He shakes Mama’s and Papa’s hands but doesn’t take his eyes off me, even when Mama or Papa is talking. They tell him that Pastor Brown recommended they come to him. Why are Mama and Papa listening to Pastor Brown?
Bishop Mason nods repeatedly. “Yes, yes.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “And who is this?”
“Clara,” I say.
“Clara?” he repeats.
Bishop Mason asks a lot of obvious questions. Like, “What’s the weather like out there, hot?” when he’s got a perfectly good window with the sun shining in. Or, “Are you on summer break?” No, I’m in school right now. Hi, teacher.
Bishop Mason is not much taller than me, and he is smaller than Rudy, because she is at least an inch taller than me. He tells Mama and Papa to wait outside on the row of plastic seats. As soon as the door closes, he points to the bunny hat on my head and says, “First, take that off.”
I DON’T KNOW BISHOP MASON VERY well, except from what I already mentioned. I do know that he is the big boss of our church. He is higher up than Pastor Brown and looks after all the churches in our parish. That’s all I know. I don’t know what he does when he’s not preaching. I don’t know if he’s kind or mean. I don’t know if he meant to tell me to take off the bunny hat like Ms. Gee tells me to take off my shoes, because it’s polite to, and she doesn’t want me to dirty her floors. But I refuse.
He observes me from behind his desk as if he misheard me. I fold my arms defiantly, and he leans back in his chair. “Ah,” he says, nodding slowly, “this is what Pastor Brown was talking about.”
I don’t know what he means. What did Pastor Brown tell him? What has he been saying behind my back? I can feel my throat closing. I try to remember what Rudy said, that they only win if you get mad, but I’m finding it hard to stay calm. So I count instead, because it’s helped me a few times lately, so maybe I’m getting better at it.
“Why don’t you sit down, Clara?”
I sit on a chair in front of his desk that reminds me of the school chairs, small and uncomfortable.
“Why won’t you take off that thing on your head?” he asks.
“Why do I have to take it off?”
He takes a deep gulp of air. “Well, because I want to see Clara. Right now, Clara is hiding.”
My lips purse tightly, and I clench my cheeks. “I’m not hiding. How can I hide? It’s just a hat.”
He sits forward. “Your parents are very worried about you. They tell me you are struggling to remember what happened last summer. That it is affecting your daily life. They think you might need some help.”
Hot tears cloud my vision and I can no longer see him clearly. “What kind of help?”
He reaches into a side drawer and pulls out a Bible. He flicks through the pages, then stops. He passes the Bible to me.
“Proverbs three, verses five and six: read it.”
I wipe my eyes so I can see the words. “ ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways submit to him, and he will make your path straight.’ ”
Bishop Mason smiles. “Do you know what that means? It means that we, the church and your parents, we will guide you. We, through Jesus, will show you the right way. It will take some time, but we will get there. I have faith in you.”
The Bible makes a thud on the ground as I spring to my feet. I yank the door open.
Mama and Papa jump when I appear in the hall. I run by them, along the corridor, and down the stairs. Behind me I hear Mama calling me, but all I want is to get as far away from them as possible.
* * *
—
I run blindly out of the building, pausing only to get my bearings. I don’t know the city well enough to know where I am, but I know where the sea is. I stumble through the parking lot, pausing briefly at the roadside as cars whiz by. The traffic lights turn red, so I weave around cars to the other side. There is a small wall separating the walkway and the beach. It is low enough to climb, so I jump over it, landing feetfirst in the sand.
City sand is not like Sycamore sand. The grains feel like small stones under my feet. It feels less welcoming, less like home. I take my shoes off, allowing my skin to feel the texture of the small stones. I look behind me, beyond the cars and the busy road. Papa and Mama are running across the parking lot. It’s only sand, I tell myself, it won’t harm you. It’s the sea that can pull you under with no warning and no apology. I walk farther onto the beach. There are people dotted around, but none of them pay me any mind.
I sit down, sinking my toes deep into the sand, making imprints. My heart is beating so fast, I can barely breathe.
I notice a boy coming out of the water with a small surfboard. He is in a black wetsuit, excitedly talking to his father, his pale skin and floppy hair dripping from the water. The boy drops the surfboard on the beach and drags his father over to a man selling ice cream. My heart beats faster. I look out to sea, then back at the surfboard lying in the sand.
All I want is to get away. Just for a minute.
I hear Papa shouting my name. He is running down the sand toward me, his shoes in his hand. Before he can reach me, I am on my feet. I hear my breathing like thunder in my ears as I grab the kid’s surfboard and run toward the sea.
Something stops me at the edge.
It is like there is an invisible barrier in front of me. I cannot go any farther. My feet won’t let me. I start to gasp for breath and in my frustration throw the board in the sand and stomp on it.
I jump on the board over and over until it cracks under my feet. Screaming at the top of my lungs, I grab pieces in my hand, trying to break them even further. It is the voice of the boy’s father that brings me back. He is running toward me. What’s left of the board drops out of my hand as I realize what I have done.
“What is wrong with you? That’s my son’s.”
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. The little boy bursts into tears while his father demands I pay for a new one.
Over all the commotion Papa reaches me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. “It was a mistake,” he tells the man, “she’s going through some things.” He pulls me closer, and I feel his heart beating almost as fast as mine. “How much for a new one?”
It is only then that I notice the crowd, all gathered together, pointing and shaking their heads. Maybe Bishop Mason was right; maybe there is something wrong with me.
OUR HOTEL IS ON A QUIET road about ten minutes from the beach. It sits between two office blocks and a patty warehouse. The bedrooms are behind a wired fence and surround a swimming pool that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since the hotel opened.
I lie on a crooked chair under broken umbrellas while Mama collects the keys for our room. The city isn’t as fun as I expected. In fact, I can’t wait to get home.
Papa is on the other side of the pool, pacing. First he was on the phone trying to get enough money to pay for the boy’s surfboard. I feel awful and offer the little money I have saved from helping out at the only store on the hill.
Papa refuses it. He must have gotten the money, because I hear him arrange to meet the father later. Then he is on the phone again, this time with Pastor Brown.
“You lied to us, Barry. You said he would help her. No, no, this is not helping her. This is the opposite of helping her.”
He hangs up the phone, wiping his hands over his face. A pang of guilt overwhelms me as I watch Papa get so stressed. All because of me.
Mama calls me over with the keys in her hand.
The hotel room has two double beds and a brown dresser with an old TV. Mama tells me to get ready for bed right away. I don’t argue. It’s been a long day, and I’m exhausted.
When I finally pull the covers over me, Papa turns off the lights. I realize that I am not as tired as I t
hought I was. I am wide-awake. I squeeze my eyes as tight as I can because I so desperately want to forget about today.
Nothing happens. All I see is the backs of my eyelids. I open my eyes and stare for a while at the glimmer of moonlight seeping through a crack in the curtains. It is so bright, I guess it’s probably a full moon. It might be fun to watch it outside. Much more fun than lying here listening to Papa snore.
Papa is lying on his back and Mama is snuggled under his arm. I tiptoe barefoot over to the door and open it slowly, wincing at the small creak it makes, but no one stirs.
I step outside and close the door gently behind me. It’s late, but the air is still warm and heavy. It gives me no relief from the stuffy bedroom, which has only a broken fan in the corner of the room.
I go to the end of the walkway and turn the corner and pass more rooms. I go to the pool and sit on the side, dangling my feet into the murky water. I can’t help remembering why I am here. Not because Mama and Papa wanted to take me on an adventure like they promised, but because they think I am going crazy.
“Clara?”
I open my eyes and Papa is standing beside me.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks.
He sits and slips his bare feet into the pool, and we move our feet in circles under the warm water.
“You know your mother and I love you, right?”
I nod, staring hard into the pool at my wavy reflection.
“It hasn’t been easy for any of us, but especially for you.” He rubs his hands together, and even though it’s not cold, he shivers. “Your mother and I have been trying to think of ways to get you to open up. We thought Bishop Mason could help.” He shakes his head. “We were wrong. What we need to do is stop expecting other people to do what we should be doing.”
I focus hard on my reflection so I don’t cry. I’m sick of crying. I don’t want to anymore.
“How about you and me go fishing?” he says. “I have a friend who can lend me his boat. It’s been a while since I fished in these waters.”
My body goes rigid. The thought of spending alone time with my father makes me happy. It’s not something we ever do. But I don’t know if I am ready to go back into the sea.
“But you said I wasn’t to go into the water.”
I feel his arms around me, and his loose twists prickle my skin. “I said you weren’t to go into the water alone. Come, let’s sneak off and have our own adventure. Just you and me. It’s time, don’t you think?”
WE WALK INTO TOWN JUST AS it is waking up. Workers dressed in blue, white, or khaki uniforms wait patiently for their buses to take them to work. The market men and women are unpacking the trunks of their cars. Papa calls out a hello to each one of them as we pass even though he knows none of them. That’s just who he is. Papa talks to anyone. The market is a row of flimsy wooden huts on either side of the road, like the one in our town but much bigger. Pieces of wood overlap each other to make a roof as the market sellers prepare for the heat. The huts are open, with no doors, and the market men and women lay out tables for their food or just place the boxes on the ground.
Papa takes me through a small walkway between the market huts and I smell the fresh sea air. He inhales and lets out a loud sigh. “Do you smell that?” he says. “That is the smell of happiness.”
Our feet sink into the white sand, which pulls us down as we walk over to Papa’s friend’s boat. His friend keeps it tied up on the beach with four others. Papa tells me how many times he has told his friend to pay for someone to look after it, but his friend says everyone knows him and no one would take his boat. “This isn’t Sycamore, where you can leave things lying around.” Papa says. But maybe Papa’s friend is right. Maybe no one will steal it. Of the five boats, his is the least likely to be taken. It is an old wooden boat that looks as though it would fall apart under a strong wave. Holes have been patched up, and the paint is peeling.
There is a life jacket in the boat, and Papa helps me into it. As he pulls it tight around me, I hear his breath and it is short and shallow. I try not to look at him because I think if I do, I might see something I don’t want to see, and it will make me cry.
“Too tight?” he says as I wince. I shake my head and he asks me if I’m sure, because he can loosen it. But I can tell he doesn’t want to loosen it, so I lie and say that it is fine.
I have been on a boat a few times, so I know what to do when Papa unties the rope and begins pushing the boat out to sea. This time, though, I stand at the edge of the water, watching him. Every time the small waves roll in, I take a step back. When Papa has taken the boat far enough off the sand, he jumps in and reaches for me, but I don’t move.
“It only comes to your ankles,” he assures me, like I don’t know that already. I know I’m not going to drown in ankle-deep water, I know that, but my feet won’t move. I am frozen to the spot and I don’t know why. Papa gets out of the boat and makes his way back onto the shore. He lifts me up and carries me. “One step at a time, eh?”
He helps me into the boat and jumps in himself, taking the cord attached to my jacket and attaching it to the inside of the boat.
“You good?”
I nod, positioning myself in the middle of the boat. He moves to the back and starts the engine. I close my eyes tightly as we speed away from the shore. The water splashes over the sides, wetting our faces, and I can taste the sea salt.
We race through the sea, the small boat thrown up in the air with each wave. I close my eyes tighter and grit my teeth. When we are far enough out, Papa slows down and searches for a good spot. He tells me to look with him, but I don’t move.
“Clara, look.” He points to the water. I slide toward the edge slowly, bit by bit, my hands shaking as I try to hold on to the wooden bench. I sit there for some time, willing myself to open my eyes and look into the sea. When I finally do, it is like glass; you can see right through it. Small fish swim around us, but none are worth our time. Papa continues to move around until he finally turns off the engine. “This is a good spot,” he says.
I help him with a mesh box made with wires that will trap the fish. He places conch meat inside as bait to encourage the fish through the funnel-shaped opening, and we lower it into the sea on a rope so long, I am sure it must reach the ocean floor.
“Look at this,” he says, indicating the entire view with a wave of his hands. “Tell me anywhere more beautiful than this.” The boat gently rocks from side to side, but apart from the gentle lapping of the waves against us, the world is silent.
“So, you went to see Eldorath,” Papa says, and I can feel his eyes on me.
“He’s not a bad person,” I say, staring hard at the bottom of the boat. “He’s family and I don’t understand why you would let family be treated that way.”
Papa sighs. “You’re right. He is family. But there are things about my brother you don’t know. Things your mother and I, and Eldorath, agreed you shouldn’t know.”
I chance a squint in his direction. “Like what?” I wait for him to say what I have been hearing my whole life, that it doesn’t matter what or why, I just need to listen and not go there.
“Just things” is all he says. “I used to be afraid of the water too, you know?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I don’t know if I ever told you, but my father died in the sea. For a long time I was afraid of the water, like you, but then I decided the only way to tackle my fear was to face it head-on. You have to face it, Clara, or it will consume you like it did my brother.”
I try to focus on what he is saying because I think he’s trying to tell me why Eldorath doesn’t leave his house, but I am distracted by the swaying of the boat, and the sound of the waves is giving me flashbacks. The calm sea, the dark sky, the heavy clouds, the shouting.
I force my eyes open. The ocean is so big, it could swallow me and Papa whole if it wanted. I look bac
k at the shore and it is just a tiny speck. I nervously look over at Papa, who has that faraway gaze again.
The boat is getting smaller, and the ocean is getting bigger, and it feels as if we are being sucked down into the depths. I focus hard on my fingers circling lines that don’t exist but keep me from looking my father in the eye.
“Clara, help me!” I look up and he is pulling at the rope. Relief floods my face and I join him in pulling the rope up with what I hope is a good catch.
* * *
—
Papa gives his fish to the first fisherman he sees. The fisherman offers to pay, but Papa refuses to take his money. “Go sell them for a good price,” Papa says. The fisherman then tells Papa to come to his restaurant, where he will make us a good breakfast. Papa never turns down a free meal, so we hurry back to the hotel to tell Mama.
Papa bursts into the hotel room, where Mama is still fast asleep. “Time to get up,” he announces. “We have a free meal waiting for us.”
Mama peers at him from under the covers, her eyes barely open. “Are you crazy? What time is it?”
Papa lets go of my hand and pulls the sheets off Mama. “Come on, woman, let’s go before the sun rises.”
* * *
—
The restaurant is about a ten-minute walk from where we are staying, and Mama complains the entire way.
“What in God’s name has gotten into you, Lloyd? Have you lost your mind? It’s too early for this.”
But Papa only laughs.
When we get there, Papa greets the fisherman at the door, and they exchange pleasantries. I can’t hear what they’re saying because Mama forces us to wait a few yards back, like we are going to catch something if we stand too close.
When Life Gives You Mangos Page 8