< Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >
Locket # 36:
What to do with this body of mine? Arms and legs, the caves; marriage and child-
bearing years still far off but coming. I used to lie in bed and wonder.
We live in a three-storey building, tall as the tallest mango tree in Georgetown.
I used to worry as a child someone might scale the gate, jump on the car roof,
climb the walls up to my bedroom window.
You can’t hide or rise far above other people. They always in your view or range.
Through my window I could see one block away a wooden house from the old
days; still standing on stilts, with the galvanize roof, front and back steps, the
pokey rooms and habits. Like the builders never thought anything would change.
Some days I see a man in a hammock under the house, calmly eating. A woman
hanging out clothes in the backyard, grateful for the burning bright sun; getting
older and fat, talking to a child. I don’t know what reason she has to smile or
laugh; what parts of her life she might be dying to change.
I’m sure she looks up at our house from time to time. I don’t think she sees me.
When she goes inside she has to undress for someone, the man living there
having her when he wants, how he wants.
I heard on the news about women living with men they have to undress for
getting killed. It happening regular now.Last time this man stab up this woman
sixteen times. I tried to imagine what went through his mind ‒ the knife in his
hand, the woman’s eyes filled with terror; still angry at him or pleading with
him.
She must have done something bad, or maybe nothing bad. Refuse to undress
for him, or maybe she undress for somebody else and he only now find out.
I hoping to go to Toronto soon. Stay with relatives. Their neighborhood is quiet.
The view from the guest room window is of backyards. You don’t see much of
anything to disturb you, they say.
I am at the stage where clothes and style matter, what I wear, how I look. I’m
not going to lie, I can’t wait to live in a city where I can dress and walk as I
please. My grandmother said back in her bicycle days in Georgetown you could
go riding or window shopping, and trust people wouldn't grab you or look you
over with resentment.
I think a lot these days about Ranji. He’s the son of the Rajpauls. He lived
here only five years, then his family migrated to Toronto. He was here recently
on vacation. Came by us. He brought magazines about cars and fashion and
home improvement, thinking maybe we back here need to see what modern
life looked like.
He’s near forty, a family doctor; not yet married, everybody wondering what he
waiting for. My mother made some stupid joke he was waiting for someone like
me. He’s almost twice my age!
He came into my room one afternoon, he didn’t knock. He must have noticed
my bare arms, the two tiny butterfly tattoos on the left neck; and he must
have assumed, well, I don’t know what he assumed.
Next thing I know he was pulling off my shorts. Didn't ask. What are you doing?
My legs were in the air, my ankles on his shoulders, helpless and irrelevant.
To this day I still hear the sound of his fingers pulling on his rubber thing. What
are you doing? And, like a surgeon all rubber gloves and ready, he answered,
“The future is here.”
I heard his breath grunting like it was counting money. I turned my face away.
He was quick and efficient and done before I could find more words to protest.
I felt so stupid searching the floor where he’d tossed my pants and panties.
How could this happen? in my room three storeys up in the air? Even now my
face goes sour when I think about it, my mouth gets numb when I start telling
my friends. They go quiet. I can hear them thinking, How come she not in
shock? She not telling us everything! Going nowhere with jealous pussies.
At our dinner table, all dressed up, all smiles and politely passing plates ‒ and
this was the day after the room and bed invasion ‒ he was carrying on like there
was some “confidentiality” thing between us now, and neither of us should say
anything to anyone about what happened.
Sounding like he’s this big expert on breast removal and certain procedures
and how easy it is (not yet in Georgetown) to do this or fix that. “Yes, the
future is here.”
It burn me the way he flashed those words like playing cards performing magic
tricks in our house.
You ask, how people get stabbed? one time, sixteen times? It starts with a
realization, and one day it erupts like an infected tooth, and now you in
serious pain and you have to do something.
I was all set to stab Ranji. With one of the forks on the dinner table. Seriously.
I reached for it. All I had to do next was walk quietly behind him, and with
one quick down stroke bury the prongs straight in his neck.
Before he know it, blood spurting and staining the tablecloth, the chair
crashing back, somebody screaming, O gawd, what you doing?
Just for the look of surprise on his face. Yes, is me. Remember? No more future
for you here.
One act ‒ I see it now, and tools are everywhere within reach ‒ one simple act
could change everything. Sooner or later, balance comes back into the world.
I took a picture of my vagina with my phone the day after Ranji barged in. I
wanted to look at little Elle. In her spoony baby curls she's a survivor. I took
another picture and looked again. She is clearly not ready for lust and love,
duty and pain.
Duty and pain are like handcuffs. The other couple, like brother and sister
always fighting, could be a problem. Little Elle is just there ready to help
a host so used to doing what she’s told, so determined to get ahead in this
world. I think I know her better now.
Weeks before Ranji did his pull off your pants and enter thing, I was thinking
of doing something really stupid, something I might not have lived to regret.
The quiet slip away, yes.
Thinking like that creeps up on people as they hang clothes on the line or
look out the window. It could blow through all of a sudden like strong wind,
rattling your roof, especially the galvanize you think nail down real good.
EIleanna G.
Georgetown, Guyana
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 