Читать книгу The River Flows On - Ivan Watson - Страница 6

Book One

John Allicock guided his ten-foot canoe dexterously into the small opening at Tenaboo Landing. He had done this many times that, with closed eyes or in the dead of night, nothing could go wrong. That day was no different. The strokes of the paddle caressing the coffee-colored waters of the Demerara River moved from gentle to silent in short order.

The river was in final fall. A narrow beach of brown sand was visible in the failing light.

Allicock had made his peace with the river a long time ago. It was the moment that sealed his fate and consecrated his very existence. At age seven, his guava-filled ballahoo was capsized by the wake of a passing bauxite-laden ship on its way from Cockatara. He was in the water before he knew it. Then blackness. He awoke a bit later to find himself sitting snugly in his boat, half his guavas intact, beached in a small cove. He was fine, except for a small cut on his forehead and an aching head.

“It was the river that saved you,” everyone said.

He grew up knowing the river was his friend, felt an inner peace and tranquility whenever he was on it, this mighty river streaming back and forth on its perpetual journey to the Atlantic. In fading light and sunset long gone, it was always a fairy-tale sight of water glittering in a thousand places in sheer delight.

As John entered his home, resplendent with its newly roofed troolie, his only son, Jason, ran to greet him.

“Daddy! You bring awaras.”

“I got a ripe bunch from your godfather, Mr. Cornelius, at Bruckship.”

Father hugged his thirteen-year-old fondly.

“Where’s your mommy?”

“Mommy’s lying down a bit. She’s not feeling so good. She’s got a fever and headache. Your dinner is left in the pot. I have eaten already.”

Speaking to himself, “Mary must be coming down with a cold again. She hardears. I tell her not to bathe so soon after cooking.”

“Mommy works too much. She’s killing herself.”

This was not the first time Mary Allicock had retired early to bed. Normally, she would quietly sit in the rocker facing an open door, looking out at the river in anticipation of her returning husband of twenty-two years. Lately, this practice was uncommon. She felt so drained after a day of washing clothes by the landing, cleaning, and cooking.

The elder Allicock had returned home after a day of toil at Dalgin. Sadeo Sawmill was in decline after many good years. John was able to avoid the dreaded layoff by agreeing to work for half pay. God knows he needed the money. “Half a loaf is better than no loaf,” Mary would retort whenever John asserted, which he did frequently, how Sadeo paid chicken feed wages and exploited the poor folks at Dalgin.

Mary Allicock broke her rest to greet her husband in the kitchen.

“John, how was your day?”.

“The usual. How you feeling?”

Mary managed a smile.

“Just a little tired and a bit of a temperature. Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be fine.”

“I hope so…something been bothering me of late. I have been worrying a bit about our future, and that has set me thinking about doing something else to help out. Can’t depend on Sadeo work forever. Especially now that Jason’s becoming a big boy. He needs to get some education or learn some trade or another.”

“I myself have been thinking. I suggest that the boy go and live with my sister in Albousytown. He can go to school in Georgetown.”

“Mary, you don’t want to send him to Albouystown, in that jungle of a place. And on top of that, where we will find the money to satisfy his needs, books, and clothes and a small piece for Cleo for keeping him? I’m barely making enough to make ends meet.”

Mary took the cloth wrapping from her forehead.

“I have an idea. Listen to what I have to say before you jump in. For a long time now, you’ve been talking about how Dalgin people always running out of bread, how they’re always looking for bread coming in from Cockatara every other day the steamer runs.”

Mary waited a moment for her husband to settle, his darting eyes finally glued on her.

“I can bake bread every day. You can sell some on your way to Dalgin and at Dalgin. As to my sister keeping Jason, she is a strict woman and a church lady. She would keep him straight.”

“You think you can stand up to all that work? You can barely cope now.”

“I will do anything to assist you in providing for this family, anything to help our son make a way in his life.”

“I’ll think about it.”

*****

John relented after a week of his wife’s endless probing. The daily baking and selling of bread started. It did not take long for Tenaboo bread to be a part of the daily fare among the river folk. One ardent customer remarked, “Don’t know what they do to make it so sweet. Must be that mud oven or some special wood they use to heat it with that gives it the flavor.”

As bread sales grew, John had to invest more time in the effort.

“Mary, soon I can leave Sadeo and his tribulations and save my energy for old age.” On such occasions, Mary would temper his enthusiasm.

“I am baking bread every day. I don’t know how long my constitution can take it, getting more tired by the day. Besides, business is a funny thing. Today it may be blooming, and tomorrow it can go boof.”

John would always remind her, “Mary, you built for the long haul, you going to be here today and tomorrow and the next day and the next day. I’m more certain than the river making high tide.”

*****

Despite the daily grind and unending tasks from sunrise to sunset, Mary Allicock made certain her son was cared for. Nothing was more important to her than making certain her son ate well, did his chores, and was not left unattended whenever he bathed at the landing. She took time out to teach him as much as she remembered in basic arithmetic and reading and writing. Before she was married, she had lived at Low Wood, a hamlet a few miles from Tenaboo, and attended the Presbyterian school that comprised of one classroom, a few benches, and an all-too-serious Mr. De Groot, a product of Queen College in Georgetown. She reiterated many times, “I’m glad I get to know a few things other than cooking, washing, and cleaning.”

It was mostly by day’s end, his dad soon to arrive from Dalgin, and his mother sitting in the old rocker, combing her unruly hair, Jason half seated on the arm of the rocker, with his arm around his mother’s neck, and so it was for many a time until her fevers got worse.

“Jason, this story took place a long time ago,” she began.

“Your daddy’s granny went to pick up conga-pump leaves to make tea after a bad rainstorm. She had a habit of running off by herself, but because of her age, the family had advised her not to do that. But she still persisted in going to the tree, which was down a narrow path through the jungle about a half mile behind this house. That particular day she went by herself and never returned. After missing her for a while, the family went in search of her. They looked everywhere. Not a single soul except that under the conga-pump tree, a ring and pieces of clothing were found on the ground, nothing else. Your daddy says masacuraman must have come up from the river, searching for food, and happened upon this precious soul. He says masacuraman is half-beast, half-man, with claws and teeth like a jaguar. I tell your dad to be careful on that river he’s on back and forth every day. He’s always laughing at me. He would tell me about the time the river vomited him up when he was small, and since then, he and the river have a special connection. He said the river is connected to the Allicocks’ in a way I could not understand. His navel string is buried there, he says. Even so, that is why I don’t want you bathing at the landing all by yourself. You never know.”

Jason would cling tightly to his mother, his face close to hers, looking out through the open doorway onto the clearing of Tenaboo Landing, and, in the dark, see a crouching man beast lurking at the river’s edge. In a moment, it would be there, and in another, it would be gone.

*****

Cleo Marks lived alone in her small two-room house with a detached kitchen at the narrow end of James Street. It was plain but comfortable. In one room there was an old but sturdy Berbice chair, a rocker that creaked at the least movement, set in a corner, and a small round coffee table with a blue vase of plastic flowers. She had no television, but she was quite proud of her large Philips radio perched high on a makeshift shelf that was also home to her Bible and hymnal. There was also a small wooden table with a white tablecloth and two wicker chairs.

The bedroom was smaller, making the large four-poster bed and dresser seem out of place. Under the bed lay the night pot that provided nocturnal comfort since the shared latrine was some distance aback in the open yard. New linoleum covered the entire floor of the house, giving it a Christmas smell in the middle of August.

Since her husband’s death, Cleo had to struggle to support herself. The small monetary settlement she had received after his untimely accident at the Fernandes Wharf while off-loading mora logs was almost depleted. Fortunately, she had used the last two hundred dollars to purchase from neighbor Gloria her refrigerator. Gloria boasted, “I getting a fridge that can make ice.”

Cleo made frozen custard blocks that tasted as good as Brown Betty ice cream. She awoke every morning before dawn, mixing her custard powder, milk, sugar, and essence, and when pressed to share the recipe, she offered, “My special Demerara ingredient.” Most of the folks around thought it was nothing more than the good concoction of a blessed lady. Blocks would be ready by midday and, before three in the afternoon, were sold. Children came from as far as the Public Road to try the Cleo special.

It was Christmas Eve; the postman was early, perhaps hoping for an early finish for a stint of late shopping for the pending holidays. He pushed an envelope into the slightly ajar doorway.

Cards from Mary were self-made, nothing fancy, with a cut-out picture of baby Jesus on the front, and inside, “Love and Best Wishes for the Season,” written neatly with crayons. The inserted letter was a bit of a surprise. Mary did not write many letters. This was the first time in years that she had written.

Cleo read aloud to herself.

“Dearest Big Sister:

Special holiday greetings from your small sister, John, and our only son, Jason.

I know I surprise you for writing this letter, but it was necessary, given the circumstances. We are all fine, except for me. I get so often a bit of fever. Nothing for you to worry about. John says I got a bad cold that is getting chronic. I’m still getting by. We are still trying to keep our heads above the water. John works at a sawmill at Dalgin, and recently we have been baking bread and selling. The business is doing great.

Jason is becoming a big boy. He is thirteen and almost as tall as I am. He is growing up to be a kind, loving, and mannerly boy. I am so proud of him. I have been teaching him all that I learned at Low Wood, and there is not much more I can do for him here. He is the reason for me writing to you. John and I think it will be better for our son to spend some time with you so that he could attend a Secondary School in Georgetown, just maybe for four years or so. We know your place is small, but Jason would fit in without much fuss. And besides, with your religious ways, we are very comfortable putting him into your charge.

How are you managing since your dear husband passed? It must be tough going. Sending Jason will not be a financial burden to you, far from it. We will send enough to cover his school expenses and food and clothes. On top of that, we will add a small piece for you just for the hassle. We are certain that Jason will be as loving and obedient to you as he is to us.

We are planning for the end of August in the new year. Please let us know your intentions.

Your loving sister,

Mary

It was perhaps the aroma of the pepper pot simmering in the kitchen or the shout from neighbor Gloria, “Dear heart! You’re smelling up the place!” that brought Cleo’s mind back from its wanderings. She remembered the last time she had laid eyes on Jason. It was a few days before his ninth birthday. She had journeyed to Tenaboo by steamer, recalling the horror of being literally deposited into a ballahoo that rode astride an idling RH Carr in the middle of the river. Her fear was only subsided when, with Mary in command, the boat slowly detached itself from the steamer. A smiling Jason took her bag.

“Auntie, welcome to Tenaboo. You will be fine. Sit tight, and don’t lean off too much to the sides.”

Then holding on for dear life, she counted the moments as her sister expertly steered and her nephew paddled into the clearing that was Tenaboo Landing.

*****

It was the day before Jason’s fourteenth birthday. It was unlike any other, except for the daily routine of baking, cleaning, washing, and cooking. By that time, Mary had begun to bake every other day as the fevers became more frequent and her evenings reposes longer. Jason was leaving for Georgetown the next day. This was the last full day for some time she would share with him. Butterflies churned in her stomach. Her usually steady hands shook, and the thought of him away in an unfamiliar place was a heavy load on her chest. She harbored serious misgivings.

Jason was a good kid, obedient and kind and loving. She was proud that she had raised him in the manner she did. She reasoned that he knew right from wrong, knew his parents loved him, and of course, he had learned well from her. “Smart boy,” godfather Cornelius would remark whenever he journeyed from Bruckship to Tenaboo to see his godson.

Mary shared her mixed feelings with her husband concerning Jason.

“I wonder if we’re doing the right thing sending the boy to my sister. I know it was me who suggested it. I’m really having second thoughts.”

“Well, I myself been thinking the same thing for a while. But when I consider everything, it might be the best for him.”

John sighed deeply. He pulled the sheet that covered the bottom half of his body over his naked chest.

“And besides, your sister’s expecting him tomorrow. Jason’s looking forward to going, and everything’s set. Let’s hope it works out. It’s up to him now.”

Mary clasped her hands together.

“I pray to God Jason turns out all right.”

With a gentle kiss on her cheek and a pat on the buttocks, John turned over and quickly fell asleep. Mary did not sleep that night and for many nights thereafter.

*****

“Jason, hurry up and get dressed. We are going to be late for church. This ain’t Tenaboo,” Auntie Cleo boomed.

“Auntie, I’m almost finished. I’m tying my yatins. See how they’re white like chalk.”

He knew that Auntie Cleo was a stickler for nice and clean footwear. She had hinted on his arrival, “Look, young man. People look at your feet first, then the rest of your body follow. First impression is important.”

“Good boy. Time for church.”

Jason forced a smile, placed the large Bible and hymnal under his right arm, and took his place alongside Auntie Cleo for the short walk to the public road and into the hands of Brother Simpson and the Restoration Church of the New Testament.

The Sunday service was special. It was the fifth anniversary of the church. It was a packed church, choir bedecked in flowing white robes that conjured up in Jason’s mind a band of angels sent from heaven for the occasion, and a rotund, balding Brother Simpson shouting for all to hear, “We are here to stay! Praise the Lord!”

For the most part, Jason was bored. The Sunday ritual of praise and supplications and the occasional “Praise the Lord” and “Hallelujah” that emanated from Sister Jonas, sitting in front by the altar, gave pause to a wandering mind.

*****

“Daddy, it’s Sunday. Please take me with you to help sell the bread.”

John Allicock was reluctant to have his son along on those trips.

“Don’t want people to look at you as if you’re begging them. I’m old and nothing bothers me. I don’t want that for you.” But he welcomed the company and reveled in sharing the time with his growing son.

Jason recalled that for many Sundays, together, with large jute bags filled with freshly baked, platted bread, they traveled from Tenaboo Landing, riding the crest of a going tide on the back of a sleepy Demerara. His mind traveled from the sound of paddle on water, the chirping of parakeets seated on the branches of low-hanging trees that hung over the river’s edge, to the several small settlements that dotted the banks of the river, on the journey from Tenaboo to Dalgin.

“Hallelujah! Praise his name!” shouted Sister Jonas. The reverie was broken. Jason was back again at the Restoration Church of the New Testament.

Jason displayed scant interest in most of the service; however, he liked the singing. Brother Simpson made the altar call; the organ started.

Just as I am without one plea

But that Thy blood was shed for me

And that thou bid’st me come to thee

O lamb of God, I come! I come….

Jason could be heard above the chorus of the choir and the screeching of Sister Jonas.

*****

“John! I think a boat is pulling into the landing.” Mary shook her still-sleeping husband. He stirred.

“I wonder who it could be this early on a Sunday morning. All week I got to leave before cock crow. Only time I get a bit more shut eye.”

“I’m going to check who it is.”

Mary rose slowly and, with a faint groan, heaved her two-hundred-pound body from the bed. Peering through the open window unto the landing, she remarked, “It’s only Mr. Cornelius.”

“Tell him I’ll be with him shortly. I got to tidy up.”

Mr. Cornelius laid his paddle down on the portico before entering the open doorway.

“Mr. Cornelius, how you do? On the run early. John’s been catching up on a bit of sleep before heading out with the bread. He’ll be out in a moment. Come in. You ain’t no stranger.”

He sauntered in and sat lazily on the rocker. His well-trimmed beard and moustache belied a face which the wind, rain, and sun had chiseled for most of his seventy years. Everyone called him Mr. Cornelius. When asked for his first name, as frequently requested, he would reply, “I am Mr. Cornelius, okay?” And that would be the end of the matter.

“Nothing coming against me. I fine as best can be expected. I making a quick run to Clemwood to pick up the money I lend that vagabond Patrick, your husband cousin. Hoping to catch him before he drink out all the money from the coal pit he sell.”

John entered. Mr. Cornelius, with a shrug of the shoulders and a raised hand of acknowledgment, continued.

“How is the boy doing? My godson must be one big man now.”

“The last we hear, he doing well. Mary’s sister doing a fine job looking after Jason. He should graduate in a couple of years. He’ll make his mother proud one day.”

Mary was all aglow. She smiled that large infectious smile, followed by a moment of uncontrollable laughter, a trait she shared with her sister.

“I hope before my eyes are closed, Jason will make his mark. I ain’t know how long I got on this earth. The damn fever’s still bothering me, and besides, I find myself coughing every now and then. I am not feeling the best. I’ve been thinking of seeing a doctor in Georgetown. Only thing, while I’m gone, the bread business is going to suffer. Heavens know we need the money. And—”

With a wave of the hand, her husband interrupted her.

“Mr. Cornelius! I tell this woman, you only got one life to live, and the confounded bread will take care of itself.”

“Better said than done,” thought Mary.

“I can handle things when she’s gone. How long could she go for? Maybe three or four days the most.”

Mr. Cornelius jumped up hurriedly from the rocker.

“I’ve got to be going. Mary, I’ve got to pass here again tomorrow. I’ll bring some bush for you to make tea. Going to knock that fever and cough out of you in no time.”

*****

Mr. Cornelius did bring a paper bag full of bush for Mary as promised. Lemongrass it was. Mary made a fresh brew every night and drank a large cup before bedtime.

*****

John Allicock continued his daily tasks at Sadeo and bread selling with unceasing fervor. He was no stranger to hard work. At about age twelve, his father, Harry Allicock, took him to the family farm located on the other side of the landing, a stone’s throw up the Tenaboo Creek.

His father had remarked. “You big enough to know what hard work is. Some sweat under your brow would make you hearty and strong. Tomorrow you will start with your old man.”

John did not need any encouragement for the task. He was thrilled by the thought that his father had finally come around to the idea that he had become a grown lad.

“I’ll work toe to toe with daddy,” he muttered under his breath.

They crossed the half mile of water into Tenaboo Creek and onto the farm. The sun was hot, unrelentingly hot. Sweat bore down the back, neck, and hands of the young man within an hour of cutting the underbrush and small trees to provide a clearing for planting. His father, noticing his flagging effort, was quick to intervene.

“Take it easy, son. Have a break. It takes time to get accustomed to this hard work. In quick time, you will be working your daddy to the ground.”

Harry Allicock and his son toiled until the sun and made the final dip beyond the top of the forest trees.

“It is going to be dark soon. Let’s get going,” he exclaimed.

A bit later, father and son, carrying large jute bags laden with cassava, plantains, and eddoes, trekked the narrow trail down to their beached ballahoo astride Tenaboo Creek. They had rowed for about twenty yards without incident, then suddenly, without warning, the boat stopped moving. John became frightened and looked at his father in horror.

“What’s happening? It’s like massacuraman holding the boat.”

A smiling father responded quickly. “Don’t frighten. We stuck on a tacaba. I need to watch out for them at low tide.” Father continued to reassure son with his calming demeanor. “At the count of three, we rock the boat together. Let’s go. One! Two! Three!” The boat, as if by request, slid off the submerged log into the wider stream of the Demerara River.

John spent endless hours with his father on the farm, learning all the vagaries of weather and land. He became a good farmer, however reluctant, without the outcrop of love that farmers feel when seeds are planted and crops blossom into harvest. His father had farmed all his life. That was all he knew. On Saturdays, he would take his produce down the river to the busy Cockatara market and sell to the swarms of people for whom Saturday market had become the celebration of a weekend. He earned enough to feed his family and put clothes on their backs, perhaps barely. He was contented.

As time wore on, John’s restlessness became more evident to his father.

“Daddy, I feel tired today. Don’t think I’m going cross the river.”

“Don’t get lazy on me, boy.”

“No, Daddy, I wanted to tell you for a while that I don’t care much for farming.”

John did not want to disappoint his father. That was the last thing on his mind. He was not too bothered by the physical demands that farming made on him. He was built for it. He could heave a bag of provisions, weighing over a hundred pounds, with one fling of one arm over a shoulder, and walk effortlessly down the pathway toward the creek’s edge. But John found no joy in the effort. He wondered oftentimes whether it was a symptom of something deep-seated, rooted in his consciousness, an affliction of a disaffection with ancestral habits. Whatever it was, it was there. No denying it.

John bowed his head, as if in acknowledgement of failure.

“I’m coming.”

With hands outstretched, Harry Allicock gestured to his distraught son his understanding.

“All right, but after today, feel free to skip the journey across the river with me.”

There was a moment of silence, broken only by a gurgling sound of a macaw craving attention.

“You’ve got to decide what is best for you. You can take a donkey down by the riverside, but you can’t make it drink water…… last time I been downstream, I hear Sadeo Sawmill at Dalgin taking on people. I understand they got a big contract to supply greenheart and purpleheart for the new housing scheme at Moblissa. If you don’t want to till the soil, you might as well cut logs and saw timber. I don’t mind, providing you work and help to provide support in this house. It’s far, but if that’s what you want, I’m all for it.”

John was deep in thought. The bleedings of the macaw sounded less urgent, a sign of affection returned. He was careful not to appear too overjoyed at his father’s suggestion.

“Got to consider it, along with other options.” Was this his ticket away from the monotony of the daily grind across the river?

“Boy, what other options?”

John knew from his daddy’s tone that he had become impatient with him, and he was hesitant to push him too far.

“I know you not in favor of me working at Cockatara in the bauxite mills. You said it too far. Another ten miles from Dalgin. And I’m too young to live in Cockatara on my own. That’s what I’m thinking about. The day after tomorrow is Wednesday. I’m going check with Sadeo, see if he still got vacancies.”

Many times, John recalled this conversation with his father. Often with sawdust in his eyes and a sore nose from breathing in too much dusting, he wondered whether he was in his right mind to leave his father’s side and ply his trade so far from home at a job he hated so much. But he was stuck. Time had passed quickly. His father had died. He met his wife, got married, and was now an aging fifty-year-old, still sawing and hewing wood six days a week at Dalgin, at Sadeo for half pay, and moreover, still having to sell bread to keep himself and Mary fed, with enough left over for Jason to live at his auntie’s in Albouystown.

*****

Mary’s fever and coughing did not get any better. As a matter of fact, at about the end of the second year of Jason’s absence from Tenaboo, she awoke sweating profusely, wetting her under garments, nightgown, and the mattress that lay bare under her. She was so concerned by this new development that she shook John, who awoke with a startle.

“What’s the problem, Mary?”

He turned and looked at her, with beads of perspiration on her forehead and clothes stuck on her as if she had been out in the rain.

“Mary! Good god! You sweating like a horse…you getting worse. Is time you make up your mind to check with the doctor in Georgetown.”

Mary had been resisting for a long time the entreaties of her husband in this regard.

“But, but—”

John stopped her short.

“No buts, dear. It is final. Next week you traveling on that damn white boat to the city to see your sister’s doctor. Write a quick letter telling her you’re coming to spend a few days, and don’t raise no issue of the damn bread. The bread business going to be here when you come back. You not going to die and leave me all alone here like a hermit.”

Mary had known that the writing on the wall was there for quite a while. She had resisted her husband for as long as she could, fully knowing that the bread excuse was not the reason for her obstinacy. She had harbored doubts about hospitals and doctors for a long time. She even boasted, “I never cross the doorstep of any doctor’s office and hope I don’t ever have to.”

Previously, in the final stage of her pregnancy, her feet had become extremely swollen, and her pallor was pale, and a worried husband had beseeched her to travel to the Cockatara hospital to give birth.

“I’m staying right here. Midwife Pollard from Yaroni will do just fine.”

It was. She birthed a healthy eight-pound baby, Jason, without any complications. Whenever she felt under the weather enough to raise John’s concern, the question of her seeing a doctor was always brushed aside. It was not really an obsession about the places and persons providing medical care but the lingering fear of the probing and testing done to find something for which there might be no cure. She reasoned, “What you don’t know can’t worry you.” Mary did eventually travel by steamer to Georgetown and stayed a full week with her sister, Cleo, and son, Jason, in the small house on James Street.

It was a memorable week, aside from the dreaded visit with the doctor and x-rays and blood tests. Mary enjoyed immensely the time spent bonding with her sister after many years and was reinvigorated and pleasured by Jason, who sat close to her on the Berbice chair in the evenings, reading verses of poetry he had written, a habit he had recently cultivated. She was impressed by Jason’s ability to enunciate, his clear, strong voice in full flow. How enthralling for her to observe this new side of Jason. He read aloud.

Barely audible

A tiny voice squeaks a silent word over the river

And into a life injected.

Down a lonely highway a man limps towards the shade shaking anger.

All fruits of reaping dispersed

Leaving for another crop.

As shifting sands disturb the reef

Pastures loaned

Cow dung raising a stench to heaven (or hell)

Failure to find driftwood on the turbulent way or

Stubs on feet in vacant spaces

And fear at the margin lending onto want

Stinging

Hurting

Must flame the forest

Run the river red

And leave bones on carcass drying in the sun.

Her eyes shone brightly, and with a clap of the hands, she remarked, “Beautiful! Jason, you are our pride and joy. Stay close to your auntie. Learn your lessons. The world is at your fingertips.” And with her characteristic broad smile that showed a couple of missing molars, she then retired to the bed she shared with Cleo.

Mary did not tell either her sister or son about the results of the tests or the diagnosis and prognosis of her illness. She was her cheerful self. On the day before she returned to Tenaboo, after a final visit with the doctor the day before, she remarked, “Everything is fine. Just a hard chest cold I got that get chronic. Just like what John said, standing up in front of that damn mud oven, day in and day out, is really proving to be too much”.

Mary returned to Tenaboo, to John, and the daily routine of kneading and baking bread. She fed John the same false story she had told before, going about her business as if she did not have a care in the world.

*****

“Jason! You’re sleeping all night in the Berbice chair and leaving your pillow and cover tossed all over the place like you back in Tenaboo. You’re almost a man. Just now is your seventeenth birthday, and you’re behaving like you come from off the streets. Another thing, I notice these days you’re slacking up and coming home later and later in the afternoon,” Cleo bellowed as her nephew packed his lunch and books into the old haversack before leaving for school.

“I am late, lady. Stop the preaching. I’m off.” With barely a glance at his auntie, he hastened through the doorway and onto James Street for the short walk to the public road, to catch a minivan taxi on its way to Charles Secondary School in Georgetown.

Cleo was dumbfounded by her nephew’s attitude. She noticed a slow but rising tide of resentment toward her, the occasional excuse for missing Sunday church, and on weekends, instead of helping her to sell custard blocks, he left early in the morning, came home late in the afternoon, and when asked, he answered, “I’m going to the library.” But he never had books with him, not even a pen or pencil.

“Lady, the library got everything I need. Where else do you think I’m going? I need my space.”

She attributed the changes in Jason to his adolescence and perhaps to a country-boy-come-to-town syndrome. Had she been wrong all along? Cleo wondered whether her lack of experience in child-rearing was at the root of the problem. Had she been too harsh? Too soft? Too indulgent? The thought of Jason going astray under her watch weighed heavily on her. It was unthinkable to disappoint her sister, who relied on her and trusted her. On her knees, on the hard linoleum floor, she poured out her soul to her maker:

“Lord God, your humble servant comes before thee in great distress. I have no one to turn to, for you are all I know. I thank you for allowing my sister’s son to come and stay with me, to bring some joy and happiness in the evening of my life. Now I don’t know what is becoming of this young man. He is slipping away from your loving arms. Help him make it back to you. You are the only one who can do it, Lord. Let him find the peace that passeth all understanding and a refuge in the eye of a storm. Praise be to your holy name. Amen.”

Cleo kept a close watch on Jason. She questioned him at every turn. He reciprocated with brief answers and, at times, sulking and sucking his teeth, always in a hurry to go somewhere. He stopped addressing her as auntie, just lady.

*****

A month after his seventeenth birthday, Jason left home hurriedly in the morning for school. His auntie was preoccupied in the kitchen, pouring the custard mix into the trays before placement in the refrigerator. Jason left without a word.

“This boy getting beside himself,” she muttered. “I will teach him a lesson in manners this afternoon. He’s becoming too big for his shoes.”

It was late in the afternoon. Jason had not returned. She wondered, “He must be held up somewhere, or maybe an accident. Oh God! I hope nothing bad happened.”

She sat on the Berbice chair and waited until darkness. A fear of the unknown crept into her consciousness.

“Where could this boy be at this hour?” She sat up, paced the floor, and all the while, prayed for her nephew’s safe return.

It came like a bolt out of the blue.

“Let me check under the bed.” To her absolute horror, Jason’s small duffel bag of clothes was gone, and in its place stood a stack of schoolbooks in two small piles. “He took his clothes. He scampered out when my back was turned in the kitchen.”

Cleo went out to the portico that looked onto James Street. It allowed for a clear view of the roadway as far as the public road. She stood there hoping she might perchance see Jason and his duffel bag making the turn onto James Street. Her heart skipped a beat every time she observed movement from the public road. Several hours passed, and there was no sign of Jason. Neighbor Gloria, coming in from a late-night movie at the Regal, was surprised to see Cleo outside at this time of night.

“Mother Cleo, what are you doing out here at this time. It’s past midnight.… is something the matter?”

Cleo, adrift in her thoughts, retorted after some time. “Is Jason. He ain’t come home after school. It look like he plans to go off on his own. He took his clothes. I don’t know what’s come over this boy lately.”

Neighbor Gloria entered the gate leading to her house, all the while petting her dog that jumped up at her excitingly.

“This rice eater I got here is one lovey-dovey. I don’t know what to tell you, Mother Cleo. Boy children, when they grow up, can be a real problem if they follow bad company. He was nice when he first came. Lately I notice he gets broody. You try your best with the boy. God knows you look after his every need. Don’t fret yourself. When he sees the world outside, he must run right back.”

Cleo was lost for words. Her throat felt parched, and she could barely speak.

“I hear you. I’m going in.” And with a slight wave of the hand, she retreated into the house.

After four long days of hoping and praying, Cleo decided to visit the schoolmaster at Charles Secondary School. She thought of going first to the police but changed her mind.

“Ain’t no use making a scene about Jason. If he wants to play a man, let him go right ahead,” she mused when neighbor Gloria made the suggestion.

The news at the school was not good.

“Jason has not been in class for the entire week. We all thought he was ill,” Schoolmaster Benn informed her.

That night, Cleo, with a heavy heart, sat down at the breakfast table and wrote a letter to her sister, one which she dreaded to write:

Dearest little sister,

It is with tearful eyes that I write you about Jason. He left for school on Monday, and he did not come home. Today is Friday. Not a glimpse of him since. Schoolmaster says he’s been absent all week, and besides, he walked off with his clothes.

Recently, I noticed a change in the boy, with his late arrivals home and talking back. I thought it was the usual rebellion that many growing up boys have, and he would catch himself. I try my best with him, I do everything I know to keep him in line, but to no avail. I am sorry to disappoint you. I took him to church, give him anything he ask for. I am so sorry. I got to leave it in God’s hand. I am praying for him and also praying that God will comfort you and John at this time. Anything further, I will let you know.

Lovingly,

Your big sister, Cleo

John and Mary received the news about Jason with much consternation. Their first inclination was to leave Tenaboo and search for him. But where to begin? Then they toyed for a while, with the idea of placing an ad in the Georgetown daily paper, the Guyana Observer, that Jason might see or hear about. Eventually, they did neither.

“If Jason cares for us, he knows where his auntie is and where we are,” John remarked. However, they continued to hold out hope that sooner rather than later, he would turn up. It was difficult for them to accept that he would just walk out on his family and their lives without looking back or stopping at some point to reconsider his actions. For the present, life had to go on. Their love for him dictated a resilience in their ability to cope without knowing the whereabouts of their prodigal son.

Meanwhile, Mary was slowly dying. This much she knew. Her night sweats became more frequent, as did the coughing and fevers. It had become clear to John that there was something his wife had not told him. She lost a lot of weight and complained often about how tired she felt. She stayed long hours in bed, and the spark in her eyes was gone. Clothes were left unwashed for long periods, and with failing strength, she baked bread twice a week.

John was at his wit’s end. Returning early from Dalgin on the day of her fiftieth birthday and finding her in bed was about all he could take.

“Mary, you’re not telling me the truth about what’s the matter with you. You’re getting worse. You’re becoming a shadow of your former self.”

Mary was in tears.

“John, don’t get mad with me. I didn’t want to tell you because we couldn’t afford the treatment. We barely had enough to run the house and keep Jason at my sister’s.” She continued as she wiped her eyes with her dress.

“The doctor in Georgetown told me I showed early signs of lung cancer and that he could treat it. I asked him what it was going to cost for all the medication and radiation and so on. I can’t recall the amount. It gave me one serious headache. I said at the time it was a choice between me or my boy getting a chance to make himself something. I chose him.”

John said mockingly, “You sacrifice yourself for that ungrateful boy. Little good it did you.”

Mary was unapologetic.

“I’ll do it again anytime if I had to. I wouldn’t have felt good if I didn’t at least make the effort to do what I did. Someday Jason’s going to realize his mistakes. I might be in my grave, but I know it for certain.”

“All well and good. We’re closing this house tomorrow, and I’m taking you to see that doctor before it’s too late. You are all I got. The bread baking will have to wait.” And with an afterthought, he added, “I’m going to Bruckship to ask Mr. Cornelius to carry us to catch the steamer tomorrow.”

“Okay, John. I wouldn’t fight you.”

*****

They were met by a surprised Cleo.

“You could have informed me you were coming. Anyhow, make yourselves at home. You’re not strangers. Mary, you look pulled down.”

Mary slowly reclined on the Berbice chair.

“It was a snap decision we had to make. I come to see the doctor. I think I’m getting worse.”

“Let me get a warm cup of Ovaltine for you and John.”

As if by design, they did not discuss the continuing saga of Jason’s absence. They talked about silly old stuff like only sisters do until the wee hours of the morning while John slept comfortably on the Berbice chair. The next day, it would be the doctor and tests and more tests.

*****

The doctor was visited, tests were done, and the Allicocks returned to Tenaboo. It was just a matter of time.

*****

Joan Walton grew up in the adjoining village of Plaisance. From the age of fourteen, she attended the Church of Salvation of the New Testament—first to Sunday school and later to the morning service. She always looked big for her age, “took after” her dad, everyone said. Her mother had died of cancer when she was seven, and her father worked long hours in the fields at the Ogle sugar estate to support himself and his only daughter. Mark Walton was not a religious man, but he was glad he had insisted earlier on that she attend Sunday school.

“Your mommy would be proud to see how you’ve become one saint, Joan. You’re doing double duty for your pappy and you. You taking me straight to heaven with you.”

She had a good singing voice and soon joined the choir. Her leading voice on Sunday mornings was well received by the entire congregation. Amens were appropriate. Recently, the pastor took a strong interest in her. At first, it was a gentle pat on the shoulder, which was accompanied by a smiling Reverend Turnbull.

“How pretty is my little sunshine today.” Later she noticed that immediately after service, he would gravitate to her side, smiling, holding both of her hands, which made her uncomfortable, and then she would pull them away.

“Don’t be shy, angel. The Lord’s preparing you for great things,” he once exhorted.

Joan was very surprised on her eighteenth birthday, on returning home after choir practice, to find Reverend Turnbull sitting with her father in their living room. The pastor had visited them just once before, after a particularly heavy rainstorm blew a portion of the roof off the house. He had come to give solace and offered to have the congregation donate a portion of the following Sunday’s collection to help defray the cost of replacing the roof. Mr. Walton had thankfully declined. As she entered, her father, a burly six footer, with a rusty-brown complexion that spoke of exposure to too much sun, shook the hands of Reverend Turnbull. They both shared a hearty laugh, patted each other on the back, and were soon parted.

“Joan, we need to talk. Come. Sit next to me here on the sofa,” Mr. Walton began. “Since your mother died, you have been my whole world, and every time I throw a bundle of cane on my back, I say to myself, ‘this is for you.’ You grow up nice and pretty, got your school leaving certificate, and doing your short-hand lessons. I proud. You is eighteen today, and I know you getting to the age when men would look at you differently. They must be starting already.” He smiled, hugging her affectionately.

Joan fidgeted, wondered where the monologue was going. Father and daughter were in the habit of speaking regularly about Joan’s chores and church, and her dad’s work in the cane field, cutting cane, but this was different.

“Dad, what is this all about?” she queried.

He cleared his throat and shifted closer to his daughter.

“Your pastor want to marry you.”

“What?”

“He say that his wife died about ten years ago, and he been looking for someone to fill she shoes. And since he’s put eyes on you, he’s come to realize you are the one and only. He waited until your eighteenth birthday. He thinks it’s the appropriate time.”

Joan jumped to her feet.

“I don’t know about that! I’m planning to get a job after my lessons finish and to help contribute to the home. You’re not getting any younger. How long do you think you could continue with that back-breaking work at Ogle? Besides, there is talk around about it closing down. Who’s going to look after you?”

He responded, hands clasped behind his head and with a wry smile, “I heard about it too. I’m not worried. Got plans. Me and some of the guys in the fields are thinking about forming a cooperative. We can lease some land and plant some cash crops for the new market soon to open at Turkeyen. We plan to have a stall in the market. Sweetheart, you don’t have to bother with me. I can take care of myself. I don’t want you to feel obligated to your old man. I want the best for you…you of age and any choice you make is good with me. I will always love you.”

Teary eyed, she sat again close to her dad and kissed him on the cheek.

“I am going to wait awhile before I get married or do anything like that. I don’t dislike Pastor, nor am I crazy about him. And besides, he is so much older than I am.”

Mark Walton looked adorningly at his daughter.

“You are so grown up now. Your mother must be smiling in her grave, seeing how you’ve turned out. I will tell Pastor you ain’t ready and it’s best he look elsewhere for the chosen one.”

*****

About two months later, after Sunday service, Reverend Turnbull stood at the entrance of the church to meet and greet the brethren.

“Joan, my angel, how sweeter and prettier you look every day. Can I have a word with you before you leave?”

Joan had a hesitant look on her face.

“Daddy is expecting me. I’ve got to get home in time to cook dinner.”

“Won’t take long, dear,” Pastor reassured her. “Help yourself to some lemonade in the study. You must be thirsty. I will be there shortly”.

“Okay, I will. But I need to be away quickly.”

“Fine.”

Joan poured a glass of lemonade from a pitcher that was cold and inviting. She drank the refreshing beverage. After two to three minutes, Reverend Turnbull entered the study.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. I have got…” His voice trailed off.

Joan found herself alone in the study, lying on the desk. She was unsure of what had happened. One moment, she was sitting in a chair after partaking of the drink, and in another, everything was a blur. She felt a wetness under her dress and an uncomfortable soreness that gave way to an intermittent pain between her legs. It quickly dawned on her that she had been violated. The tears came in full flow. She struggled to her feet, causing the pastor’s Bible to fall off the desk. She left it there. She fixed her panties in place and, with an unsteady gait, left for home.

Mr. Walton greeted his daughter with a hug.

“You feel warm. Like you coming down with something? Church run late today.”

Joan quickly retorted, “Pastor’s sermon ran more than usual. The sun was hot. I need a shower.” She retreated to the shower, away from an inquiring father.

She did not tell anyone about the incident. She knew that Reverend Turnbull was considered by most people in the village to be without blemish, a holy man, and to some, even a prophet. To accuse him of fleshly failings would be a bitter pill to swallow, a bridge too far. No one would believe her. They probably would have said, “She’s in heat. She set out to trap the Lord’s anointed.” Joan felt ashamed and empty.

Three weeks passed, and her period did not come. She was never late. She panicked.

The next day, on her way home after her shorthand lessons, Joan stopped at the drugstore. She spoke to the pharmacist.

“Sir, my girlfriend asked me if I can buy for her a pregnancy test kit. She’s ashamed to ask herself.”

Sitting in the bathroom with a strip reading positive in her hand, she knew she had a problem. An abortion was out of the question. She was taught in church it was an unforgivable sin—if indeed she knew how and where to get one. Birthing a baby required naming a father. How could she? The village would revolt at the suggestion of this gentle godlike leader fathering her bastard child. She could not tell her father. He might make such a scene with Reverend Turnbull that it might mushroom into a raging scandal or push him to inflict bodily harm on the pastor. She thought, There is only one thing I can do. I will tell daddy I have changed my mind and would marry the forty-year-old Reverend Turnbull of the Church of Salvation of the New Testament.

*****

“He that knoweth his master’s will and doeth it not shall be beaten with many stripes!” Law And Order thundered in his usual refrain to the several hundreds of curious villagers who periodically were visited by this one-man road show of prophecy and folklore bundled together in a comical setting with props and all. Occasional laughter, whistles, and shouts would emit from the adoring throng as the old man would reach for one his mannequins and begin, as the villagers would say, “inflicting a serious licking.” Sometimes he would place one on his makeshift gallows to give effect to the final consequence of his admonition.

The first day of March was no different from the umpteenth time. Law and Order had set up shop by the Sparendaam railway line. He was his usual half-comic, half-preacher self. He had a scruffy beard and unkempt hair, with large piercing eyes that some villagers attributed to a not-so-sound mind. Others would say Law And Order just fine, a sound message delivered in jest.

*****

The smell of freshly brewed ginger beer adulterated the air, giving a strange, exhilarating feeling that excited him. Perhaps his neighbor Mrs. Bancroft was getting her brew of this popular drink ready for the harvest sale that her church had planned the week after tomorrow.

Never too early to make ginger beer: older, the better, he thought. A slight drizzle hurried him on as he entered the short mud path between his twin beds of tomato plants that led to his two-room apartment, just in time as the proverbial heavens opened up. He quickly opened the door.

“Boy, what a rain. Thank God, I made it.”

He entered the apartment darkened by the absence of sunlight and blackening clouds and reached for the light switch; of course, it was blackout time. Opening the closed window on the far side of the room was not an option; it was really coming down now. He stood still for a minute to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark. He took his damp clothes off and hurriedly donned his pajamas, jumped on the small bed, and soon was captive to the monotony of raindrops on an exposed galvanized roof. He stared into the darkness and recalled the first time he set eyes on this peaceful town.

*****

He sat on a bench that adjoined the East Coast Taxi Park. The midday sun of this sleepy capital of Guyana was out in all its glory. Jason’s shirt was wet with perspiration, and he fidgeted on his seat to avoid the scorching feeling under him. He dozed for a while.

“Hey! Hey!” The voice sounded far away. Jason opened his eyes.

“I’m just taking a break before catching a taxi,” Jason responded.

“Where you going? My taxi on the Plaisance-Sparendaam run,” the bearded middle-aged East Indian gentleman spoke loudly as a taxi with its horn blasting drove past.

“Yes, I’m going there,” Jason replied, thinking it best to be going somewhere. He had never been to Plaisance or Sparendaam before. Great idea! This might help provide some distance from Auntie Cleo if perchance she was pursuing him.

On arriving at the Taxi Park in Sparendaam, Jason exited the vehicle, thanked the driver, and slowly walked down Victoria Road—the main thoroughfare that divided the two sister towns. He passed Ali’s General Store, Chin’s Grocery, and a newly painted Church of God building before turning onto DeAbreu Street. He saw a cardboard sign nailed on the light post. Vacancy—Small Furnished Apartment. See Yellow House. Jason thought, Why not? This would be perfect. I have enough money to start off, then I can get a job and take care of things. I might be seventeen going on eighteen, but everybody does say I look old for my age.

Jason’s reminiscence was broken by the sound of heavy tapping on the door. It was very dark now. The rain had stopped. There was no puttering sound on the rooftop, only the constant drone of mosquitoes that occupied the night and every night in the town of Sparendaam.

He opened the door, and she entered. She strode across the darkened room with a quiet ease that indicated she knew the neighborhood. She settled in an old rocking chair that creaked on the wooden floor, and all the while, she did not speak. Jason lit his small kerosene lamp and placed it on the wall. The arriving light exposed a slightly built middle-aged woman with high cheekbones that maybe said there was some Amerindian blood somewhere in her lineage. She was, as the locals would attest, a sapodilla brown and a fine one at that. She still retained her youthful shape and beauty with a kind face that broke into a smile as Jason stirred.

“I am fine. I know you always worry about me coming here. No one saw me. You know I am always careful.”

“If you say so. I feel you’re taking a lot of chances.”

He held her hand and led her to the other room. They quickly undressed. He then laid her down on his bed and immediately began to kiss her, gently at first, almost boyishly, stroking her short black hair that was combed together and tied with a bow. She responded, hurriedly opening herself to his every move and gesture. With sweet caresses, gentle sobs, and barely audible moans, they journeyed as a rushing river moving inalterably over the mighty falls. They tumbled into the gorge, sometimes rising, sometimes sinking in the rise and fall of this enveloping flood and finally to rest on the peaceful bank of a raging river. The mosquitos circled and dived onto two naked bodies, easy pickings. He pulled a torn white sheet and covered their bodies to stave off the attacking horde, and for a while, it was all quiet.

Despite the sexual gratification and an ego satisfied, Jason had been thinking for some time now about breaking off his relationship with sister Joan. He was only twenty, and she was twice his age, and apart from the inappropriateness of it, he felt he had nothing more to get out of it. The relationship had run for a good six months. He was just waiting for an opportune moment to break the news to her.

He thought of the first time he had met her.

*****

While on a Sunday-morning stroll down Four Foot Road, he heard singing emanating from the Church of Salvation of the New Testament. Jason liked singing. He recalled his days with Auntie Cleo at her church in Georgetown. He hummed to himself as the congregation, with lifted voices, sang:

Come home, come home

Ye who are weary, come home

Earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling

Calling O sinner, come home

The church soon emptied. The pastor’s wife came out to the street to have parting words with the congregants. She saw Jason standing at the side of the road.

“Young man, can I invite you to come to our service? I am Mrs. Joan Turnbull, the pastor’s wife. Call me sister Joan though.” She flashed a welcoming smile.

Jason was surprised at her assertiveness. He cleared his throat.