Thicker than water, p.16
Thicker Than Water, page 16
“You not so perfect, you know, because since you liming with that Lenny, I always getting a complain. I does feel I can’t handle you no more.” She was already sorry by the time the words escaped her lips, but the damage was already done.
He wiped at the tears meandering from his eyes. “Well, I real sorry for disappointing you just because I grow up,” he said, moving towards his bedroom door, leaving his food and drink untouched.
There was nothing more she could say. He was already upset she had made him cut the grass and pull out the weeds in the flowerbeds as punishment for skipping school last week. At least the principal took pity on a poor mother after she had begged him not to suspend her son. It was good to keep him busy. He had even turned Lenny away when he came to meet him recently, including last Friday while he was cleaning the flowerbeds. She prayed for her son, holding on to that glimmer of hope.
After school on Monday, Rudy hid inside the shop next to Jit’s house. It wasn’t long before he saw the hulking figure arrive on his bicycle. He darted across and watched from behind the hibiscus fence in his front yard. By the time Jit unlocked his front door, Rudy had snuck up behind him, both standing on the inside of the doorway. Jit’s surprise was evident.
Rudy waved a finger in Jit’s face. “You better don’t hit my mother again!”
Jit grabbed the boy’s wrist with a sinister smile. “What wrong with you, boy? I could lock you up anytime I want.”
“And you could get lock up too for beating up a woman, you drunk coward!” Rudy retorted, trying to wriggle out of his hold.
“Look here, little boy, that is between me and she.” He grabbed hold of Rudy’s other hand as he flung it towards him.
“Well, you better watch your back if you even think about hitting she again.”
“You lucky I like your mother, otherwise I take you down to the station right now.”
“Lucky me! Is a good thing you didn’t hate she!” Rudy connected his knee to his groin.
Jit folded over, grimacing in pain, but not before shoving Rudy out the door so hard that he almost fell. Rudy struggled to maintain his balance and walked up to him again, staring him in his eyes. “By the way Corporal, the next time you too drunk to remember where you leave your gun, don’t say that somebody break into your house and take it.”
Rudy was contented for the moment with the shock and confusion reflected in Jit’s eyes. Jit was too drunk that evening when he placed his gun on their bureau and didn’t even realise it. All Rudy had to do was sneak it into his room before his mother saw it. One side of his mouth curled upwards as he calmly walked away.
Rudy dragged his feet through the living room and threw his green canvas bag on his bed. He lingered near the doorway to his mother’s bedroom after catching a glimpse of her sprawled on her back, her right arm swung over her face to block off the light. She too hadn’t eaten the previous evening. She looked so peaceful. Such a contrast to not so long ago, when the entire village knew when she was angry about one thing or the other. Her small frame was never a true representation of her thunderous voice and temperament.
Sensing his presence, she rose and sat on the edge of the bed pressing her fingers to her temples. “I didn’t realise it was so late. I lie down a little bit and sleep away in the breeze. I didn’t even cook nothing yet.”
He offered to eat the slice of pone she had left for him the day before. He thought of all the hard work she had put into making the pone, only because she knew he liked it. When she asked about his day at school, he reflected on when his teacher made him stand in a corner in front of the class because he didn’t do his homework. He never liked maths or algebra. He was certain he would never have to use any of those formulas in his lifetime, so what was the need to learn them. He also reflected on his confrontation with Jit.
“School was okay, Ma,” he lied. “But I have plenty homework to do.”
Darkness descended without warning, the narrow dirt roads of Sugarcane Valley deserted by the time he was halfway through his homework. The rain had been threatening throughout the day, dark clouds still circling above, a cool wind whistling through the trees. Rudy sprinted to the front window upon hearing the loud crack on their galvanised roof, just in time to see the silhouette of two boys running off in the direction of a winding dirt track. He knew exactly who they were.
His mother stepped out from the kitchen into the small living room, a dishcloth in one hand and enamel plate in the other. She also had heard the noise and was not convinced when he shrugged it off.
“But that sound like if something fall on the roof.” Her head swivelled from left to right.
“The wind must be blow down a dry branch from the mango tree.” He closed the curtains and returned to his book.
“Hai Bhagwan! I sure is them troublesome boys and them up to some mischief.” She pulled the curtains and looked out the other window, her eyes searching in all directions until she was satisfied there was no one. “Try to finish your homework early in case the lights cut off in this kinda weather.” She returned to the kitchen mumbling something about those good-for-nothing children who don’t listen to their parents.
Rudy breathed a sigh of relief. Jit thought he could scare him by sending his nephew and Lenny to pelt stones on their roof as a warning, but he didn’t scare easily. He focused on the remaining questions, reading them over and over again, but the numbers only danced around in the pages. He was sure they were laughing at him too while they did their victory dance. He thought he understood the formula in class but it made no sense to him now. He eventually retired to his room.
Molly came calling bright and early the next morning carrying two transparent plastic bags. Chanmatie greeted her at the entrance to the front porch and accepted the bag of tomatoes and a generous slice of pumpkin. She expressed her appreciation. Molly remained on the front step, her eyes darting in and out of the house.
“Come inside if you want, I shelling some peas while they fresh.”
She looked around, “Rudy gone to school already?”
“Not yet, you want to see him?”
“No-no, I want to tell you something but I don’t want him to hear.”
Chanmatie wore a look of concern, throwing her hands in the air. “Hai Bhagwan. Just say what you have to say for God’s sake, you making me nervous.”
“Okay-okay, but I don’t know how you going take this.” Molly leaned forward, lowering her voice while her eyes remained fixed on the front doorway. “Anyways, I hear it was Jit who knock down Ramesh on the road. He did finish he shift and was going back to the station when it happen. I hear he use a police car that day to go down by Ramlal Bar and he was real drunk, so he didn’t want nobody to find out because he coulda lose he job.”
Chanmatie felt as if the floor had opened up under her feet, leaving her weightless and adrift. She was suffocating from the growing lump in her throat, feeling as if she might faint. “You … you don’t know what you saying, Molly. I … I does always listen to everything you say, but you can’t expect me to believe that.”
“I wouldn’t tell you if I wasn’t sure, but it bothering me since I find out last night. Dave didn’t want to say nothing but I harass him until he tell me. He say he investigating a week now since he hear Jit talking to a next officer. It reach the senior officers now so I don’t know what go happen to him.” Molly clasped her hands around hers. “I had to tell you because you like a sister to me, and you know Dave does always look out for you and Rudy, since …”
Both women were startled by the creaking of the wooden floor, unaware of how long Rudy had been standing in the doorway. He wore his white shirt with monogrammed pocket and long black pants, his green canvas bag slung across his left shoulder. He glanced at Molly before locking eyes with his mother, his face void of emotion. He acknowledged them and left.
Chanmatie could not focus on anything else after Molly’s revelation. She washed the clothes with too much bleach, added too much curry and less salt to the peas, and sliced her finger with the kitchen knife. She had known Jit almost her entire life, but did she really know him? If he lied about a break-in at his home, what else could he lie about? And … she never thought he would hit her … or try to force himself on her in a drunken state … yet he did. Did his late wife really slip and fall so many times over the years? No one could be that clumsy.
She decided she would use the afternoon to complete some errands. Molly had given her a lot to digest and it was best to clear her mind or risk going insane. She suspected that Jit would return to try and make amends, and she needed to be mentally prepared. She picked up a few sewing supplies at the haberdashery store, paid the electricity bill, and bought a new school shirt and merino for Rudy.
Chanmatie was relieved when Dave pulled up at the taxi stand in his Datsun pickup. He was on his way home after running some errands and did not hesitate to stop. She had just left the vegetable market and was grateful that she would not have to carry her heavy bags. She couldn’t thank him enough after he dropped her off at her front yard, politely refusing his offer to take her bags into the house. When he hesitated to leave, she followed his eyes to Jit’s bicycle which was secured against the front teak post. He insisted on checking in on them when he was leaving in a few minutes to take up his shift.
She heard the commotion just as she entered the front door. She dropped her bags against the front wall and followed the muffled sounds coming from behind the sofa. She was shocked to see Jit punching Rudy repeatedly while he pinned him to the floor. Blood was streaming down her son’s face and she grew frantic. She grabbed the back of Jit’s collar and tried with all her might to lift him off without success. She then started pounding his back with both fists, all the while screaming for him to stop. Jit spun around, startled by the sight of her. Rudy seized the moment and pushed him off, scrambling to his feet and into his room.
“What the hell!” she exploded. “You were hitting my son! You … you sick bastard … you were hitting my son!”
“That wayward son of yours started it,” he replied, “accusing me of all kinda things.”
“Like knocking down his father and leaving him for dead on the side of the road?” she raged, as the floor seemed to rock under her.
He froze, jaw dropped, eyes wide open.
“Yeah, I know everything,” she nodded, “so just get out of my house before I do something I won’t regret!”
“The two of you gone mad!” was his only response before turning to leave.
“Corporal!” Rudy got both their attentions. He was holding a gun which Jit was all too familiar with, his bloody face a mask of hate and anger. Chanmatie could sense the tremors within his slim frame as he took aim at his target. Jit remained still. She too stood there … too shocked to do anything else. There was no time to think, or talk him out of it. Rudy’s finger was already on the trigger. She threw herself against Jit so they both tumbled to the floor. The bullet went through the front window, shattering the frosted glass louvre, the loud bang ringing in her ears.
She sprang up within seconds, making a mad dash towards her son who was poised to take another shot. She stopped in front of him and silently prayed, reciting every prayer she could remember. Her heart was thudding fast and loud and she swallowed to relieve the dryness in her throat. She reached for his hand that held the gun, releasing her breath when his arms eventually dropped to his sides. She wrapped her arms around him and buried his face against her bosom. She thought she heard the sound of crackling tyres, then footsteps. Molly was standing in the doorway, her hands covering her mouth. Dave was close behind, now dressed in his full police uniform. Jit was still on the foor, sweating profusely.
“What you gone and do that for, Ma? It was he! That rotten, stinkin’ drunk knock down my pa and leave him for dead.” The tears were flowing freely down his cheeks, his school uniform stained with blood and tears. His chin quivered and his lips fell apart. “And … and he hit you, Ma. He hit you. Pa never hit you.”
“I not as stupid as you think you know, son. I tell him already that I don’t want him here no more.” Her voice was tender, her heart aching for the terrible pain he felt. “I know now what kinda man he is.”
“Then, why, Ma, why you didn’t let him die? Why you save him for?”
She thought of what would have happened to her only child had he shot Jit. His life, his education, his entire future would have been ruined because of one bad deed; one that any mother would forgive. Still consoling him against her bosom like the child he was, she replied, “I wasn’t trying to save him son, I was saving you.”
THREE POEMS
Shivanee Ramlochan
THE YOUNG INDIAN WITCH LEARNS HOW TO PRAY
When my mother asks, what made you
I spin the prayer mat of our family tree to face her, tell her
pick a man:
- my uncle, the alcoholic
- my uncle, the welder of nursery pornographies
- my uncle, the vicious flirt
- my uncle, the disappearer of alms
- my uncle, the golden tooth in the kindergarten night.
Where else did I learn my deceit but at Sunday puja?
I sat under the glass eye
of the lecher-pundit, one hand spanning his conch,
the other under his white dhoti, praying in half-jerks.
The yellow nail of his littlest finger curled, catching ghee and sweat.
When he blew, I felt the echoes of God under my palms, a lesson
that the Lord can disturb you anywhere without consent.
When the pundit swept me into a kiss, I smelled farm milk
and cow shit, wet grass and pig feed. I turned my face.
The pundit bundled me into the arms of all my uncles.
He promised one day he would get his kiss.
Now,
I uproot unwanted men like loose jhandis,
kicking them out of the red earth that baked them, discarding
their thoraxes in shattered lutes of clay.
THE NAMELESS GIRL AND THE NATURES OF BLOOD
The girl buries her first bleeding in the epicentre of the island.
Five days after, the island offers her killing weed,
curled like a plait of bread in her shrine for small godfolk.
Motherless, fatherless, she sucks and spits it into a brew.
She uses cave water, storm warning, shelter roots to stir it.
The girl does not know she is a girl, but she knows that she bleeds.
Each moon rinses her bare,
pulls red from her like an ibis witch, dissolving homes.
She rinses the tentacles of her second bleeding in the deep ocean, feels
the spray rush for it, greedier than the sun on her cut lip.
After the night of her third bleeding,
every bird she touches sings the hymn of its own funeral,
turning tufted throats upwards as their eyes glass
in time to their final notes.
With each moon, the island surrenders a murder for her blood.
She learns to watch for the deaths, skins and cures them, covers
them in salt and ganja, learns to brew them in places
too holy for names. She learns to be careful with what she holds.
One morning, she wakes to find the waters red at her feet.
On the horizon, a boat perches, stout and waiting.
The girl who does not know she is a girl feels her heart pummel
itself raw, manchineel-ready. She
reaches, slow, into caves where she has nursed her poisons and griefs,
drags them out by scruff and thorn-nape, sets them to the shore.
She rises, pregnant with six months of murders,
and scales the limestone promontory facing the sea.
She does not know what a boat is,
but bleeding has taught her to understand invasions.
The boat encroaches and she arches, moon-dappled in a bleeding,
eager to unleash her deaths.
MY FATHER AND HIS FATHER BEFORE HIM
Growing up, you learned
how to flutter the blades of your shoulders
fast as hummingbirds drunk on sugar
to keep a cutlass from kissing your spine.
Growing up, you were always
running from something sharp,
missiling through cane high like your waist.
You learned everything is a wingspan away from war:
a card game,
a cooking night,
a capsised curry bowl leaking into the grout.
You didn’t blame your father. There are
no pictures for what your aja did to him.
There is no way your father could have moved that fast.
When my aja died, you went to his room,
unhooked the harmonium he never let you hold in life.
Your hands knew the ragas without being taught.
The blades of your shoulders moved like hummingbirds,
hovering in prayer.
Alone in your father’s music, you vibrated,
swallowing all the small wars between you like tears.
AFTERWORD
There are moments in time when the elements are in tune, the stars line up, and extraordinary things happen. The birth of the Hollick Arvon Prize was such a moment.
The partnership between the Hollick Family Charitable Trust, The Bocas Lit Fest, Arvon, and the Rogers, Coleridge and White literary agency emerged from old friendships between people committed to the creative industries and to literature in particular. Sue Woodford-Hollick and Marina Salandy-Brown, both with Caribbean roots, understood the need of the region to start reclaiming the glory days of West Indian writing and to harness the talent that exists up and down the Caribbean’s thousand miles of island shores, but which is frustrated by the distance between the beautiful archipelago and the literary metropolis. Ruth Borthwick of Arvon and Deborah Rogers, the now deceased co-founder of one of London’s premier literary agencies, spent their professional lives outing and growing some of the world’s best writers.
