The Heart Does Not Bend (25 page)

Glory left for Atlanta the next day, and Mama continued to complain about Vittorio.

“Look pon de sink how it full a dutty dish and glass. As him use dem, so him just dash dem in and lef de house.”

When it wasn’t the dishes, it was the garbage, or money he stole from her hope chest, which of course he denied. One evening I came home from work to a mouthful of anger.

“Yuh see Vittorio outside?” she asked, sitting on a chair in the kitchen, crippled with arthritis. “Him just leave here wid him friends. Look out dere pon de kitchen how dem lef
it. Full a dutty dish, and mi stove, look how de water and oil spill over, de garbage never tek out dis morning. Kool-Aid spill in de fridge and him nuh wipe it up. Dem use things from de cupboard and dem nuh put it back. Dem is a dutty set a dawg, and him tief out mi money.”

Her smoker’s cough cracked in her chest. She spit the saliva into a rag she carried in the pocket of her dress and went on. “And as fi Ciboney, she dress from early dis morning, dress up de poor likkle baby like dolly and gawn a street. Mi beg her fi clean up de washroom, and she seh when she come back. Of course yuh know dat mean when street lock down. Ah only wish ah was stronger in mi body, ah would just tek de baby from her.… Ah just dying fi leave here. Ah can’t tek it anymore.” She sighed in frustration.

She had gotten smaller over the years, and her face was lined and haggard. Her wrinkled hands were deep in the pockets of her old lady’s dress.

“Mama is okay. Try to go rest. I will clean up,” I said. I helped to set her hands steady on her walker and she went to her bedroom.

Despite my disgust at having to clean up Vittorio’s mess, I pitied my grandmother. Looking back, I think loneliness and her lack of control over our lives drove her back to Jamaica. None of us had measured up to what she wanted. She used to say her Bible and God were her only companions, but even those companions could not take away the pain that often shadowed her face. I prepared her meals, washed her clothes, did the shopping and picked up her pills, but I didn’t spend a lot of time comforting her. When Ciboney was home, she cut Mama’s toenails, read her blood pressure and
entertained her with baby Maud. Vittorio graced her with occasional smiles.

It brought Mama a little pleasure to sit at the kitchen door and watch me work in the garden. I planted her favourite annuals: strawberry begonias, scented geraniums, impatiens and dahlias. The forget-me-nots, purple irises, lilies-of-the-valley and large pink peonies were among her favourite perennials. I tended her hybrid, pink musk roses, which climbed a trellis in the front yard. Sometimes I read to her on weekends and treated her to take-out Chinese food. But there was never any real thanks for anything I did, and it was painfully clear that in her heart she wished Vittorio were the one helping her.

I remember, too, a weekend I spent with Rose. Ciboney had promised to stay home in case Mama needed help. Rose and I had just finished eating a delicious, candlelit supper. The mood was light and fun and so was the music. I placed a rose between my lips and was taking backward steps toward the bedroom. Rose mockingly followed, her nose lightly touching the rose. When the phone rang, she said, “Let the machine get it. This is much more fun.” Later she played back the message.

“Molly, read Jude 7. Read Genesis 19. Tek heed before disaster reach yuh. Come home.” She coughed into the phone and her breathing was audible. “Rose, lef mi granddaughter alone. Fi yuh own good read Romans 1, verse 26 and 27. Hell wait fi yuh.”

“I can’t take this any longer, Molly!” Rose shouted. “Something have to change. What give this woman de right to call my house and leave such a message, eh? Who she think she is, God?”

“Yuh don’t understand,” I shouted back. “Yuh just don’t understand.” I was groping for words.

“I understand all right. Molly, you just have to let go.”

I was shaking. “Rose, it’s not that easy. Ah can’t turn mi back on her and ah can’t cuss her. She been through too much. She going soon, remember?” I said, hoping to pacify her.

“And you just going to take the coward’s way out. Wait until she leaves, and in the meantime I must put up with her abuse and insult.” She looked straight into my eyes, as if she wanted to put a spell on me.

“You don’t have to,” I said. I got up from the bed, put my clothes on and began to pack my things.

“Where you going?” she asked.

“I’m going home,” I said evenly.

“So this is how it is? Every time she say jump, you ask how high?”

I didn’t answer.

“Talk to me, Molly, ah can’t stand dis shit. This is how yuh communicate all de time—silence. Am I suppose to read dat?” she challenged.

I still didn’t answer. I zipped up my bags and searched for my shoes.

“Molly, please stay,” she said, her voice softer.

I didn’t look at her. I didn’t want to leave, but the simple truth is that I was afraid. Mama was upset and her breathing was laboured; I didn’t want to be responsible for her having a stroke or worse.

“Please,” Rose whispered. She was sitting on the edge of the bed. Her wild and curly hair had escaped the elastic band. She forced a smile and her dimples pierced deep into her
cheeks. Her nut-brown skin glowed in the candlelight, and at that moment she was the most beautiful woman I had ever known. I quickly turned on the ceiling light to erase the image.

“Ah can’t stay. We’ll talk later, okay?” I promised.

“To hell with you. If yuh walk out de door, this is it.”

I turned to go and a half-empty wineglass sailed over my head. I quickly closed the door behind me.

Rose got an unlisted phone number, refused to answer my knock at the door and sent back my letters unopened. For a while I told myself she wasn’t right for me and tried to bury myself in Mama’s affairs. Soon I was remembering her lovely skin, her stumpy toes, her large ears, her dimples and carefree laughter, her touch on me.

I agreed to accompany Mama back home and stay with her for a few weeks to get her settled. I took a leave of absence from work, booked the flight, made arrangements for a wheelchair and seats near the bathroom, and ordered her special meals. Church members were in and out of the house, singing and praying for her safe journey. She was pleased with the attention, and they promised to come visit her.

She awoke very early the morning of the flight and was dressed three hours before the limo came to take us to the airport.

“Well, kitchen, is goodbye. Yuh serve mi well over de years and yuh bring mi joy when mi could cook and move round.” Her voice was light and clear. Her eyes lingered on the oven where she had baked so many cakes.

“Molly, ah leaving de cake tins and dem bottle of fruits fi yuh. Yuh can bake yuh first set of cakes out of it,” she said, her voice gentle.

Vittorio and Ciboney awoke and got dressed minutes before the limo drove up to the house. Vittorio put our luggage in the car trunk, then helped Mama into the car. There was pride in her eyes at that moment, and I wished I had been born a boy.

We were all quiet as the car drove through the streets of Parkdale and onto the Gardiner Expressway. Mama peered through the window at the shops and streets that she would never see again. At the airport she asked us to join her in prayer. We found a quiet waiting area, locked hands and closed our eyes.

“De Lord comfort and shelter in Him flock even de greatest sinner. I thank mi God always on unnu behalf. Never lose sight of Jesus. Believe in Him, for Jesus will lead each of you by unnu hand.”

Our flight was called. She kissed Ciboney and baby Maud and held them tight. “Come visit, yuh hear? Send Maud down fi spend some time wid her old granny. Ah want to spend little time wid mi great-great-granddaughter,” she said.

Vittorio knelt by her wheelchair and she held on to him for a long time. “Son, don’t forget fi pray even if yuh nuh believe. Just pray, in time de spirit of Massa God will guide yuh.” Her throat went dry, she coughed and cleared it with discomfort. “Tek care of Ciboney and help Molly round de place. Nuh leave everything up to her, and remember fi tek out de garbage, for yuh is de man of de house now.”

He kissed her forehead. “Yes Mama, I’ll read my Bible,” he said, giving Ciboney a playful wink. Then he pushed Mama’s wheelchair through to the customs lineup.

As we waited to board the plane, Mama sat calmly, but there was a twitch of nervousness at the corner of her mouth. To steady herself, she smoothed her blue silk head scarf several times. Her black handbag—crammed with pills, religious cassettes, a washrag and a small Bible—was clutched tightly between her legs. She didn’t eat much on the flight, but she hardly stopped talking.

“Mi stomach feel like mi have a baseball inside,” she said nervously. “It too cold in yah. Mi feel like mi into a icebox.” I asked the flight attendant for a blanket, and in no time Mama had thrown it off, saying it made her too hot. She kept looking at her watch and mumbling about the long flight ahead. I asked her if she wanted to listen to the radio or watch the movie. She only sucked her teeth and said, “Ask de stewardess for some tea wid a little biscuit—it might tek de gas off mi stomach.” She eyed the bathroom a short distance away and sucked her teeth again. “A lucky thing mi wear mi Depends. How much longer we have up in de air?” she asked, staring at her watch again. She kept opening and closing her old lady’s purse. Finally she took out her pills and removed four from their containers.

“Ask de stewardess for some water, mek mi tek dem pills.”

The flight attendant brought the water. Mama drank it and pulled the blanket close about her. “Ask fi another blanket. Dis too small, and ask her fi some more tea. Mi feel cold.”

The flight attendant couldn’t move fast enough. I was glad that despite Mama’s protest, I’d booked first-class tickets.

“What time now?” she asked again. “Get some juice fi mi.” I got up and went to find the flight attendant. I tried to stay calm, but I was feeling irritated and tired, wishing that it was Vittorio here with her, or Glory, or even Ciboney.

Mama dozed off, and I leafed through a magazine to pass the time. Then she was awake again. “What time it is? Ah can’t see a thing on dis watch, de numbering too small,” she protested.

“Mama, yuh ask mi dat just twenty minutes ago,” I said, my irritation unmistakable.

“Dis seat can’t go back further?” she asked, ignoring me. I adjusted her seat and covered her with the two blankets. She closed her eyes and a soft snore followed.

I continued to flip through the magazine and then closed my eyes, too. Memories crowded my head, mostly of Rose and our failed relationship. Though I knew she already had another woman, like a fool I comforted myself with the thought that with Mama out of the way, we could try again when I came back.

“What time now?” Mama asked.

“We have another hour.”

She looked at her watch again, then opened her purse and reviewed the contents. “Ah glad ah carry all dese tapes. Dem will be comfort to mi at nights, and Ruth will enjoy dem too.” Then she turned and looked at me.

“Yuh hair look nice. Ah glad yuh mek it grow back. Woman fi look like woman, and when it too short it mek yuh look too mannish.” Then she frowned. “A Rose did tell yuh fi cut it off, nuh?”

“No, Mama, she didn’t tell mi to cut it off. She only suggested that cutting it would show off my eyes more,” I said with measured patience.

She sucked her teeth. “Yuh is a real fool. Unnu mek people tell unnu all kind a foolishness fi control unnu.”

“Yuh think ah don’t have a mind of mi own?” I asked, meeting her eyes. She looked away. We lapsed into another bout of silence until she spoke.

“Ah hope Vittorio eat proper. Ah glad Ciboney leave behind, for she will mek sure Vittorio eat proper, between him and his new girl.”

I swallowed hard. No point in responding.

I wanted to ask her why it was always Vittorio, Vittorio. What about me? Where did I fit in? Why was I taken for granted? Didn’t I do good by going to school, learning a profession?

In truth, I knew she was proud of me, but I needed to hear it from her. I looked at her worn and tired face, the extra flesh at her neck, her old lady’s scarf so tight against her skin, her wrinkled hands with the veins sticking out like snakes, and I couldn’t ask.

The pilot announced that we’d be landing shortly, and excitement grew feverish like the heat outside. As the plane touched down, there was a round of applause from the passengers, Mama included. “Praise de Lord,” she said.

I told her that we’d have to wait until the plane was empty and then they’d send two or three men to lift her. There were no wheelchair ramps on the island. She was so relieved to be back on the ground that it didn’t seem to matter. We waited patiently. I removed her thick sweater, fixed her shoes on her feet, smoothed her blue print dress and loosened her scarf.

“Stop de fussing up wid mi,” she said when I added a touch of perfume around her ears and dabbed my lipstick on her lips. “Mi is a old woman,” she said jokingly, then asked seriously, “Molly, yuh sure dem out dere to meet we? Ah wonder if dem remember?”

“Of course, Mama. Dem wouldn’t forget dat.”