A Different Hurricane, page 21
Gordon unwraps his roti and notes the frown on the receptionist’s face. Almost an hour later, Hathaway, panting and florid, sweat streaming from his brow, comes into the office. May chose him. Gordon doesn’t fully trust him. He’s descended from Mount Pleasant Bequia Whites, who not so long ago stoned Blacks who ventured into their village.
Hathaway enters an office door behind the receptionist’s desk. He calls them inside ten minutes later. The drawing up of the papers is simple but long. With the exception of two acres of land that May leaves for Albert, their mysterious half-brother, or his heirs, she wills her part of the estate to Frida. They give each other power of attorney over their affairs, with Frida as deputy. It’s almost five when they leave Hathaway’s office. He accompanies her to the bus terminal. She’s uncannily silent.
When he can no longer endure her silence, he says, “It’s terrible what has happened to Allan.”
“God don’t let sin stay in darkness forever. What in darkness have to come out into broad daylight.”
How to respond to that? “It’s terrible just the same.”
“An educated, intelligent man like Allan choose to indulge in that kind o’ nastiness. I not sorry for him at all.”
Whoa. He says nothing.
“You did know he into that kind o’ duttiness?”
He doesn’t answer.
“No wonder he don’ believe in God.”
“May, Allan is in hospital with his head encased in Styrofoam and his right arm in a cast!”
“If he been living in one o’ those countries where they does hang bullerman he would o’ been worrying ’bout more than a busted head and a broken arm. I’s one o’ those who think bullermen belong in jail.”
“May, Allan is my closest friend!”
She stopped, turned, and stared at him stonily, then said, “How come you not worried ’bout your reputation?”
“What reputation?”
“So you approve! You approve of his behaviour! You not ’fraid people will tar you with the same brush? Birds of a feather flock together.”
“I don’t care what people tar me with.”
“Well, I is your sister, and I care. People is known by the company they keeps.”
“And a friend is a friend in good times and bad. All that happened is Allan got exposed about something that goes on all the time in secret — without the violence and talk and all that.”
She snorts.
They arrive at Little Tokyo. A minivan for the Kelbourney–Riley route is about to leave. She boards it, sits, then calls out to him, “When you bringing Frida to visit me?”
He pretends not to hear and walks out to Bay Street, goes into Veira’s Supermarket, where it’s quieter, and phones Frida to let her know he’s on his way. She says Beth’s in the room and that Allan’s awake.
Seven minutes later, he’s at the hospital. Beth is gone. Frida is red-eyed. She has been crying. A manuscript lies on the chair next to the one she’s sitting on.
“Where’s Beth?” he asks without taking his eyes off the manuscript.
“She left. You missed her by two minutes. She wanted to deliver this to you in person.” She points to the manuscript.
“Maureen’s memoir/journal?”
Frida nods.
He stares at Allan. Allan makes dismissive gestures with his left hand.
“What did Beth say, Frida?”
“Not a lot. She read two short passages where Mom wrote that you infected her with HIV, and that you had a boyfriend in Trinidad by the name of Trevor.”
“She didn’t say anything more?”
“No. But there was hate in her eyes and her lips were pulled back in scorn. I’ve never seen her like that. I wanted to run out the room.”
He’s silent. Frida begins to cry again.
“Dad, Uncle Al’s waving for your attention.”
Allan gestures that he wants to write. Frida picks up the clipboard from the trolley with the monitor and affixes a sheet to it. She hands it and a pen to Allan. He writes, Gordon, escape while you can. Stay away until this dies down.
Gordon shows the text to Frida.
“Dad, Uncle Al’s right. Go to Trinidad. Stay with Trevor or in a hotel. While you’re there, get a tourist visa for Canada and come to Toronto.”
Allan gives a thumbs-up.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Dad, you have to act on it right away. Tonight. Aunt Beth said she was going to share this information with the media.”
She violated Maureen’s wishes. No point telling the media that. Nothing newsworthy in that. A deep feeling of appreciation for Maureen fills him. Too deep to control. Tears come.
When the crying stops, he says, “Beth said nothing at all except to read from the manuscript?”
“Before she read, she called Uncle Al a fucking viper.”
Allan signals again. He writes: You’re both exhausted. I’m all right. Go home, have a drink, relax.
They leave. At the car, Frida gets in on the driver’s side.
As they drive past the market, he remembers May’s complaint that Frida hasn’t visited her yet. Frida will have to go alone. May’s statements have left him with a gnawing feeling. He doesn’t want to say it, but what he feels is betrayal, disloyalty.
“Frida, you’re leaving on Sunday. That leaves you tomorrow, Friday, and Saturday. May asked when were you coming to see her. And you haven’t yet visited Maggie. You must visit Clem too. He needs the visit most of all. I suggest you go to see May tomorrow. Phone her when we get in. You and I will visit Clem together. I hope he isn’t aware of all this commotion.”
Chapter 23
It’s 11:30 p.m. on Saturday. Earlier today he was excited when Allan wrote that he’d had his first intake of liquid food earlier. He also lifted his right arm a couple of inches. Now he has a clipboard, paper, and pen at his bedside.
But the elation vanished when Allan wrote: Made a deal with Beth. Won’t contest the divorce. She said if I gave her the house, she won’t cause any more trouble for us. I accepted. Gordon, leave SVG. Go to Canada or Trinidad and stay with Trevor.
“Uncle Al, where would you live?”
The Evesham house.
Frida’s reply was a screwed-up face.
They remained for a short while longer. In silence. Frida kissed Allan goodbye and said, “I want to be one of the first people you talk to when this cast comes off your head.”
He beckoned Gordon to come closer, held his hand, and squeezed it. Then signalled wait. He wrote in large print: Bye, Gordon. Please take the plane out tomorrow. Stay in a hotel if you have to. No one should suffer more than he has to — and held it up so Frida could read it too.
“I agree,” Frida said.
Back home, Gordon called Trevor. Trevor listened, offered no commentary, but accepted to lodge him while his application for a tourist visa to Canada was being processed. Online, Gordon booked a flight for the next day, thirty minutes after Frida’s. An hour later, he packed a small suitcase. Around 5:00 p.m., he called on Austin, told him he was going away for a few weeks, and asked him to keep an eye on the house for him. Austin offered to drive them to the airport.
* * *
Everything feels topsy-turvy. As he opens the cupboard to get the coffee grinder, his head begins to spin. He holds on to the kitchen counter until it passes. He gets the grinder and then the jar of coffee from the fridge and opens the tap to get the water. “None for me,” Frida calls from the corridor to her bedroom. He sits at the kitchen table and waits for the coffee to finish brewing. He wants to be fair to Beth. He wants to be angry with Allan. He feels as if he’s on a battlefield dodging enemy bullets from all directions. What is Frida thinking? He’s afraid to ask her. He knows she’s inside reading the journal. She knows the two crucial facts he wanted hidden from her. Tonight she’ll be mulling over them. The storm, if there’s one, will come in the morning.
The brewing is finished. He pours himself a cup, goes to sit at the dining table, and perfunctorily turns over the pages of the manuscript. Eighty-four printed pages. He looks up and sees Frida frowning at him from the archway between the kitchen and the living room.
“Dad, don’t be reading that now, and why are you drinking coffee at this hour? You made the travel arrangements?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” She points to the manuscript. “Leave that for later. You’ll have lots of time. Go have a shower, take another drink, and go to bed.”
He doesn’t answer.
She comes to the table and reaches for his coffee.
“Leave that alone,” he says in a menacing tone.
Frida shakes her arms in exasperation, leaves, and goes into her bedroom.
He gets up, goes into his office, retrieves the flash drive, comes back to the dining room for the coffee, and goes into his bedroom. He puts the cup on the dressing table, sits in the armchair beside it, takes his tablet off the dressing table, puts it in his lap, and inserts the flash drive.
Maggie’s homophobia comes into his thoughts. May’s. He remembers Allan’s tales of woe about Ephraim. He doubts Beth will keep the information secret. She will feel it’s unfair that Allan is exposed, and think he should be too, that Vincentians should know he’d infected Maureen with HIV. Can I live here and face that? Can I look Maggie in the face again? She would believe Maureen died of AIDS, not cancer. Oh, the satisfaction she’ll have that she was right all along, that I didn’t love Maureen.
His left knee is stiff and painful. The pain in his neck is throbbing. Maybe if he had been exercising … In Montreal, there was a gym in André’s building, and André had got him into the habit of exercising; he’d promised André he’d continue. If he’d continued, he be less stressed. Seems André had given up too. He thinks of taking two night Tylenols, begins to get up, but pain shoots from his knees down to his ankles. He remains seated and his mind returns to May. Such a self-righteous … what’s Allan’s word? Sanctimonious. I wouldn’t want her to be part of a jury trying anyone for homosexuality. What will happen to our relationship now? Turn this tablet off. But he doesn’t. Instead he scrolls down several pages.
January 15, 2015
I couldn’t sleep last night. Everything I ate seemed to be fermenting in my gut. Today I feel like a balloon begging to be pricked. The tragic news we’ve been subjected to for the last three days is not helping. Seven killed at Rock Gutter. Near Fancy. Went there one time. Had just begun dating Gordon. Allan drove. Four of us were in the car. Allan was with Winnie then. Two things I remember: St. Lucia looking like it was a stone’s throw across the sea and the steep ascent of the hill into Fancy. I couldn’t understand why anyone would choose to live in such an area. I remember closing my eyes as we descended the hill on our way back and hoped the brakes would hold.
I can’t hide my health problems anymore. On Sunday Allan and Beth came by. “Mo, you don’t seem well,” Allan said.
“I feel all right.”
“No, you don’t,” Beth said. “Your eyes are yellow. You’ve lost at least ten pounds. That dress is swallowing you.”
On Monday Allan phoned me from his office and said he’d made a medical appointment for me in Barbados for January 20, and, depending on the tests, I might have to stay a few days.
“Allan, we don’t have any money. It’s all frozen at Building & Loan.”
“Okay. I’ll pay for the ticket.”
“I won’t let you do that.”
“Put your phone on speaker and call Gordon.”
Gordon came. Allan repeated what he’d said.
“Maureen, you have to go,” Gordon said. “Never mind the money. We’ll manage.”
“My colleague Barry will arrange housing for you. Barry’s gay. It’s he I get your meds from. Don’t worry about the money. Barry will cover it and I’ll reimburse him.”
“I’ll go with you,” Gordon said.
“Yes, Gord, you should. One thing more: all this will be done in your real names.”
* * *
I hope Mother doesn’t insist on seeing me. She’ll pester me with questions that I don’t want to answer. Gordon said that on Saturday, when he took her shopping, she wanted to stop by. He told her I wasn’t home. That excuse is wearing thin. Wouldn’t surprise me if she shows up here unannounced. She’s afraid of spending money — fears running out before she dies — otherwise she would have already come by taxi. If I could manage on my own, I wouldn’t let Valencia come either. Nowadays she’s unusually quiet and sometimes I see fear in her eyes. I should ask her to tell me what she’s thinking. Of course, she could be having her own problems.
Now, I wait for the diagnosis. It’s all I can do: wait. Five days to go. And after that I don’t know how long the wait will be. Whatever it is, maybe pills will fix it. If not, I hope it will be quick.
* * *
February 1, 2015
This might be my last entry here. I don’t want to be penning maudlin thoughts. Last night I dreamt that Gordon asked me what I would like said in my obituary.
I arrived in Barbados on the evening of January 19, weak to the point of being dizzy from fasting and the “washing out” before a colonoscopy and gastroscopy. Grateful that Gordon was with me. I suddenly began recalling the names of the Barbadian students I was with in university. For years I exchanged Christmas cards with three of them, but eventually the friendships fizzled. In my last card from Elizabeth, she told me that Helen, who’d got a Ph.D. from London and had become a professor in Michigan, had died. That was seven years ago. Now I wonder if Elizabeth is alive. When Gordon and I made the trip to North America, she made us come a day early and overnight with her in her beautiful house in St. Joseph. If I hadn’t been in such a pathetic state, I’d have tried to contact her.
We stayed at the Kings Beach Hotel. Those ten days in Barbados … I relied on Gordon to get me where I needed to go. Morphine blunted the pain but kept me woozy.
The crucial moment in Barry’s office: a small room with large windows on two sides. It was midmorning and sunny outside. Pale green vertical blinds softened the light inside. My file was open on his desk. The silver chain from his glasses reached down to about six inches below his chin. The glasses amplified the size of his light-brown eyes. Gordon sat on my left.
“Maureen, the cancer has metastasized. Know what that means?” Barry said, rubbing his forehead and looking at me.
After a while Gordon said, “Yes, we do.”
“Several organs: liver, stomach, pancreas, for sure.”
“Anything we can do?” Gordon said.
“There’s chemo. I won’t recommend it.”
“What do you recommend?” Gordon said.
“Pain control — Allan will supply the drugs you need. Maureen, try to lead as normal a life as possible until the end comes. Distract yourself as much as you can. But talk about your illness if you feel the need to. Eulogizers often say that this or that person never complained, took it all in stride. I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”
Silence.
“This will get worse, won’t it?” Gordon said.
“Yes. You might have to resort to hospice care.”
“Never!” I said, speaking for the first time. “I’ll die in my own house.”
“Then you might need the services of a nurse. Maybe more than one. Gordon, be careful about overexerting yourself.”
Until Barry said that, I had forgotten that I was taking meds for HIV. Resentment welled up in me against Gordon and I began to cry. Gordon put his arm around me. It took willpower not to push it off.
“Did … did …?” Gordon said.
Barry frowned.
“Did the HIV …”
“… cause it?” Barry shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
He, too, is gay. Probably going out of his way like this to allay Gordon’s guilt. I could ask Allan, but he is Gordon’s friend. And what difference would it make?
What is it about a diagnosis that suddenly makes you feel worse? I ate solid food — not much of it, and yes, it bloated me — before going to Barbados. Now it just sits in my gut. Two days ago, Gordon began to prepare broths for me. Yesterday he brought me Boost. It’s thick and I have trouble swallowing it and it also stays in my gut.
Gordon wants May to come and give Valencia a hand. I said no. Since my return I barely have the energy to wash myself. I’ve stopped looking in the mirror.
Feeling nauseated now. Will have to come back to this.
* * *
November 17, 2015
Didn’t make it back here all this time. Today’s a rare day. My head feels heavy and I can barely keep my eyes open, but I’m lucid. Didn’t think I’d still be alive. Alive? Half alive, maybe less.
I reread the first few pages of this journal — it has turned out to be not a memoir after all — and saw where I wrote that I would come “back, revise, reorder, and expunge.” I won’t have time to finish pouring out, never mind revise.
Frida has taken a week off from work to come and see me. It takes the pressure off May, who came over my objections. She neglects her farming on the days Valencia is off. Gordon has relieved Valencia from cleaning the house and doing the laundry, so she can be with me when I need her. Seeing the state I’m in, she’s offered not to take her vacation this year … what a burden I’ve become to everybody!
Mother, too, wants to help care for me. I said no. She’s half crippled from arthritis; she’ll only end up exhausting herself, and her bossy personality will further upset me. She comes on Sundays after church, her pastor drives her. Of course, Gordon has to take her back home. This Sunday she was still here at 8:00 p.m. Claudia and Beth, who came around 11:00 a.m., had long left. I was exhausted and tried to tell her without coming out and saying it. Finally, I whispered to Frida to take her home.
“Frida, you’re telling me I’m not welcome?”
“No, Gran. It’s just that I can see Mom’s exhausted and Dad’s tired. Let’s go.” I heard Frida jangling the keys. Over the phone, Mother complained that we hurried her out of the house and she did not have time for her usual prayer. Mother believes in miracles and thinks that her faith will make me well.
