“I only asked her to put off her daily visit and said he wished to just sleep that day.”
“And who are you, to stop a mother from seeing her son, Ata? Who the hell do you think you are?” The shouting jolts Ata to the kitchen door and she glances nervously to see if lawyer-friend and the others on the veranda have heard.
“You have any idea of the pain you may have caused that woman? You have no right—”
Ata cuts her off with the facts that Greek Goddess already knows but which create a conflict in her too — that Fraser still has not told his mother, nor accepted counseling, nor contacted anyone about HIV. And so where is the balance in respecting his wishes in some ways but not in others? “It’s not as easy as food. He never was close to his mother before this, was very upset after her last visit. They quarreled and she seemed relieved not to have to visit, too.”
“Yes, but what kind of person are you?” Caribbean Greek Goddess asks. “The most precious thing we have is family. If you were sick, wouldn’t you want to be back in your parents’ arms?”
“Not necessarily.” The answer jumps out before Ata can stop it and wipes the crease clean off Helen’s face.
“No?”
Ata finds herself explaining, almost to herself, that of course it’s not automatic. If it was still a close relationship, then yes. But she would want those who understand and love her for who she is, the ones actually closest, to be there with her — and that’s not always family. Ata reflects on her own points against Pierre’s cold view — being able to choose friends, but you can’t choose family. Tough. Helen’s shocked reaction makes her feel British and foreign, while her father’s voice reminds her of her free, green Caribbean childhood. Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of life’s longing for itself. Her mother’s sisal-sweet spirit breath whispers “It’s okay” in her ear.
* * *
Ata had left Fraser’s room totally embarrassed for his father on one of his visits. Fraser had shrunk into his shell the minute his mother stepped out of the room and then slowly emerged again. His shuttered eyes took in his father’s discomfort and he extended his neck a little further. His shell looked rougher and duller than normal, skin folds and creases appearing. He licked a dry tongue over sharp beak and his father looked down nervously.
“You always thought this would happen, didn’t you? That I would die before you—”
“You not dying, son.”
“Pay for my sins, and all that, eh? Ata, when my mother would be lambasting me for my ‘nasty’ ways and before that, trying to straighten me as a child, locking me in my room, whatever — this man, this spineless father of mine, would stand by and say nothing. You never really agreed with her but what?”
Mr. Goodman was melting into the dusk-pink floor and Fraser swung his head and turtle eyes round to Ata. Why humiliate his father like this now instead of standing up to his mother himself? He was Mrs. Goodman’s pet rock a minute ago. When his neck levered back to his father like a compass, his eyes shrunk even smaller taking in Mr. Goodman’s apologetic slouch. Ata had excused herself then. And as she left, heard “Now you have a chance to say what you think and make amends, before I die. So what you have to say?” Silence followed.
* * *
Marriette, the Egyptian sphinx of a woman, slinks into the kitchen. She has seen that Fraser’s asleep, takes one look at Ata and Helen, and says, “Okay, I’ll let youall get on with it.” Goes to join the others on the veranda. A burst of laughter breaks the bright air out there. Helen’s pain is gathered all in her Carib and European features as she stares, incredulously. She, more than anyone else, knows of Fraser’s strange relationship with family. She has had many arguments with him about adopting too much from his oppressive education and about bullying his father like Fraser was bullied by his mother. But she has also seen the private torment, of him being himself in Trinidad.
The torment of choice lies bare between the two of them now, but it only makes Ata feel judged, by the friend of Fraser she respects the most. Extra aware of her own mixed-up values, way of doing things, and lack of religion — flaws that make her rootless. Gray.
“Father McBarnette is here!” Thomas announces cheerily at the door. “Fraser still sleeping?”
* * *
“Ka-nee-val again, bacchanal in Port’a Spain, whoa donkey. Whoa whoa donkey!” The Matrimony financial figures and the time left before Carnival didn’t add up, and God of Design refused to accept it. The manager shut down the camp while they battled it out. But secretly, in the dim hangar, the core group of performers, key craftsmen, and the King and Queen of the band gather around the bolts of stretchy fluorescent fabric. A few have on the yellow and orange body suits, their limbs glowing, looking like skinny aliens sitting, standing on crates, around the strapping King. “Look how much of the spandex left-back. And how much body suits done already — we could make this work.”
“Whoa donkey. Whoa whoa donkey!” rattles again on the insistent radio. One of the luminous bodies springs up and starts jockeying around.
“Exactly! What I thinking ’bout is … the ‘Donkey Rally’—hear me out! Serious, watch — we making heads and de tails…”
The Amazonian Queen of the Band looks at her subjects, handsome face aglow and amused, waiting for the outbreak.
“I is a ass! I is a damn jackass? To jump down de road on Carnival Monday, dress up like a ass!”
“For Slinger? You mad?”
Three out of the sitting four jump up, gesticulating, while the infectious song by the United Sisters rallies on.
“Dat is pure madness. Slinger would never agree to dat. Is a joke!”
“No, look, I run it by he right arm a’ready. Is to save the band. You know how many people done sign up? Thousands. And yes, is a joke but Kaneeval is about joke and at least everybody go have fun. I make a headpiece prototype…” The King, who has always been admired for his physique and skill at carrying the massive costumes, stalks into the office to retrieve his prototype.
The Queen smiles knowingly and the performers and craftsmen mumble, milling about. “Whoa donkey” fades into the monotone of the radio DJ and the King appears again quickly, wearing a brown stuffed donkey head with fluorescent net ears sticking up. The effect is even more comical on his spandexed oversized body, with a cloth tail swinging behind. The whole pack falls about rolling on the ground, kicking up and slapping each other like real asses. They laugh, they laugh, they laugh till they cry, and even the Queen joins in. The King is mad but he holds his ground. Till they cool down, spluttering and begging for the song to come back on the radio again. The Queen sniffs through her laughy-tears, “Allyou listen, man, is not a joke. He have a good idea here, oooh … a good idea. And allyou could help, try nuh.”
The old wire-bender man, sitting in the darkest corner all this time, steups his teeth.
“Ah sure if Slinger mad enough to ketch de joke, he could design some real boss-ass head! If he want to.”
“Yeah, right, I is Slinger ass a’ready. Whoa whoa … yuh think he go even listen? Jesus!”
* * *
Sam’s Queen know the best way to get her son back on track is cooking. Even though he have no appetite and he not interested in nothing, she will get him back in the kitchen. The household quiet quiet. The grass and all in the neighborhood silent these days. The little drain, running from the backyard all the way ’long the edge of the empty field to the back of Douli murder house, choke up with water plants. But they not even sending out two purple flowers. Is a blight. Sam can feel it and she know it all along but what you go do?