Easier Said Than Done

by Nikki Woods

  It was the dead of summer, but a definite chill permeated the air, making it so thick and heavy that I could hardly breathe. As I moved closer to the river’s edge, the chill reached out to me with long fingers and icily caressed my cheek before invading my body, my mind, and finally my soul. The water stretched in front of me, lapping softly on the bank, taunting me with its misleading innocence. It seemed that for as long as it had been in existence, generations of my family had been served well by Swift River, named so because of its deceptively fast current. For years, it had provided the only source of water for bathing, cooking, and washing clothes. But that was no more. The river had turned the tables and belying its innocence, taken something very precious from me. As I looked closer, a watery smile mocked me, laughed at me for trusting and believing it was my friend. And I had believed, still wanted to believe because not doing so would unveil a reality too frightening to fathom.

  I continued down the embankment, navigating more carefully because the leafy green moss was still slick from the morning dew. Every ragged breath I drew brought me closer to my newfound nemesis. The coolness in the air continued to shimmy up my spine, doing an almost deathly dance, its tapping toes moving one vertebra at a time. The wind now joined the fray, whipping leaves and branches in an upward spiral. The three-quarter moon bounced off the water, making the thick blanket of fog that hung above seem almost translucent. The waves continued to lap slowly against the shore. I went closer still. A promise of a new beginning beamed down from the moon but that promise soon died to a twinkle, and then an occasional shimmer as time and time again it was rejected and sent spiraling to the water below. My breathing was now shallow, my pulse beating a distinctive calypso rhythm in my ears, my fingers curled, bending into a fist. My eyes focused and the blurry visions became clear. A scream started to work its way up my throat, beginning on disbelief and ending on a name.

  And I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe because the memory of the two of us standing in front of Mammy’s mirror, her twirling with arms wide and me making funny faces to make her smile. I told her how pretty she looked and not to worry ‘bout her little potbelly. “Gwan’ now,” I urged her. “A likkle ’ fat make ya’ look healthy.” She laughed over her shoulder as she ran out the door. I slowly followed. Thinking about something—obviously not of importance now—but thinking nonetheless as I often did. That was earlier. Before we made it to the river where the picnic was being held. Before we stuffed ourselves on bammy, crispy fried fish, and fat plums. Before Mammy yelled that we had time for one more swim in the river while the adults cleaned up and readied to head back up the hill to the big house. Now everyone was looking at me. I felt their eyes attempting to hold mine, but I kept my gaze on the ants that were burrowing holes in the ground. I scrunched my toes in the damp sand. Already, I had seen enough. Their sorrow was reflected in the single fat tear that rolled over my cheek and down my chin. My knees buckled and I thought how sweetly fragrant the earth smelled as it rose to meet me, to provide comfort for me—if only for a little while. Then, “Why didn’t you take me? I am the only reason she’s here. ”

  Hands stronger than my nightmare tightly gripped my shoulders. My name pricked my subconscious and I opened my eyes. A shadow blocked most of the red glow being cast across my bed by the rising sun. I blinked, believing that I was still dreaming; but I wasn’t. Sitting on the edge of my bed was my real life knight-in-shining-armor, Damon.

  “Kingston? Can you hear me, baby? Are you awake? Talk to me, honey!” Concern pulled at the corners of his mouth and resonated in his voice as he shook me gently, then caressed my back.

  “I’m awake.” I moved closer to him and my tears mixed with the dampness of Damon’s shirt. My body relaxed as I once again got used to the feel of Damon’s arms around me. His sweaty scent was causing warm sensations in the pit of my stomach. Damon’s breath whispered across my collarbone. Shockwaves rippled through each of my limbs as my soft chest rubbed against his hard one. My cotton nightgown provided friction, not protection.

  Damon shifted his weight and pulled me even closer, smoothing damp tendrils of hair that were plastered to the side of my face. Butterfly kisses followed, beginning at my temples before slowly tracing the line of my jaw. His touch was familiar and overwhelming.

  My mouth was dry and I swallowed deeply before I spoke. “Why are you here, Damon?”

  “I was jogging past the house and heard you screaming so loud, you had the hairs on my neck on end. I thought someone had broken in or something. I came to check and noticed your window was cracked, so I jimmied it wider and crawled through.”

  Now the damp t-shirt, musky scent, and knee bandage made sense. Too many years of football on the rocky streets of Jamaica with inadequate shoes had caused major damage to the cartilage in his knees. He eventually had surgery, but still needed to wrap one knee for support. Damon slowly separated his body from mine and immediately I sensed the loss. It felt unnatural—as if our bodies were destined to be intertwined. But the separation didn’t last long,Damon switched positions, then settled me on his lap before cradling me to his chest once again.

  “Tell me about it,” he said.

  The words danced about in my head, but it was hard to vocalize them. It’s been haunting my dreams since that fateful summer in Swift River. More than two decades had slipped away since I’d talked about it. Just the thought made me tremble and Damon tucked me more securely under his armpit. The bond between Damon and me went so much deeper than the relationship we had at Howard University. Damon and I would be attached forever, linked by the death of his sister and my friend, Joanne.

  “I have nightmares,” I said. Damon’s heart beat wildly beneath my ear and his cheek rubbed the top of my head as he nodded in agreement. “Very bad nightmares about Joanne.”

  “I figured as much. I knew while we were at Howard. You would talk in your sleep—mumble Joanne’s name. I would try to broach the subject, but it was like you wouldn’t even hear me. It was as if you had blocked out the experience in Swift River while you were awake, but relived it while you slept. It’s been twenty-five years, Kingston; you need to let it go. Yes, she died a horrible death, but it was an accident. She wouldn’t want you to suffer so. She’d want you to be happy.”

  “I know,” I said, shaking my head. “I just keep picturing her posing in my swimsuit, laughing and playing without a care in the world. She made that summer so special for me. The way she looked at things and accepted me no matter what. We were so different, but yet, the same. My grandmother would say, there goes Fric so Frac must not be far behind. I know she wouldn’t want me to be in so much pain over it. She’d probably be pretty pissed, actually. But still, I can’t help but feel guilty.”

  “What do you feel guilty about?”

  I pulled back and looked into his eyes. “It should have been me.” I shrugged, and repeated quietly, “It should have been me.”

  “You weren’t the only one there, Kingston. It was a picnic full of people. No one understood what was going on until it was too late.”

  “Yeah, but I’m the reason she was in Swift River. I’m the reason that she went swimming so soon after eating, that she went so far out. I didn’t realize that she was so tired, didn’t check to make sure she was behind me. I should have taken better care of her.” I breathed deeply; the words that had played nonstop in my head like a broken record since her death were now out in the open. “It should have been me.” Sobs racked my body as the well of stored-up pain released from my soul.

  Damon was murmuring nonsensical words against my ear, then my neck, finally my hair; words that comforted in their repetition. He cupped my face in his hands and asked, “Kingston, how can you say it should have been you? Do you have a direct line to God that you haven’t told me about? Everything happens for a reason. Whether good or bad, there is a reason. Maybe we were supposed to learn something or be motivated to do something. You know that I am not a religious fanatic, but just as the sun rises i
n the east and sets in the west, I believe that there is a natural and divine order. The real pain in life comes when we fight against that order. Losing Joanne was a tragedy, but it was a tragedy that didn’t happen to you because it simply was not supposed to. He spared your life. God must have something pretty important for you to do. Have you stopped to figure out what it is?

  "All of us felt bad about what happened. Why do you think I became a doctor? Why do you think I was so hell bent on coming back to Jamaica to practice, continue with my grandfather’s health center? So that there are no more Joannes, no more deaths that could have been prevented by just a little bit of knowledge.

  "Health care is so lacking in Jamaica because everyone wants to practice abroad to make good money. But if we aren’t willing to stay and help our own, who will?”

  I felt the passion in each rise and fall of Damon’s chest.

  “Why do you think it was so easy for me to leave you and come back after my grandmother fell ill? I didn’t have a choice, Kingston. I owed it to Joanne. I feel the guilt, too. I was her older brother. If anyone was supposed to protect her, it was me. But I was only ten and you were seven. We were just kids ourselves, too young to shoulder such a heavy burden.”

  And as we sat there, rocking gently, the sun rose, shining so much light that there was no room for darkness to hide. In this kind of light, healing began and I fell into a deep restful sleep.

  When I woke up, Bianca and Queenie were already moving around. I stretched lazily and inhaled, the only things left from my encounter with Damon was an imprint on the bed beside me and Damon’s familiar scent that still lingered. It enfolded me in a brief and comforting embrace before my bare feet hit the cold tile floor and reality rushed in like a splash of cold water against my face.

  Today we would be putting my grandmother in the ground.

  Chapter 16

  I moved through my early-morning rituals mechanically, all while trying to wrap my mind around the fact that we would bury Mama Grace shortly. Today seemed like every other day. The sun was shining. The birds were chirping and the normal hustle and bustle was taking place right outside our front door. As if my rock, my very foundation, my Mama Grace hadn’t been snatched from me.

  The salty smell of codfish mixed with the sweetness of fried plantain, lingered in the air. Queenie was laying out a veritable feast—fortifying the troops for the battle that lay ahead.

  Clad in a silk floral kimono, Bianca was seated at the table, nibbling on a triangularly cut piece of hard-dough bread toast smothered in guava jelly. She had bypassed the traditional ackee and codfish, spicy pork sausage, bubbling grits with pats of butter floating on top, sardine and cheese omelets, fried plantain, and homemade dumplings Queenie had placed on the side serving table.

  The steam from her coffee cup swirled lazily upward, adding to the humidity already thickening the morning air. Her bare legs were crossed and a strappy, silver sandal dangled from her swinging foot, the Jamaican Gleaner newspaper spread out in front of her.

  “Mornin’,” I said. The anger from last night tagged along, ebbing out the joy left by my time spent with Damon. It would serve her right if she had one hell of a hangover. And she did. She grumbled her response, then grabbed her head with a slight moan.

  “How ya’ feeling?” I kept on, filling my plate with ackee and salt fish, hoping the smell would aggravate my traitor cousin.

  “I had a bit too much to drink last night,” she responded, flipping a page of the newspaper.

  “I would say it was more than a bit too much.”

  “I haven’t had a hangover like this since I was a teenager.”

  “Yeah, well you had much more than a hangover last night.”

  “Hmmm?” Bianca grunted before taking another sip of coffee.

  I sopped up some ackee with a piece of dumpling and shoved it in my mouth. “Is that all you have to say? Hmmm?”

  “What do you want me to say, Kingston? You’re obviously fishing for something.”

  “You made a fool of yourself last night with Damon.”

  “Says who? You? I didn’t hear Damon complaining.”

  “You were too drunk to hear anything.”

  “What’s wrong? Mad because you didn’t get to it first? Mad because once again a man was more interested in me than you?” She casually flipped another page.

  “You really think he wanted you? Damon was being polite. If you weren’t so conceited, Bianca, maybe you could see that!” I stood up so quickly the blood rushed to my head and my plate almost overturned. Bianca felt the impending onslaught and buried her face in her hands.

  “Why does somebody always have to be jealous of you? That’s always the answer for you, isn’t it? If something doesn’t go your way, you always find a way to work it back around to them being jealous. Well, that’s not what this is about. I’m not jealous, Bianca. Trust me, you are more than welcome to your sad, little lonely life. Thirty years old and you still walk around flipping your hair, flashing your diamonds, and bragging about your interracial heritage as if that’s supposed to impress people. Newsflash: it doesn’t anymore. It’s the new millennium, sweetheart. Step into it. Being light-skinned doesn’t make you better. Being rich doesn’t make you better. And looks will fade. It’s your heart that matters. What does your heart look like, Bianca? In the end, that is what’s going to count.”

  At her muffled sobs, I softened. “Bianca, there’s more to you than being beautiful and rich. You are kind and generous and most of the time fun to be around. You’re the only one who doesn’t know it. So, no, Bianca, I’m not jealous of you. Because when it comes to Damon, been there and done that. We dated for almost a year at Howard.” I sat down and pushed the rest of my breakfast around the plate.

  Before Bianca could respond, Queenie bustled into the room her apron swishing around her legs, her red scarf tied neatly as if she were expecting company.

  She paused, her brow furrowed. “Well, aren’t you two a fine pair this morning? I heard the bickering all the way in the kitchen. And on your grandmother’s funeral day too. God rest her soul. You should be ashamed of yourselves.” She reprimanded in a harsh whisper and a suck of her teeth. “Your family will be arriving soon, so I suggest both of you pull it together.” With a flounce of her skirt, she left just as regally as she’d entered. Queenie had spoken.

  * * *

  The sun was no longer shining as brightly as it was earlier this morning. Fat, angry, gray clouds gathered, pregnant with the possibility of severe thunderstorms, reflecting my mood perfectly.

  The white limousine pulled up curbside at the cathedral at ten forty-five—Mama Grace’s funeral scheduled to begin promptly at eleven. The majority of attendees were already seated with the exception of a few people lingering on the tall, concrete steps leading to Coke Methodist. They strutted like peacocks decked out in their Sunday finest as if this were their party, content to take their seats after they were sure everyone else had been seated.

  Planting my classic black-leather pump on the sidewalk, I stepped into the heavy Jamaican air. People strolled up and down the sidewalk attending to their day-to-day business. Bianca was next from the limo and we linked arms as soon as she stepped out. Her mother and father exited, followed by Uncle Winston, Auntie Dawn, Andrew, and Adana. Aunt Bea had opted to be chauffeured by a friend, pooh-poohing the need for, as she called it, “such ostentations transportation.”

  That was it for immediate family. The phone calls from other family members started early this morning. Calls saddled with the expected, but still pitiful excuses. She was in death as she was in life, with few gathered around her. But it didn’t matter. As mama used to say, “One monkey don’t stop no show.”

  We were dressed in stoic black. Bianca added a hat with a veil and I wore sunglasses. We were trying to conceal our eyes, already brimmed red from crying. We paused briefly before starting up the steps with resigned hearts—we presented a united front—accepting stale hugs and kisses delivered b
y the peacocks as we stopped to thank them for coming.

  Standing beneath the arched, stained-glass doors leading to the sanctuary stood Damon, his hands crossed formally in front of him, looking so handsome in his tailored, navy blue summer suit. He smiled, his warm brown eyes embracing mine and I realized that I was actually proud of the man that Damon had become.

  “I was waiting for you,” he said before easing between Bianca and me, escorting us through the doors.

  In contrast to our attire, a sea of color greeted us in the form of hats and suits fit for Easter Sunday. Church issued fans advertising for The Royal Bank of Kingston waved back and forth, doing little to alleviate the overwhelming heat. Gossipy conversations were whispered behind gloved hands. Children sat prim and proper, on their very best behavior, legs crossed at the ankles, swinging back and forth. Activity ceased immediately upon our entry. Two ushers dressed in white and black rushed to meet us. They turned and marched ahead, leading the way down the aisle passing the stained-glass windows lining each side of the sanctuary.

  Mama Grace’s coffin rested in front of us—smooth, dark, rich mahogany lined elegantly with ivory satin. The ushers parted in perfect formation, each going a different way and there we stood in front of Mama Grace. Clad in her best silk violet dress, hair coifed and curled under, pale pink on her lips, she looked as beautiful in death as she did in life and even more peaceful. I wiped away a tear, Damon’s hand reassuringly rested on my waist. I knew that she was in a better place, smiling down on us and that provided some comfort. Still, shock and a sense of abandonment stomped through me as if another piece of my soul had been ripped away.

  The Very Reverend Arturo Pegue descended grandly from the pulpit, greeting us with perfunctory kisses on each cheek, and then releasing us into the capable hands of the ushers who directed us to the front pews. Despite the fact that he was not family, no one blinked twice when Damon sat, sandwiched between Bianca and me. Aunt Bea was already seated and dabbing at her eyes. I slid next to her and she tilted her head, presenting her overly rouged cheek to be kissed. I obliged, cringing when my lips met her leathery skin that smelled of Dove soap and olive oil. Damon reached out with one hand and held mine while throwing the other arm around my shoulders.