Boundaries (27 page)
John Sinclair looks at his wife. He is seeking her approval. She nods. “Go ahead. Tell her, John.”
He slides to the edge of the couch. “Ulrich Cross was the senior navigator on his squadron of bomber fighters in World War 11.” He swivels back to his wife. She lays her hand lightly on his back. It is all the encouragement he needs. “He was a brilliant mathematician,” he explains to Anna. “He told me he joined the RAF when Pope Pius XII gave his blessing to Mussolini to kill Africans in Ethiopia. He was burning up with anger, so were the 252 young men from our island who joined up too. It was only later, when America felt the blows on her shores at Pearl Harbor, that she entered the war. Like in the RAF, there were also black airmen in the air force, but the American squadrons were segregated. Not so the British air force. Even in war, America wanted to sustain the myth of white superiority. Ulrich said he would never forget the trip he took down south in the last year of the war. He was a squadron leader in the RAF, and as all British officers he sat in the dining car on the Pullman. Cold hard stares bored into his back, some pointed directly at his face. He didn’t so much mind this. What he minded, what broke his heart, what almost brought him to tears, were the signs. At every station in Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Florida, Mississippi, Alabama, Louisiana, every state where the train stopped, the signs were the same:
Whites only
.
Coloreds
. Even on the water fountains. By the time he returned to Washington everyone was praising him for having survived eighty sorties. Eighty, imagine that! On seven of them he navigated bombs on a wooden, twin-engine Mosquito aircraft that had lost its wheels in battle.”
John Sinclair pauses. His eyes are shining with pride, admiration for his friend’s miraculous feat. He picks up where he left off before his mind skidded to the time when men like his friend helped win the war for England—even though their homelands had been colonized. “By the time he got to D.C., the heartbreak Ulrich felt had turned to anger that burned a hole in his chest. He had seen African American soldiers prepared to give their lives for their country, humiliated by the signs. They wore the uniform of the U.S. military, but they were treated as second-class citizens. That history is seared in the collective souls of African Americans. They paid a heavy price for the opportunities immigrants of color have today. Not only the humiliation but the killings, the hundreds of African Americans lynched just because of the color of their skin. If Tim Greene feels it’s his turn and you must wait for your turn, you should yield to him, Anna.”
S
he should yield. That is what her father wants her to do. She should accept Tim Greene’s decision. More than that, though he has not said it, the expression on his face makes it plain that he believes she owes it to him as his daughter to follow his advice. And her mother, who minutes before had taken her side, withdraws.
They say little to each other after her father ends his impassioned exhortation. Perhaps her mother shuts her eyes because she knows it is futile to argue with her husband. He had the reputation for being a tough labor negotiator. No amount of pressure from the powerful labor unions, none of the financial enticements companies eagerly offered him, swayed his opinions. Perhaps her mother is still on her side and those minutes when she felt closer to her than she had ever felt in her life will return. Her mother has surrendered but she has not agreed with her husband. When he offers her a cup of tea, she does not open her eyes, she does not respond. It occurs to Anna now that restraint can protect even though it excludes. She has the answer to her question: her mother is restrained but perhaps because she wants to protect her.
If John Sinclair has more advice to give to his daughter, he withholds it. He helps her set the table for dinner and talks nonstop of frivolous matters: about relatives Anna has not seen in years whose lives interest neither of them; about the hot dry season, the humid wet season, anything it seems that will reassure her that though he disagrees with her, he loves her, he would never do or say anything to hurt her. At last his babble is interrupted by the sound of the buzzer.
Beatrice, who until now has kept her eyes resolutely closed, sits up. Alert. “That must be Paul,” she says.
Anna can buzz Paul in from upstairs, but she lifts the garbage bag out of its container and tells her father she’ll put it in the incinerator and meet Paul at the entrance to the building.
He begins to object, but her mother calls out to him:
“Let her, John.”
She is not prepared when she opens the door and Paul walks in, beaming, his eyes dancing. He is holding a bunch of tulips in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other, but it is neither the tulips nor the chocolates that propel Anna into his widespread arms. It is his whole presence, comforting and reassuring: his smile, his dancing eyes, the sprinkling of gray in his hair, the soft paunch that droops slightly over his belted khaki pants, the blue shirt and navy sports jacket with brass buttons he must have chosen both in honor of her parents and to please her too, the natural odor of his body she breathes in reminding her of pleasurable sex, delicious sex, the sex that was so much better than any she has ever had. She buries her head in his chest and he wraps his arms around her, crossing them at his wrists, for he is still holding the tulips and the chocolates in his hands.
“What is it, love? What is the matter?” He kisses the top of her head and the delicate spot behind her earlobe.
Someone turns his key in the front door. They are in a public corridor. Anna raises her head and wriggles out of his arms. Her eyes are wet with tears.
Paul hands her the tulips, reaches into his pocket for his handkerchief, and wipes her eyes. “Do you want to go somewhere where we can talk?”
“They are waiting for you.” She strokes the petals of the tulips.
“We could go to my car,” he says.
“They made dinner.”
“I wanted to take you out.”
“They are good West Indians. You can’t come to their home without having something to eat.”
“Yes. I remember.” He tickles the tip of her chin and her lips spread to a smile.
“The first time you met them on the island, you gave them less than an hour’s notice and they had ham and pastels ready,” she says.
“And rum punch. Don’t forget the rum punch.” He kisses her again, this time on her mouth. “It’s good to see you smile. Why the tears?”
“Something at work,” she says.
“With that writer you told me about?”
“Later, when we’re alone, I’ll tell you.”
“I don’t have surgery tomorrow. We can spend the night at my place.”
“I can’t leave them in the apartment alone,” she says.
“It’s hard for me to see you unhappy.”
“I’m not unhappy now.”
They are at the elevator. He bends down and whispers in her ear, “I couldn’t wait to see you. I told your mother I’d come by, but it is you I wanted to see.”
The chocolates are not for her; they are for her mother. Beatrice is thrilled. A girlish giggle ripples up her throat when Paul gives them to her. “Look what Paul has brought for us,” she says to her husband, overtaken by a rush of emotion.
“For you,” John Sinclair says.
“And tulips for Anna.” Beatrice inclines her head toward her daughter.
“For two beautiful women,” Paul Bishop says.
“The man has good taste.” John puts his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Though without this beautiful woman,”
he says, tightening his arm, “there couldn’t be a beautiful daughter.”
“You say such nonsense, John.” Beatrice taps him playfully on his arm.
Their quarrel is apparently over. Whatever happened in her absence when she was in the lobby with Paul, Anna is certain her mother and father have made up.
At the dinner table, John serves his wife first and then passes the dish of curry to Paul, who is the epitome of gallantry. He had planned to take Anna out to dinner, but he tells Beatrice that a home-cooked meal is just what he has been longing for.
“John made it,” Beatrice says.
“Under military supervision!” John Sinclair winks at his wife and cuts the meat on her plate in small bits so that with one hand she can easily pick up the pieces with her fork.
Beatrice is watching Paul closely, waiting for his reaction as he puts a forkful of the curry in his mouth. “Hmm,” he says, swallowing. “This is better curry than I’ve had in many a restaurant.”
Beatrice’s face lights up. “Anna’s curry is even better,” she says.
Anna has never cooked curry for her mother. Ordinarily she would have been angry at her for the transparent lie, but her mother’s earlier defense of her makes her sympathetic. Beatrice likes Paul; she is pleased by the attention he pays to her daughter, by the courtesies he extends to her as the mother. So Anna restrains herself. Her mother wants to present her in a flattering light to a man she obviously thinks could be a potential husband, a man who would bring happiness to Anna after her unfortunate divorce. She can endure the embarrassment. Paul is not a teenager but a mature man; he can see through her mother’s blatant ploy. Her mother’s remark will not frighten him away, change his feelings toward her. Her faith in him gets confirmed when he reaches under the table and squeezes her knee. “I hope I can have the pleasure of tasting Anna’s curry soon,” he says.
“The sooner the better.” Beatrice’s head bobs up and down in her excitement. “Not so, Anna?”
It is too much for Anna. Her patience wears thin. “Don’t you have a question for Paul, Mummy?”
Beatrice puts down her fork. The mischievous twinkle in her eyes disappears. She is all seriousness when she speaks. “We want to leave this weekend. Anna tells me you’ll let us know if we can.”
Paul turns to Anna. She knows he is hoping she will give him some sign of how he should respond, but she looks away. The decision is his and her mother’s.
“There are some things, Mrs. Sinclair, that medicine cannot do,” Paul begins cautiously. “We doctors have our limits.”
“So it’s not good news then.” Beatrice straightens her back, bracing herself for disappointment. “Well, don’t pretty it up for our sakes. We’re ready.”
We
, she says. For whatever affects her, affects her husband. Anna fights against a growing feeling that is uncomfortably akin to envy. The commitment her parents have to each other is what she had hoped for. What she wanted when she married.
“Yes,” John Sinclair says. “We know you’ve done your best and we are grateful.”
“Oh, that’s not what I mean. That’s not it at all,” Paul says. “I’m pleased, very pleased with your progress, Mrs. Sinclair. I’ve never had a patient recover so quickly after major surgery. I spoke to Dr. Ramdoolal about your wish to return home.”
“He’s not the best person to advise us,” John says. “He was angry with my wife.”
“He blamed her for not coming to him sooner,” Anna explains. “He was angry with her for letting the tumors grow so big.”
“And yet here she is,” Paul says. “By all likelihood, Mrs. Sinclair, you will live a normal life. There was no indication of metastasis beyond the two tumors.”
“The power of prayer,” Beatrice says.
“I’ve seen evidence of that time and time again in my practice. My patients who have a strong religious faith have a higher rate of recovery and cure. I think you are one of those patients.”
“Her faith, yes, but also her positive attitude, her determination to live. My wife is very strong-willed,” John Sinclair says.
“The mind is a powerful instrument. People walk on fire and claim they don’t feel a thing.”
“My wife can walk on fire.”
Beatrice glances sharply at him. “I don’t know about that,” she says.
“Metaphorically speaking, Beatrice,” her husband replies soothingly. “Look what you’ve been through and not a complaint.”
“I can handle pain, if that’s what you meant.”
“You have a strong mind, Mrs. Sinclair,” Paul Bishop says.
“So can we leave?” Beatrice presses him.
“You’ll need more chemo and radiation to be sure we got everything. Dr. Ramdoolal is prepared to give you both. He said you responded beautifully before. He’s sure with your husband’s help you will manage again.”
“She’ll manage. We’ll manage,” John Sinclair says.
“Then I have no objection.”
After dinner, Paul and Anna help her father clear the dishes from the table. Beatrice relaxes on the couch. Anna cannot remember when she has seen her mother so happy. Her surgery has been successful; soon she will be back on her beloved island. She will have a long life.
And as if that isn’t enough, her daughter has a boyfriend. “I think your beau is in love with you,” she whispers in Anna’s ear. John Sinclair is happy too, happy to see his wife happy; happy because he believes Paul Bishop is the right mate for his daughter. But Paul has not mentioned marriage either to Anna or the Sinclairs. He has made no announcement, no promises. Not that Beatrice does not attempt to exact one. When Anna brings her a cup of tea, she approaches the subject in her own inimitable way.
“You and Anna have a lot in common,” she says to Paul from across the room where she is lying with her feet propped up on the couch. “You were born in the same place, immigrated to the same place, lived away from your birthplace almost the same number of years. You couldn’t be more alike.”
Paul grins. “I told Anna we’re hyphenated people. We have a foot in both places.”
“A toe. That’s all I think you have in the Caribbean. Not a foot,” she says. “I don’t think Anna can live there again.”
“And why not?” Anna has a stack of plates in her hand. She puts them in the sink and faces her mother.
“Because you seem to fit in here, in America,” Beatrice says.
“And I don’t fit in there?”
“To me you seem more comfortable here than you were on the island when you visited me. You seem to have made a life here.”
It is true. She has made a life for herself in America. She is comfortable here. Yet her mother’s dismissal still hurts.
She wants to belong there too. It is where she grew up, where she learned to speak, to read. Where as a little girl, and then a teenager, she went to school. Where her navel string is buried.
