Dew Angels

by Melanie Schwapp

  That afternoon Delroy followed Nola to the bottom of Macca Hill as he had been doing every afternoon. When he stopped at the base of Macca Hill, he said softly, “Everyting alright then, Nola?”

  Nola did not look back, just nodded her head and walked up the hill, just in case she was tempted to truthfully answer his question.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Ever since Dahlia’s story about her papa, Nola craved the chill of the waters of the Rio Diablo on her body. She wanted to feel the numbness, to feel nothing but ripples against her skin. The next afternoon, she rushed through her assignment with Dahlia and Delroy, and told them that she had to pick up something for Mama at Miss June’s.

  Whether angry or peaceful, the river was always beautiful. In her rage, she became a frothing mass, screaming a power that gave a glimpse of the power of the divine. In her peace, she was like glass, her ripples playing carefree games over the peeping rocks. Nola’s favourite spot was the spot where children were warned not to play, where the water was too deep for washing, and the rocks too slippery for little feet. Nola had found it by accident. Years before, she’d scrambled up the bank trying to find the end of a rainbow, and she’d climbed to where tree branches had knitted themselves into a thick quilt and the rocks wore a spongy carpet of moss. The sunlight broke through the branches of two rose-apple trees, the rays playing catch across the rippling water. Where the ripples rose with the current, they shot the light upwards, so that the rays seemed to fly off the water, like tiny river angels. The air under the trees had been thick with the smell of rose-apples, making Nola heady with its sweetness. She’d jumped in, and discovered that the rocks beneath the surface of the river formed a pool, where she could stretch her legs apart and lean back to allow the current to flatten her against the rock.

  She had begun to visit the spot after her papa’s beatings to allow the icy water to soothe her battered body. She’d leave there with the welts flattened, and her soul soothed.

  That afternoon, after she’d left Dahlia and Delroy, she stood on the high bank and stared down at her reflection. It was amazing how the river perfected what the world couldn’t.

  Clad only in her underwear, she jumped in and felt her limbs freeze immediately. It was a purifying cold, one that charged through her blood and electrified her spirit. But something was missing! She missed Dahlia and Delroy! She missed the silly bickering and the laughter. She was feeling guilty at having lied to them, at having left them out of something as special as this place. Just the day before, Dahlia had shared something so personal, so painful, yet here she was, hiding away in this beautiful part of the world.

  Suddenly, a burst of water erupted in front of her, and she gave a startled gasp as she found herself looking straight into a glob of snot, dripping from the lip-nose of Dahlia Daley!

  “Gone to get something for you mama, eh? What you was going to get, a bucket of water?” Dahlia gurgled into her face, her braids dripping streams of water into her eyes.

  Nola stared incredulously from Dahlia to Delroy. The girl had stripped, and was wearing only a blue bra and bright orange panties. Delroy was on the bank, looking down at them with his best unimpressed expression.

  Nola was grateful that he’d stayed up there, for the thought of him, of anyone, seeing her in her underwear was enough to sear her chilled limbs with hot shame.

  “I never know you like to swim,” Nola tried to explain as she followed Dahlia towards the rock, further away from where Delroy stood on the bank.

  “You never know that I like to swim?” Dahlia puffed.

  “Mama say that I’m like a little fish!” And to prove her point, she dove headfirst into the water. However, her torso remained uncooperative in the effort, and even with the enthusiastic propelling of her feet, her body only flipped over. When she finally righted herself and panted against the rock, there was another stream of snot draining from her nose, but she only gave a gleeful laugh and blew it away with a loud honk. Then she pressed her palms together and followed the path of her snot into the water. This time, her orange underwear filled with air, and suspended her body like a bobbing balloon.

  Nola looked up at Delroy in exasperation. He laughed so hard as he pointed at Dahlia’s floating underwear that his torso dipped backwards. Nola opened her mouth to warn him of the slipperiness of the bank, but it was too late. She saw the mirth on his face change to a look of shock as his shoes began a gentle glide. Unfortunately, his attempt to stop the slide by propelling his arms backwards only served to increase his speed. Nola prayed that he could swim.

  The splash that his body made brought Dahlia to the surface in fright. However, Nola could not stop to explain what had happened, for Delroy was drowning! She frantically tried to remember what Grampy had told her about the time he’d saved his older brother from drowning—“Me had to knock him unconscious and then drag him out the river by his neck!” She swam quickly to the whirlpool above Delroy’s thrashing body, and the minute his head broke the surface, she whacked it with her fist. She felt her fingers crack painfully, and Delroy went under again, thrashing even more wildly this time.

  “Nola! What you doin’ to Delroy? Is kill you tryin’ to kill him?” She heard Dahlia bellow behind her.

  “Him drownin’! Him drop in and him can’t swim. I tryin’ to save him,” Nola panted back.

  “Him can’t swim? So how him get over there?” Dahlia’s voice gurgled with stifled humour.

  Nola spun to where Dahlia’s finger was pointing at the bank a few yards away.

  Sure enough, there was Delroy, pulling himself out of the water, dazedly rubbing the top of his head. Nola gave an inward sigh. It seemed that as long as Delroy was in hers and Dahlia’s company he would be prone to head injuries.

  CHAPTER

  13

  The mystery and peace of Nola’s spot had not been lost on Dahlia, for the next day she begged to go back. Some days they would go straight there from school, completing their homework in the dim light of the rose-apple branches, while an old Milo tin of crayfish and lemongrass churned beside them on a makeshift stove of rocks.

  Nola began to fill out. Between the food at Merlene’s, and the crayfish stews by the river, her cheekbones had disappeared beneath the suppleness of her cheeks. Not only did they round out beneath their new apples, but they glowed with the ruddiness gained from the sifted light of Merlene’s mango tree.

  She could sense Papa’s disgust. She could hear the sharp intake of breath as she walked by, and knew he’d noticed the changes, but the truth was, after that night in the kitchen, she knew there was nothing she could have done to alter his feelings. She’d seen the hatred for herself, and now she accepted that it was as permanent as the straight bridge of Papa’s perfect nose. The sun would rise each day, the Rio Diablo would flow through Redding, and Papa would hate her.

  It was amazing how much difference hearing Merlene’s voice in the kitchen that night had made to her life. Not because she believed, with any false security, that her papa would stop hitting her but, because, for the first time, it had made her face the truth. It had made her face the futility of wishing all those years that Papa would grow to love her. The muck of hope spewed from her that night. All those years of being washed by the dew, when all she’d needed was the truth.

  She soon began to feed on the hate in Papa’s eyes. She began to look into his eyes at the times when she would have usually held her head low. And Papa looked away!

  It was stunning at first, the faltering looks that turned away from her steady gaze. The truth—such a dangerous thing. Looking back at that time, it must have been a combination of all those things that had given her the power. The combination of the truth, the futility of the dreams, and Papa’s faltering eyes. The first night, when the power surged through her, Nola waited in her room till the swish of Mama’s vinegar-soaked mop had ceased, and the house rasped with the heavy breaths of sleep. She walked through the kitchen, spurred on by the ticking of the living roo
m clock, her toes curling in the film of grease that the years had ground into the linoleum.

  Their faces were slack on the pillow, Mama on the left, Papa on the right, the sheet sagging between them like a broken fence. Papa glowed like Louisa. He slept on his side, one hand tucked between his knees, like Nola. So harmless, he seemed, with his mouth slightly open, like a child, trusting the world.

  Nola moved closer to the bed. Did he cry as a child? Had he been afraid of the dark? Had he wanted to be hugged when he fell and got hurt? He’d never spoken much about his childhood. His parents had lived in Hanover, he’d said that much. He had been good with numbers and had helped their neighbours with their business accounts. Any other information had been given by Mama. She told them that Papa’s parents had been old, much older than the normal age for having children, so at the age of six, Papa had been sent to Nainsville to live with his Aunt Linette, his papa’s younger and more ‘child-able’ cousin. But though younger, truth was, Aunt Linette had had a nasty temperament. She’d turned out to be as dour as any woman twice her age. A woman of God, Mama said, and one who considered the frivolities of life a direct path to hell. She’d had no children of her own, had never married, so Papa was her only companion. Mama said that Papa had sat by her bedside every evening, and read aloud her favourite passages from the Bible. He’d been right there when she’d died, yet even with that, Papa never spoke of Aunt Linette, and from the day of her funeral, he never set foot back in a church, except for the day that he married Mama.

  Nola watched his temple pulse gently in slumber. Did he hate her in his sleep? Did she even exist in the perfect world of his dreams? Maybe in his dreams it was the little boy who greeted him when he came from the orchard, who sat with Mama and Louisa at the table, smiling with glee when he walked in.

  She watched Papa sleep for two hours that night. The next night, she touched his face. He moved slightly when her hand brushed against his forehead, and she readied herself for the blow, but he did not wake. Her fingers continued their trail, from his forehead to his cheek. He moved again when her fingers grazed the shadow of stubble on his cheek. He raised his neck, higher on the pillow, and mumbled something that sounded like “… not in the yard,” but Nola’s wildly beating heart drowned out the words and she wasn’t sure if he’d really said that, or “… hit her hard.” She leaned close, brushing her nostrils against the curled cartilage of his ear, pulling the night smell of him deep into her chest.

  The night after, when she tip-toed to Papa’s doorway, the bed was empty. Mama lay sleeping, but Papa was not beside her. She spun around, frightened, thinking that he’d realized what she’d been doing and was waiting for her in the darkened kitchen, but he was nowhere in sight. Then she heard the click of a door being opened, then shut, and the minty smell of Grampy wafted into the kitchen. She wedged herself between the counter and the stove and watched as Papa walked from the passage and stopped right in front of her to take a cracker from the jar. She could still hear him crunching as he climbed into bed.

  Suddenly, the living room clock was ticking so loudly that Nola had to cover her ears so it wouldn’t deafen her.

  Mystery, Dahlia had said, the thing that kept you going through the bitterness of life. But what if the mystery was better left undiscovered? What if the mystery of love was denied to some, and given too much to others? What then?

  CHAPTER

  14

  Redding prided itself on the power of its prayers. Every solution to life’s dilemmas was given up to God in prayer. Loud, energetic prayer, that on some Sundays rattled the roof of the Redding Open Bible Church. You see, for Reddingers, prayer was also a very strong weapon. Woe to an offender who was warned, “I goin’ pray for you!”

  ‘Being prayed for’ was one of the things that Nola tried very hard to avoid. It was one of the reasons that she continued smiling her way through her Saturday deliveries to the Spences. However, recently it was beginning to seem like it would need much more than weekly glimpses of her pearly whites to protect her from Mrs. Spence’s prayers. As such, Pastor Peppers’ Sunday sermons became an anxious experience for Nola. Whenever Pastor lisped the announcement for personal reflection and prayer, and Mrs. Spence heaved her chest towards the heavens, Nola would then fervently begin her own ‘counter-prayer’. For the most part, the counter-prayers seemed to be working as she had not suffered any unusual torments.

  How Nola wished she could have enjoyed the Sunday service like everyone else, singing hymns with abandon as Grampy used to do, with that deep peace on his face.

  Just as important as the actual Sunday morning service was the gathering in the churchyard afterward. There was no better remedy for a spent soul than the soothing whisper of village gossip. Everyone clustered in groups, wearing expressions of concern as the news of the village passed from cluster to cluster.

  One Sunday morning, as Nola stood beside her mama, Mrs. Spence ambled over. The woman’s eyes did not so much as flinch in Nola’s direction as she bade her mother good morning.

  “Nola, say good mornin’ to Mrs. Spence,” Mama instructed, and as Nola mumbled a greeting, the woman grimaced as if suddenly stung by a wasp.

  “Sadie, I loove the new green tomatooo choootney! Camille say that she never have hands tooo sell them! Them finish oooff the shelf before the week was oover!”

  Mama smiled and nodded her thanks. “Where Mr. Spence?” she asked, looking around for the little man’s head. “Him never come to church this mornin’?”

  A look of concern appeared on Mrs. Spence’s face. “Gas again!” she wailed. “I don’t knooow what Leroy keep eatin’ that give him such bad gas. Him dooon’t stop belching, Sadie, even in him sleep, him belch all night looong!”

  Mama shook her head sadly. “I so sorry to hear. Give him some ginger tea and sprinkle some cinnamon in it. Good for the belly.”

  Mrs. Spence returned Mama’s sad look for a split second more, then her expression brightened again. “Sadie, yooou hear that Lydiooo get all right in her spellin’ test? Every single wooord! Last week! Miss Pattersooon say that she’s the brightest child she ever teach in all her years at Redding Primary!”

  Lydia was Mrs. Spence’s six-year-old granddaughter. The daughter of Camille, the same New York shop owner who bought Mama’s chutneys. The harsh life of the Big Apple being too hectic for a child, Lydia lived with her grandparents in Redding. It had always amazed Nola how Lydia, once a source of embarrassment for the Spences, had become the centre of their universe. Mr. and Mrs. Spence were two Lydia-serving inhabitants in a Lydia-ruled world.

  The whispered news about Camille’s out-of-wedlock pregnancy had only been bestowed on to Mama because of Camille’s announcement that she was returning home right after the baby had been born. Apparently, the father of the child had decided that he was not quite ready for a commitment of that magnitude and Camille had been left with no choice but to return from New York into the folds of her disapproving home. Mrs. Spence had refused to go to New York for the birth of her grandchild, and when Camille arrived six weeks afterward, Mr. Spence made the trip to Kingston to pick up the duo at the airport by himself.

  However, Camille had forgotten to mention that Lydia’s delinquent father was caucasion. The light skin and soft curls that greeted Mrs. Spence was all that was required to shatter the stigma of illegitimacy. When it was time for Camille to return to New York, Mrs. Spence would hear nothing of the child returning. Didn’t Camille realize how difficult it would be to raise a child in a foreign country as a single parent?

  And so Lydia’s brattish fate was settled.

  Mama smiled as Lydia, a magnet to her grandmother’s boasting, sauntered over.

  “Sadie, I will cooome by for the chootneys next week, yooou don’t have tooo send Noola. I need to talk to yooo and Troy because Leroooy thinking of sellin’ the car, and I knooow that Troy’s car been givin’ all that trouble.”

  “Why Leroy sellin’ that car and it still in such good order?” Mama asked,
ignoring Lydia’s stomping feet.

  “Ooooh, Camille say we must get a four-wheel drive for these bad roads!” Mrs. Spence beamed. “Anyhooo, we will coome by to talk, tell yooou all the details ‘bout price and everyting.”

  But Mama shook her head. “No, it don’t make sense, Mrs. Spence. We can’t buy a car this year, with the plans for the kitchen and all. Maybe next summer, if Troy get his raise.”

  “Ooooh, the kitchen.” Mrs. Spence frowned. “But Leroooy say that Troy tell him tooo call him when him ready to sell.” She patted Mama’s shoulder. “Maybe Leroooy never hear right.”

  Mama nodded in sad agreement as Lydia hauled her grandmother to the gate.

  “But I will still coome by to pick up,” Mrs. Spence shouted over her shoulder. “Dooon’t send Noola. Yooou knooow I like to pass by and catch up oon tings.”

  CHAPTER

  15

  June twelfth. Merlene’s birthday. Nine days before Nola’s. They had a party on the front lawn. Biscuit arrived along with Birdie and Darlene (Merlene’s two other waitresses), their arms brimming with food – stewed cow tripe and broad beans, rice and peas bristling with the scent of scotch bonnet peppers, pickled herring and thick water crackers, fried ripe plantains, sweet coconut grater-cakes blushed pink with food colouring, and a banana bread birthday loaf with one wax candle, all laid on one of Merlene’s tablecloths around a vase of bright pink gerberas.

  In between stuffing their mouths, they spent the time jerking their heads from one brightly-clad waitress to the other. The other two were as boisterously entertaining as Biscuit. The trouble was, all had a story to tell, and all told it at the same time.