather sandals with a matching brown leather handbag.
Mama was happy to see him and it showed in her face. “A so you look prosperous!” she exclaimed, allowing him to kiss her and make much of her. My grand-aunts also complimented him. Light talk about the rain, the garden, plans for Christmas, the rising gas prices and local government followed.
“Dis government need fi come outa power, for dem curry favour too much. Dat is why de country a mash-up,” Aunt Joyce said with authority.
“But dem all stay dat way. Yuh tek one outa power and put in de other and is de same thing,” Grand-aunt Ruth said.
“Dat’s not what ah talking ’bout. Mi know all of dem curry favour dem party supporters, but mi get fi understan’ through reliable sources dat dis government give de benefit to de battyman dem who in a business. Mi hear one businessman cuss, seh, him cyaan get no contract, tru him nuh part a de battokrisy.”
The Heart Does Not Bend Page 18