There are two kinds of Sundays, for two kinds of people. For the first group, Sundays are church days, dinners of brown-stewed chicken and gungo rice and peas, followed by long discussions about that morning’s church service. For the second group, Sundays are beach days, fried fish and festival, D&G sodas in red coolers, and bronzing bodies playing football on hot sand. My family was of the first kind, though I longed to belong to the second.
In school on Mondays, Keisha would tell me about her family’s fun at Hellshire. She would grin, with all thirty-two teeth gleaming, “Vee, you should’ve been there. We ate, and ate, and ate some more fish. Then we drank Ting after Ting, and swam ‘til late.” I would shrug, “I know. You tell me this every Monday.”
“Oh, you should’ve seen the boys that were there,” she’d squeal “even Troy was there.” I held in my sighs knowing that Sunday would never be a beach day for me, as long as my father was the pastor of Haven Rock church.
As the pastor’s daughter, I was erected as a model of goodness and perfection. My clothes were always Niagara starched. They never lay on my frame, but stuck out as if about to run away from my thin body. On Saturday nights, while the peanut vendor sounded his whistle and roamed the streets, while children played Dandy Shandy with used juice boxes, and while fireflies chatted with puppies, I was forced to sit by the porcelain lamp and read seven chapters of scripture. “Slower,” my father would drill, “don’t rush the Lord’s word.” His deep voice rumbled like the Esso gas truck that delivered oil once a week. My mother crocheting yet another doily would nod her head in agreement, “It’s true Vera, the Lord’s word should be spoken slowly with reverence.” I would hear children screaming with laughter, in the soft heat of the night, and read more slowly. “You’re it,” some high voice would scream. Poring over the book of Job, who I strongly identified with, I knew that I could never be “It.”
My father hadn’t always been a conservative, religious rock of the community. In his youth, he had been a dandy. I had heard my neighbors gossiping as much. One dewy morning, I had woken up early to go to the market, and met Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Smith at the bus stop.
“Good morning Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Smith.”
“Morning child,” they responded in unison.
As I walked past them in the bus, I heard Mrs. Jones say, “She’s getting that highness of her father. Bwoy, he was a dandy.”
Mrs. Smith replied, “But, him really did nice eeh. ‘Til that woman ketch him.”
I knew the way Mrs. Jones’s tongue curled and twisted the word dandy that she didn’t think highly of my father, nor of me.
There were few other children on my street; Keisha and her twin brother, cross-eyed Paige, and Troy and his baby sister. None of the four attended Haven Rock church, but Troy and his sister were the only ones not allowed in our house.
“I can’t have that no-good, heathen woman’s child in my house,” my mother once said, when I asked if he could come over for lunch.
One prickly day, when even the hibiscus flowers gave up and started wilting, Troy opened our gate. Looking out the window, framed by yellow and white crocheted curtains depicting Jesus’ hands in prayer, I watched him walk hesitantly to our door. He knocked three times, I supposed that he thought that at a pastor’s house we’d appreciate the trinity knock.
“Open that door girl,” my mother said, “and stop acting like you’re hard of hearing.”
I hurried to open the door, and underneath the mask of Troy’s carefully constructed face, I saw his displeasure and his fear. His jaw muscles twitched. His full, plum lips were stretched into a thin line, and he held his head so high that it looked as it were almost disconnected from his neck. One hand was in the pocket of his pants, and the other was holding a pink, plastic baby cup. The slight hint of a smile on his features vanished, and he stiffened, when my mother appeared behind me.
“Yes, boy?”
“ Miss Brown, I come here to ask you for some cerrassee leaves for my mother. “She’s real sick, and we can’t afford nothing at the shop.”
If Troy were a dog, my mother might have kicked him. I saw that her face had shadowed, and she wore a look of rage.
“Listen boy, I don’t have nothing in my yard that’s good for your mother.”
She began shaking imperceptibly and I began to shiver too.
“What’re you still standing there for boy?”
Troy looked at the empty cup in his hand, and then looked at my other. I noticed that his jersey had a hole on one sleeve, and a tear by the collar. His pants were faded by innumerable washings with blue soap, and his back pockets had begun to fray. Hi sneakers had no laces. It struck me that despite Troy’s apparent poverty that he looked like a prince. His chin was high, the setting sun behind his head resembled a crown, and his bearing stopped by my breathing.
“Mrs. Brown, as a woman of God, I thought you would love your neighbor as yourself, but I guess you don’t read that scripture yet.”
My lower jaw dropped. I could not believe that Troy, who had never stepped foot inside Haven Rock church, had the audacity to quote scripture to my mother. Her beige face lost the last vestige of color it held. “Get off my verandah,” she spat, biting each word. Behind Troy’s head, I saw pale, yellow butterflies dancing in the purple blossoms of the cherry tree. On this November day, with life humming around me, I knew that I was witnessing the death of something. I couldn’t place a finger on what was dying, but loss permeated the air.
Troy stared at my mother with such intensity that it scared me. His look expressed hatred mixed with pity. The hatred I understood, but the pity confounded me. Troy pitied my mother. I had never known that my mother could be an object of pity, because men worshipped her beauty, and women envied her figure, and her husband. My mother saw as clearly as I did how Troy felt. “Go away,” she screamed, then, retreated to her bedroom.
I was angry with him for making my mother upset, and I cut my eyes at him before closing the door. When I knocked on her room door, offering ginger tea and biscuits, she told me to go away in a less harsh tone than she had told Troy. Still, the words were the same. I had seen my mother cry only once, and it was quite by accident. She had been in the back shed and when I had run in for some nails my father needed to build a cross, she pretended that the sawdust in the shed had caused her eyes to water and redden. I instinctively knew differently. After telling her why I had broken her quiet moment, she said, “Your father’s needs always break my peace.” Her words had confused me, and so had the scorn in her tone.
I puzzled in the silence of the darkening living room, afraid to make any noise. What had happened between my mother and Troy? I hadn’t heard any sounds in her room, and I didn’t want to disrupt her silence. Even the nighttime crickets held their songs.
“Vera, come here.”
I ran to her room, anxious about the summons. She sat on the edge of her brass bed, in a room lit only by the headlights of an occasional passing car.
“Yes mum?”
“Go to the back and pick some cerrassee, some mint, and some thyme. Then take a bun from the bread box, and come on. We’re going on the road.”
My brain hummed. A walk, alone with my mother, after dark. A walk with my mother who never wanted my company. My father was coming home soon, and there would be no one home to greet him, and no dinner on the table. The onslaught of thoughts dizzied me. “Come on now girl.” My mother waited by the door wearing a crocheted shawl over a blue dress. Her face seemed younger than usual, and strangely at peace. I tied my laces in perfect bows, and straightened my back.
My mother reached for my hand, which surprised me. I hadn’t touched her in a long time. Whenever I had tried to hug her, she would say, “This touching you like to do will someday get you in trouble young lady.” I had stopped reaching for her hand, her warmth. But this time, my mother reached for my hand.
“Where are we going mum?”
“You already know Vera, don’t ask foolish questions.”
Children on the street stared at me, because I never left the house after dark, unless there was a church function. They nodded respectfully to my mother, and waved discreetly at me. I smiled in return, knowing something had irreversibly changed. Slowly, my mother and I walked to Troy’s house which wasn’t very far away from our house.
Troy’s house looked more worn than the other houses on the street. It could have been because his mother was a frail woman who couldn’t maintain her yard by herself. The yard was brown with small green patches, and a scraggly, unidentifiable tree by the gate. As there were never fruits, or blossoms, on the tree, it was impossible to tell what kind of tree it was. The red paint on the house was chipping, and a shingle flapped on the roof. However, the yard was swept clean. A kerosene lamp flickered in the front window. As we approached, a little girl’s voice started wailing, which slowed our breaths even more. My mother’s clammy hand slid from mine. She rapped on the wooden door frame.
Inside the girl hushed, and footsteps were heard approaching. Troy opened his door a sliver, and stood in the shade. He braced himself against the post, and against us.
My mother stuttered, “Hello,” and stopped. He held her eyes with his own.
“a who dat Troy?” a weak voice queried from an inner room.
“Hold on mummy,” he shouted.
My mother began again, “I am very sorry for my behavior earlier.” As my mother spoke, a small, chocolate girl of three, in a red and pink polka-dotted dress, a size too big, and bare-footed, sidled up to Troy. Upon seeing strangers, she grew shy and hid her face behind her brother’s back. But, the brief look that I had taken of her dimpled face, surrounded by four plaits, was enough for me to recognize the almond-shaped hazel eyes of my father. Troy rested his long fingers on the girl’s head.
“Vera, give him the basket.”
I extended my right hand, and held the woven bamboo basket out to Troy. I said nothing. He said nothing. In the stillness was the hum of expectation. My mother inhaled. Troy opened the door wider, and we knew it was an invitation.
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