< Situations and Revelations of Passing Notice in Guyana >
Locket #50:
So now I’m thinking: if my mother had a problem, it was waiting for the right
man to come along. Looking out at the possibilities in Georgetown, few
seemed qualified. There were men blessed with more muscle than mind. She
associated ‘muscle’ with required labour, like fortune hunting in the forest;
and ‘mind’ with talent and city hopes.
Her husband, my father, was a labour type. He laboured in the civil service
and in the bedroom. He died of a stroke which she blamed on his compulsive
labouring, and the quantities of food and drink he consumed.
She worked at our public library. Books and quiet and minds growing. She
shushed loud visitors and rowdy students. She was gracious with men who
came up to her desk and made enquiries in soft voices. Who noticed how
attractive she still was, but said nothing
She shelved, she took returns at the desk; she liked reading new fiction and
making suggestions to the Head Librarian, about what was suitable or not
suitable for young readers.
But her focus was raising her only daughter. In the eyes of others she was
a quiet, generous soul. I did not let her down.
Like her I valued people who liked reading and for a long time I was friendly
with boys who spent energy on books and had impressive grades. This meant
we spent our time together talking.
I abstained and abstained which required much labour. Going from school
straight to her library some afternoons, doing my homework there. Going
home together where we ate and I did house chores. I might dip into a new
book for the shelves.
You would think by now I know exactly how and what to do in intimate
situations, but I haven’t opened up myself yet, and I haven’t found what
best suits me.
About my father, we talked only once. I mean, talked seriously. My mother
confessed ‘love’ had little to do with her decision to marry. At the time
he had dreams he’d be sent abroad one day to work at an Embassy. She
came home from her job and dreamt of moving away with him. Means to an
end, if you want to think that way.
When she calls me here in New York asking, What’s happening, she’s itching
to know if I’ve fallen in with the wrong labour company.
I told her I wasn’t ‘dating’ anyone. The word ‘dating’ has little meaning for
her. She didn’t have to remind me to focus, not to ‘stray’.
I told her I had settled in the basement of her sister’s home. I could find my
way around now. I signed up for classes. Classes cost money and ‘studying’
here could take longer than we’d imagined. I had to take a job, but I knew
my boundaries, and I was managing okay.
Then the other day I got this letter from her.
Normally between us it’s email; or a weekend phone call with questions and
news. A Georgetown envelope with Georgetown stamps was unusual. It was
followed quickly by email telling me not to leave the letter lying around;
someone might read it.
There had been a development back home.
She'd met someone. A man from Martinique. He had wandered into the
library during a book donation event. There were no empty chairs when he
arrived. She found one for him. He seemed curious, at the same time a little
lost.
I could see her standing there, wondering if more chairs might be needed for
more late comers; curious about this late-comer, and drawn to his accent.
When it was over he seemed to know no one in the room.
She said she'd had dinner with this man. In our house.
She didn’t explain how this happened, just that it happened. One minute he
was a stranger at the back of a room at her library; the next he was sitting
at our dining table.
How could this be? How could the person I’d known all my life, a person of
quiet authority, allow this to happen?
There was more: this man had insisted on preparing the dinner. Something
special. Like nothing my mother had eaten before. It required a trip to the
nearest market.
My mother didn’t care much for our public markets. She preferred the super-
market. Things were neatly arranged on shelves; she had her list. He wanted
to see our public market.
I was left to imagine the dining event: the table set, glasses, the wine (We
can’t have dinner without a glass of wine, she said he said) the napkins.
They must have talked and smiled and listened to each other; a little fuss
now and then, wondering if everything met each other’s liking. His ease and
familiarity, telling her ‒ he must have noticed ‒ how very well she’d kept
herself over the years.
Everything in the house must have taken on a new glow. Pictures on the wall,
the furniture. Her tone of voice. We had no dogs or cats, nothing to breeze in
with sniffing interest.
At around eight, maybe nine o’clock, they might have moved to chairs in the
living room. No, he couldn’t just shake hands and be on his way; though at
this stage what more could he offer to do?
I could see him making himself comfortable (in my chair), waving away a
stray mosquito. I could hear her speaking with pride about her daughter,
away in America ‘studying’.
In the presence of someone with dinner-cooking skills and a stranger's accent,
she might have pulled back the covers, hoping again to be admired and taken
away. Oversharing. Not listening to what she's saying. Glad someone is there.
in our home listening to her.
All those years with her, in our home, swept aside by some late-arriving thrill.
The last time she called our conversation was brief. Along the lines of, So
how is your new sonic toothbrush? I listened for signs of continuing
developments. I didn’t want to appear too concerned or curious so I didn’t
ask about the “Pierre” from Martinique; about his age and occupation, for
instance.
Some change had taken place, oui! From the moment of ‘let me help you’ in
the library, to that evening, ‘let me cook for you’ in our home. I combed
through the letter for clues.
So why the fuss here? which sounds like I’m overreacting? over imaginings.
Well, some things might sound like imaginings to other people.
Something is slowly sinking in: the beloved only daughter is no longer all
that matters in her mother’s world. She’s far away, she's out of range. She’s
still expected not to ‘stray’.
I can’t stop wondering if the letter was meant to set me free to act in ways
I’d never acted before. No longer bound by home rules or expectations. And
if so, what happens now? how should I move on? I mean, what would happen
if some stranger with dinner-cooking skills were suddenly to cross my path?
This is where I am at the moment. I just felt like talking about it.
Desiree D.
Georgetown, Guyana
New York City
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 