by Amanda Smyth
William was surprised and glad to see me.
“When did you come? No one told me.” Then, “Did you get my letter?”
“Yes, William. I’m sorry. I meant to write you.”
I explained that I had only come to pick up clothes and that I had to get back to the estate in a couple of days. I told him my aunt was ill.
He looked as if the roof was falling in. “Are you going to live on the estate?”
“I’m not sure what else I can do right now. Could you ask Solomon to drive me back?”
He nodded. “I wish I could drive.”
“I’m not taking everything. I’ll come for it when I know where I’m going to live.”
“You have a home in Laventille,” William said, “please remember that.”
I STAYED IN Port of Spain for two days. I kept around the house and waited for a chance to speak with Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez. But it was impossible. If he wasn’t working late, he was out on a call, or picking up the children from somewhere or dropping them someplace else; he was visiting friends in Maraval, St. Ann’s, Diego Martin. I caught him on the stairs. I said, Please, please can we talk. He pressed himself into the banister as if he’d rather fall over the railings than be near me. I went to the surgery and asked for an appointment to see him. The receptionist gave me forms to fill in and told me I’d have to wait. She suggested I see the new doctor who was starting next Monday. That night, I went to his bedroom door and said his name. Softly at first and then louder. He came out, finger to his lips, and told me to hush. Joe was inside sleeping, he said. I thought I was going to explode.
In the early hours of that morning, I called Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez. I called in a way that would make him believe there was something wrong. By the time he got to my room, I was lying under the sheet, naked, just like I used to be. At first he was angry, but then he seemed to let go, and he allowed me to kiss him, and help him take off his robe, and before long he was in my bed. When he was inside me, though, he had a distant look. It was a look I had never seen before; a look I didn’t like. As soon as it was over, he put on his robe and left. From the doorway I said, “What can I do?” He didn’t answer.
Meanwhile, during the day, Marva was hurrying about the place, getting the holiday trunks packed with warm clothes and ready for the early morning flight on Saturday. I tried to keep away from William; for some reason he made me feel sad and irritable. And in all this time, at the back of my head like a door banging in the wind, I remembered my sick Aunt Sula.
ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON, I packed my bag and said goodbye to the children. Marva had gone to the drugstore and I was glad for time alone with them. Consuella didn’t understand that she would not see me for a long time, perhaps never again. “You’re a big girl now,” I said, and held her until she wriggled free. She ran to where her doll was lying on the step, picked it up, and held it like a baby.
“You know when I came here you weren’t much bigger than your dolly.”
“She needs to go to bed now,” she said. Then, waving goodbye, Consuella started up the stairs.
I knew that Joe understood more of what was happening. In the kitchen, he leaned against the sideboard where there was a bowl of oranges. He picked one out and rolled it between his small hands.
“I don’t know why Mummy hates you. I don’t hate you, I like you.”
“And I like you, Joe.”
“She hated Brigid as well.”
This surprised me. I knew that Brigid had left suddenly but I didn’t think there was such bad feeling. “Why did she hate Brigid?”
“Because of Daddy.”
I said, “How do you know that?”
“She was always following him around. I saw her in the car with him one day and they looked like they were kissing. I never told Mummy.”
“Why didn’t you tell her?”
“Because Daddy said it would only make her unhappy. Marva said Mummy heard them.”
“Marva told you this?”
“No, she told Brigid. I was right there by the door when she said it. She said they were in the tool room.”
I NEVER SAID goodbye to Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez because he was at the office. He left me fifty dollars in a small “good luck” card. William said that I would be seeing him soon, so there was no need for goodbyes. He carried my bag out to the truck where Solomon was waiting, stood at the gate, and watched us drive away.
And on that hot, gray afternoon, while the heavy clouds hung over the Northern Range Mountains threatening thunder and rain and I was numb and tired with pain, Solomon drove me back along the busy main road leading out of Port of Spain, up through Arima, which was swarming with people for some reason, and on to San Rafael, through Brazil and Talparo, and along the El Quemado road to Tamana.
TWENTY-SIX
I COULD SEE FROM THE LOOK ON HIS FACE THAT JOSEPH Carr Brown was angry. He was sitting in the rocking chair, reading. When I told him good evening, he replied in a polite but clipped way.
“Sir,” I said, “where’s Dolly?”
“She’s where she’s supposed to be. In her house.”
His eyes were hard like glass.
“She said she would keep an eye on Aunt Sula.”
“And you told her you’d be back the next day. I’m surprised; you knew how sick Sula was.”
“Is she all right?”
“We almost lost her on Wednesday night. She had a kind of fit and then she came out of it. Everybody was waiting for you. She kept asking for you. I tried to telephone Rodriguez but the lines were down. Tomorrow I’m taking her to hospital.”
He got up and walked out.
LIKE A MIRACLE, soon after I returned, Aunt Sula took a turn for the better, and for a few days, I really believed she might be okay. There was no need for her to go to hospital now. I think even Joseph Carr Brown was surprised at how well she seemed, though he never said. She got herself up and bathed; she pottered about the house. When she was tired, she sat in the comfortable chair on the veranda and I brought a stool for her feet. At first she didn’t want me to do anything for her. “Celia, please relax, you came here for a little holiday. I don’t want you rushing about.” I didn’t say that I had nowhere else to go.
I boiled leaves from the bush, and made a tea which she drank throughout the day. She’d sip it slowly. I kept the pot boiling on the stove from dawn to dusk. It gave the house a strange smell, but I was sure it was helping her. It seemed to bring down the fever. I sat by her bed and read to her from the large Bible she kept on her bedside table. Or I spoke to her, about things. “You remember when you found that giant turtle in the river and it was dead?” Aunt Sula said, “Yes, yes, I remember.” “And how you used to throw coins in the water and dive down to find them?” “We were good swimmers then,” she said. Then I reminded her about the time the baby was born in the schoolyard and how Grace cut the cord. But she couldn’t remember this part. She closed her eyes. I knew she was sleeping when her breathing changed.
Joseph Carr Brown visited two or three times in a day. He always came in without knocking and went into her bedroom and stood beside the bed, like a giant looking down at the long, withering shape that was my Aunt Sula. He would often feel her brow, and he might sit down and talk to her quietly; so quietly that even if I stood by the door and concentrated very hard, I couldn’t hear what he was saying.
With me he was not the same. There was a coolness I hadn’t known before. Once when he was leaving, he said, “You’re Grace’s daughter, is that right?”
“Yes, sir. My mother was Grace D’Abadie. She is dead.”
“Yes,” he said. “I heard about Grace.”
“She died when I was born.”
He looked away as if to say, All this talk of sickness and death is too much.
• • •
THAT SAME AFTERNOON, Aunt Sula called me inside. She wanted to talk to me, she said. I helped her to sit up. She looked drawn and pale, as if her spirit was already on its way. I sat on the side of the
bed; she put her hand on mine.
“You never told me why you were so sad.”
I looked down; her fingers were slender and long, the nails still strong.
“I’m guessing it was something to do with a boyfriend?”
I didn’t say anything, but I felt my face grow hot.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
I knew that she meant this; Aunt Sula had never pressed me to tell her anything.
“You know, Celia, when we feel pain like that, it’s not always such a bad thing. It shows we can feel. It shows us we can love.” She gently squeezed my hand. “I think of the heart a bit like a piece of land. We don’t want it to be dusty and dry. Sometimes a little rain is good, it makes things grow and come alive. Maybe for the next time. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yes,” I said, quietly.
“People know if a heart is full and moist. Of course we don’t want it to flood!”
At this, she smiled. I smiled, too.
“I don’t want you to be afraid. One day you’ll look back and say, I’m glad that happened, it’s made me who I am. Your feelings can tell you which way to go, like a compass.”
LATER, A SMALL brown bird flew into the house. It perched for a moment on the gramophone, then it flew to the window and settled on the ledge. It had yellow eyes. It seemed to look right at me; it wasn’t at all afraid. I wondered if it was a sign that my aunt would soon die.
NEXT DAY, AUNT Sula asked me to wash her down, and I did. Then I helped her put on a fresh dress. She wanted to come outside, she said. At the top of the steps, we looked out at the grounds of the estate. The big house in the distance, the tall green hill where the grass was growing long; we could see the track and the stream.
“That grass needs cutting back,” she said. “I must tell Mr. Carr Brown.”
I took her slowly down the steps. I showed her how pretty her garden was looking. She didn’t say anything but I thought she looked pleased. On her brow were dots of sweat like raindrops. She told me she was glad I liked her garden. Before she fell asleep, she said I was a good girl. “Please make it up with Tassi. Don’t let Roman win, Celia. There’s so few of us left.”
EARLY NEXT MORNING, when Aunt Sula woke in terrible pain, I ran up to the main house and called out to Cedar. “Tell Mr. Carr Brown to come at once.”
She shook her head. “He’s out by the shed. He not back till lunchtime.”
I said, “I don’t care where he is, find him and tell him to come now. Before it’s too late. Aunt Sula is dying.”
WHEN HE SAW Aunt Sula lying there, her body bent over with pain, he told me to quickly pack a bag. “There’s no time to waste.”
I found myself looking in her wardrobe without knowing what I was looking for. I wanted to cry but I knew there wasn’t time for tears. In a paper bag, I put a nightdress, some clean underwear, toothbrush, a towel. This was all she would need.
A man from the estate drove us to Port of Spain. I sat in the front and Aunt Sula lay down in the back with a blanket. Joseph Carr Brown said that he would follow in half an hour or so.
“Make sure she drinks water, she needs to keep hydrated.” For the first few minutes, Aunt Sula kept saying she was okay, and that she didn’t need a doctor, but as we got near to Arima, she drifted away into a deep sleep. By the time we reached Port of Spain General Hospital, the nurses couldn’t wake her up.
AUNT SULA DIED on February 5, 1958. The tumor in her womb was large, the size of a nine-month-old baby, and the surgeon was surprised that she had gone for so long without some kind of medical intervention.
“She must have been very brave. This condition usually makes people sing with pain.”
“Sing?” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “If you ever come by the hospital at night, you often hear patients crying out with pain. It almost sounds like they’re singing.”
THE FUNERAL WAS on a Saturday. Solomon drove William up from Port of Spain, and I was grateful to have him there. Aunt Tassi couldn’t make it; she said it was impossible to leave Black Rock in time for the boat as it was Vera and Violet’s graduation the day before. And she, too, had been unwell with some kind of sickness; the doctor had told her not to travel. She begged me to put a flower in the grave with her sister; she was crying when I spoke to her. It was the first time I had heard her voice in more than three years. It sounded broken and thin. “Come and visit me soon, Celia. Let’s put everything behind us now. There’s only us left.” I wanted to say, What good are you to anybody if you can’t even get here for your sister’s funeral. But I wondered if it wasn’t time to forget our differences.
Joseph Carr Brown read from Corinthians. From the way he spoke about Aunt Sula, I knew that he cared for her. He talked about her “fortitude,” and dedication to his family. He used words like dignity and loyalty. She had worked for them for twenty-five years, and never had a day gone by when Sula hadn’t been of some help to them. None of these things surprised me. But what did surprise me was how sad he looked, and how his wife stood beside him and she didn’t look sad at all. There were prayers; Cedar sang “Ave Maria.” Her voice went through me like a cool whirr of air. I knew that if I cried I would not be able to stop, so I counted the rows of colored floor tiles from left to right and then from right to left. Then they sang “The Lord Is My Shepherd,” and when it was over, a young white boy made an announcement: there were sandwiches and drinks up on the veranda at the main house. I didn’t want to go but I knew that I should. For my aunt.
William wanted to see Aunt Sula’s house, so we stopped off on the way. For some reason, I suddenly felt very tired. I sat in the rocking chair while he fetched me a glass of water. “So this is where you come to hide,” he said, and grinned. Meanwhile, Solomon went from room to room. “Sula was a classy lady,” he said, looking around. Then he wandered out to the porch and lit a cigarette. I felt irritated. “Let’s go,” I said, and got up. “We shouldn’t be late.”
ON THE VERANDA, there was a long table with benches and several other smaller tables, covered with cloths, and trays of sandwiches and chips and cakes. There were cold beers in buckets and jugs of planter’s punch, and large containers of fresh juices. William, Solomon, and I sat on a small round table by the cotton tree. I looked up at the black branches like a roof of lace; they seemed to stretch over the whole yard. We’re all caught in something, I thought. No matter who we are. From there I could see people gathered in little groups, talking. The crowd was mixed: young people and old people, some white and some black. I could make out the other Carr Brown children, or so I thought. There were young ones there too; the grandchildren. A lot of people looked upset, even little Ruth, carrying trays back and forth to the house. I thought how popular Aunt Sula must have been, in her quiet way.
“Celia could have a very nice life here. I don’t know why she likes Port of Spain.” Solomon stretched out his legs. “Well, their loss is our gain.” He raised his glass and swallowed the rest of his drink. “We’re very glad to have her, aren’t we William. As is Dr. Rodriguez.” He looked at me and winked.
And so it went. I don’t know why Solomon drank so much that afternoon. No one would have known that he was drunk, because he hid it well. But I knew. And I knew that when he was seen in the main house, upstairs on the landing, “admiring” a valuable silver tray, he was up to no good. Solomon was “hovering” outside the bedroom door at exactly the moment Mrs. Carr Brown came out from fixing her hair. It was obvious to her that he was up to something. Apparently, she said, Who did you come with? and he said Celia, and then asked if her room was the bathroom because he “busting for a piss.” So no matter how I might have defended him to Joseph Carr Brown, I knew that he was right to be angry.
“You frightened my wife,” Joseph Carr Brown said. “What were you doing upstairs?” Shadow got up.
“She must be easily frightened,” Solomon said, as if he couldn’t care less.
Now the dog’s ears were flat and his lips p
ulled right up so you could see his teeth. Solomon hissed at Shadow, and Shadow snarled; saliva was dripping from his mouth. I had never seen him like this.
“Dogs don’t bother me,” he said to no one in particular.
“They might not bother you. But you bother me.” Joseph Carr Brown looked flushed. He held Shadow by his collar.
Then William said, “Come, come,” and he took his brother’s arm, and I said how late it was and what a long drive they had ahead.
“I don’t want to ever see you on this land again. Do you understand?”
Solomon looked at Joseph Carr Brown as if he wanted to harm him. Then William dragged him off, which was exactly the right thing to do. I heard Solomon say, One day he would show these fucking white cockroaches.
LATER, AFTER EVERYBODY had left, I saw Joseph Carr Brown sitting on the steps, Shadow lay like a black log at his feet. He was smoking; something I had never seen him do. I asked if he would like me to help clear the house. “From what I can tell, Aunt Sula didn’t like to throw things away.” I said this lightheartedly.
“That’s okay. I’ll do it with a couple of my helpers.” Anything he thought I might want he’d send on to me in Port of Spain. “When are you leaving?”
“I’m not sure, sir. I’d like to stay on a couple days if that’s all right.”
TWO DAYS LATER, he slid a note under Aunt Sula’s door.
“Tomorrow I shall be coming with Dolly and Cedar to go through the house. Let me know your plans. JCB.”
• • •
NO ONE SAW me leave the stables. I rode up toward the back and slowly climbed the hill, passing through the cocoa trees, where I knew the forest started. For some reason, the forest trees seemed bigger than before; they hid the sky and the light. The thick green vines were like tentacles, ready to hook around my legs and loop around my neck. I found the uneven path and let Milo lead me up it. It was slippery after the early afternoon rain and there was a dank earthy smell. Ahead I saw the stream, and remembering what Joseph Carr Brown always said, tried to steer Milo from it, but I couldn’t. He clip-clopped to where it was widest, stopped, and dipped his head so low into the water, I thought I might slide down his neck. All around there were unfamiliar sounds, hissing and rustling and a clicking that I couldn’t quite figure out. At one point some birds flew out of the bushes and screamed so loud I almost fell off with fright. When Milo had finished, he moved off slowly through the bushes, back onto the path, and headed out toward the bright light.