< Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice In Guyana >
Locket # 26:
Denise, her only child, a girl she adopted, Edith loved. She swore to move heaven
on earth to put that girl on a road to success.
She had a difficult time getting her to the States. The Embassy was asking for all
kind of papers proving the girl was adopted, not abducted. They spent years
waiting, sending paperwork back and forth, until they were united in New York.
We kept in touch through her letters.
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Edith became a registered Nurse and moved out of Brooklyn. Took a job in an
upstate New York hospital. She gave that girl the best upstate education any
girl could want. Jehovah’s hand guides.
There were no Witnesses near where she lived but she held together. Saved her
money. Her plan was to purchase a mother-daughter home after Denise
graduated.
Denise is doing fine, she wrote. She goes to college in the city.
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The first sign of trouble came when her daughter decided to strike out on her
own. Claiming she was tired of living with her mother’s Sisters in the city. She
shared a rented house with two white girls who had their boyfriends staying
over. They made so much bedroom noise, she couldn’t concentrate. Eventually
she found basement space in a home in Queens, NY, an elderly couple, their
children grown and gone.
Edith worried. She had kept Denise tight and close to the home, the church,
Jehovah’s hand. This striking out on her own threatened her allegiance.
Denise refuses to let me help, she wrote. She has a job, working at the airport,
behind the ticket counter. They let her fly at no cost if there's an empty seat
on the plane. Everything seemed fine.
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I got this call from New York, Edith wrote. A police detective asking me to come
to the city. My daughter had been arrested. A member of a drug running ring.
I was shocked. Not my Denise. They probably had the right name, the wrong
person. They put someone on the phone. It was Denise.
Edith had to find time after work. Travel to the city. Arrange for a lawyer. Dip
into her savings to pay this lawyer.
And you know what? The look on her face when I saw her. That was not my
Denise. The child I raised all these years. I asked her to explain. All she said
was, she was sorry. I couldn’t believe how she’d changed.
The lawyer said he would do his best to have the charges dismissed. Denise
was the victim in this case, drawn into an organization through no fault of
hers. She had no way of knowing she was being used by cunning, dangerous
men.
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It took months before the trial began. Edith couldn’t keep up the prison visits.
It broke my heart to sit in that court across from her, her hair dry combed, her
body deprived of decent attention. She still had nothing to say except it was a
mistake. Everybody has weak moments.
The prosecution had an unbeatable case. A ring of Jamaicans was running drugs
between New York and Florida. Denise was approached by this young man, who
asked her to perform a simple task. Fly to Florida, carry on a package. Check in
at a hotel. A visitor would relieve her of the package. Return home.
Now this was before New York’s 9/11, before airport security, and searching
everybody's bags. It seemed easy and profitable.
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The first run went off without a hitch. Nobody suspected anything.
They had no idea the police were watching them, recording every move. Letting
Denise come and go several times, taking photographs, building their case. What
trapped her was her contact, the Jamaican man.
He was supposed to pick up the package and leave. Somewhere along the line
an attraction developed, and he started spending hours with her in the hotel.
They played back taped conversations between them. Poor Edith was so
embarrassed, hearing details of her daughter’s private life made manifest to
everyone in the courtroom. It broke my heart, hearing Denise telling this man,
her boyfriend, to wash his crotch before he came next time. Her name mixed
up with drug people, her kneeling for fornication with that man. No, no, that
was not her Denise.
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I had turned thirty, still not married (my hips heavy and reluctant, wary of
promises and pleasure) when this Elder and his wife from Brooklyn came to visit
Guyana. He was tall and thin, with a permanent greeting smile. He spoke in a
voice stronger than our Elders, simple, direct words. Like the man the children
imagined living in the Watch Tower. Our assembly was impressed.
His wife told me he traveled around a lot. She escorted him on longer trips like
this one to Guyana.
They had no children. We didn’t stop to examine why. We find great purpose in
serving Our Lord, Jesus, she said.
Outside our church after service one morning she came up to me and asked if I
was married. I told her I hadn’t found anyone in our faith. Getting on in age, yes,
but not feeling desperate yet. Jehovah’s hand guides.
She touched me, took my arm. We went for a walk, a little stroll around the
neighborhood. I listened as we walked.
She wondered why anyone would want to live here. The hustle and dust, inhaled
and ignored. How hard it must be to feel His presence here. Must require a lot
of love.
It's not that bad, I told her. True, sightings here of comfort and joy stir up envy
and resentment ‒ red ants and vicious stealers, all over our lives. But despite
the garbage we walk past, people find ways to keep up their spirit. What ways,
she asked, not believing me for a second. Well, the way to the Kingdom keeps
me from thrashing around, I said.
I told her I could help her with the wrinkles forming round her eyes, which looked
like signs of premature aging. I could give her something my grandmother used.
It could even clear up the lines tightening near her mouth.
She halted, she turned; she looked me in the eye. You know, it’s amazing, she
said, how despite everything, you keep on living here. I’ve never met someone
like you.
I assumed she said that because now all of a sudden I was her newest friend,
living in a part of the world she might never visit again. I never met anyone like
you either, I answered back.
I told her I liked the Elder’s presentation that morning. She squeezed my arm.
Pay closer attention to the words of men as they sleep. Our faith needs the
support of our readiness to breathe.
Her husband, she said, was ravenous for intimacy. And not to be denied. I
remembered that word, ravenous. I might have read it somewhere in a book.
Never heard it spoken like that. She went on:
One day a ravenous man will climb in bed beside you. He’ll toss and turn, wake
and feed on what your spirit lays bare. He'll roll off, grunt and go back to sleep.
Usually I close my eyes and pray. When the sun comes up in the morning, that
man won’t remember all that happened that night, but he has had his fill of
sleep to face the day.
I thought I heard what sounded like pain holding back in her voice, I could be
wrong. I nodded as if I understood every word and could be trusted to breathe
not one.
When we got back to the church entrance, she gave me a big smile. If you ever
come to New York. We shook hands goodbye.
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So for years, many years, not a word from Edith. Her daughter, I heard, was
found guilty and sentenced.
Edith didn’t write saying that. Probably overcome with shame; too exhausted to
go to the post office and send bad news.
In my last letter I told her to be patient. I heard that over there they let people
out of prison earlier for good behaviour. Denise was good at heart. Purpose had
been plucked from her pod, but her vine could be restored.
I imagined Edith growing old, moving back to Brooklyn, walking house to house
and ringing doorbells, her mission smile covering up everything she’d been
through. I wanted to be on her side.
I asked her to consider returning home. Hearts are dry and heavy here, secrets
and sins get tossed in canals and high grass. People hungry for good deeds, for
stories of hard believing.
She could tell our assembly what happened out there in the wilderness, how
Denise her daughter had fallen short and lost her way. How Jehovah’s hands
lift.
She didn’t reply. Okay then, I thought.
Muriel Yearwood
Georgetown, Guyana
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 