Graceland (6 page)

“It was hot and dangerous.”

“I know, lass, but we couldn’t afford matches in those days.”

“I will miss dis place, Mama,” Beatrice said.

“Yes, lass. But we’ll call you back to be reborn into tha lineage again.”

“As a boy next time!”

“Why? They are such limited creatures.”

“But wanted.”

“I always wanted you.”

“I know, Mama. But remember de songs dat de women would sing when a boy was born? Ringing from hamlet to hamlet, dropped by one voice, picked up by another until it had circled de town. And de ring of white powder we would wear around de neck to signify de boy’s place as head of de family.”

“We sing for girls too.”

“Yes, Mama. A dirge. Mournful, carried by solo voices until all de town was alerted of de sadness of de family. And de ring of powder we wore was around de elbow to show the flexibility and willingness to work hard of de woman. When I come back, it will be as a boy. You know dat’s de only reason Sunday hasn’t taken another wife. Because I bore him a son.”

“Hush, lass, you need your strength, but tell your son tha things he should know.”

They didn’t speak for a while, the silence broken only by the call of wild dogs in hills far in the distance, the shrill of crickets, the throaty blues of frogs and Beatrice slurping the hot herbal infusion.

“Mama, do you think dere is something strange with Joseph and Efua’s relationship? Since his wife died he hasn’t been right. Why do all de wives die young in dis family?”

“Which question do you want me to answer, lass?”

“Never mind,” Beatrice said, as a shadowy figure approached, swinging a flashlight back and forth.

“Who’s tha’?” Oye called out, her hand reaching into the folds of her lappa for the knife she always carried there. Used mostly to cut herbs, its blade was a sharp enough warning to any mischief-maker.

“It is Joseph, Mama.”

“I’m not your ma,” Oye said.

“Good evening, Joseph,” Beatrice greeted him. Things were awkward between them since Joseph made a pass at her on her wedding night.

“Evening. Is Sunday home?”

“You know where he is. Since I became ill he lives at dat bar downtown.”

“So he’s at de bar?”

“Are you stupid, son?” Oye asked.

“Good night, ladies,” Joseph said, turning to leave.

Not long after Joseph left, Beatrice hauled herself up from the mat and headed inside.

“Good night, Mama.”

“You need to tell your son about tha sickness, Beatrice. You need to prepare him.”

“I am preparing him, Mama. I am teaching him things dat useless school cannot. I have taught him to sew, to iron, to cook, to read and to write at a level beyond his age.”

“Yes, lass. But it’s not enough.”

“Good night, Mama.”

“Good night, child. Be here in tha morning,” Oye replied.

When he woke from the nightmare Elvis stumbled out of bed and made his way sleepily to his mother’s room. His parents didn’t share a bedroom, though his father sometimes came to sleep in Beatrice’s room. Elvis guessed he had nightmares too, and judging from the sounds his mother made, he guessed his father’s nightmares transferred to her.

He could always tell when his father was in Beatrice’s room. His slippers, left outside the shut door, were a clear sign to stay away. When he saw them, Elvis would make his way to Oye’s room, which was outside the main house, next door to the kitchen. The short trip across the dark yard was terrifying, so he only went to Oye’s when he had to.

He opened his mother’s door and, in the dim glow from the storm lantern in the corner with its wick turned nearly off, felt his way to the bed. His fingers grazed the small blue Bible she kept on the nightstand. Next to it was her journal, bound in worked leather that smelled of things old and secret. He loved watching her write in it, and he would fetch it for her, inhaling the deep scent of it, thrilled that she trusted him not to look in it. And he never did. He lingered by the nightstand, touched the journal, rubbing his hand over the cracked leather binding.

Beatrice woke up to go to the bathroom. As she stood up, the lappa covering her slipped off, revealing her nudity. Before she could cover herself, Elvis saw the emptiness where her breast had been.

“Elvis! What are you doing here?”

“I had a bad dream, Mama.”

She saw the look of something nameless on his face.

“Come here,” she said.

He ambled over and stood in front of her. She sat down on the bed so they were the same height.

“Do you know what is happening to me?” she asked.

“Sure,” he replied. “You are ill. That’s what Oye says.”

“Granny to you!” she chided. “Yes, I am ill,” she continued. “I have cancer.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Dat’s when your body begins to fight you. So de doctor cuts away de angry part and hopefully you get well.”

“Was your breast fighting you?”

“Yes.”

“So now it has been cut away, are you better?”

“The doctor is not sure. It might have spread.”

“The anger?”

“Yes, de anger,” she replied.

“Why is your body angry with you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will you still have any children?” he asked.

She laughed uncomfortably.

“Why do you ask dat?”

“Well, you’ll need your breast to feed them.”

“I still have one.”

They both laughed at this. Then, seeing that his attention was riveted on the rumpled scar tissue, not quite healed in parts, she took his hand.

“Would you like to touch it?”

“Will my body become angry too if I touch it?”

“No, silly.”

He nodded and she placed his hand over the torn flesh. He moved it up and down, intrigued by the texture. She closed her eyes against the tenderness; then gently she pulled his hand from her.

“Come, get in bed now and sleep,” she said.

“What do you mean, she doesn’t have a breast?” Efua asked.

“I swear to God. She doesn’t.”

They were lying in the shade of some mango trees that grew in a clump by the river. They could hear, further upstream, the sound of women talking as they fetched water and washed vegetables and roots for cooking; downstream from them, the squeals of children swimming and the shouted warnings from the adults in their separate bathing sections, the men closest to the children, the women round the bend, hidden by shrubs. A boy ran up the hill glistening like a fish, all sun and water. At the top, he yelled and ran downhill at speed, disappearing from view halfway down the slope. The sound of him cannonballing into the water carried up to them. Elvis and Efua loved it here: close enough to everyone to feel part of things, yet far enough away so that they could be alone. Efua looked back from the river and the antics of the children to Elvis. At ten, she was only three years older than he was, yet her eyes looked ancient. Oye often cautioned her about her closeness to Elvis. It is unnatural for cousins to be as close as they were, always together, Oye would tell her.

Elvis caught her look and put down the mango he was eating.

“What? Why are you looking at me that way? I washed it before I began to eat it.”

She smiled and lay back.

“Nothing.”

“I’m telling you, she had no breast. She said the doctor cut it off because it was fighting with the rest of her body,” he went on, thinking the look had something to do with her not believing him.

“Dat sounds painful,” she said, massaging the small bumps on her chest. He looked at her and laughed.

“How would you know? Those things are not breasts.”

“How many breasts have you seen?”

“Some.”

The older women, in their fifties and sixties, often walked about with their chests bare. Even Oye did it. It was a custom that the British had not been able to stamp out in spite of fines and edicts, and one that the Catholic priests were happy to indulge. So he had seen his share of breasts, but he didn’t feel the same tightness in his chest when he saw them as he did when he saw Aunt Felicia changing, or when Efua’s tight buds brushed against him.

Efua stood up and stepped out of her dress and panties, standing naked as the tall elephant grass that grew around them.

“What are you doing?”

“Going for a swim,” she said. “Coming?”

Before he could answer she was off and running, breaking the water in a clean slice. He watched, wishing he could swim that well. Shucking off his clothes, he was naked in seconds and went into a running jump, splashing into the water beside her. She squealed and slapped water into his face. They fought for a while; then, tiring, they lay back and paddled, trying to see who could stare up at the sun’s glare longer. Near blind, they rolled over and trod water, playing water drums, their hands slapping the water in time.

“I’m getting out,” she said, shivering.

He stopped slapping the water and stood before her. Her arms were held in a prayer pose, fingertips brushing her trembling lips, arms, like the wet wings of some rare river bird, between her breasts. He stared transfixed at her hardening nipples. Reaching out, he touched one of them, the way he had touched his mother’s blank space. But this wasn’t his mother, and this space wasn’t blank. Efua’s lips parted and he suddenly couldn’t breathe. Where his mother’s skin had the consistency of old, cracked leather, this felt more like the smoothness of a taut mango.

“Stop,” she said, not moving.

He dropped his hand back into the water and they looked at each other oddly for a second; then he was slapping the water into her face and she was squealing with laughter and running for the bank. Dragged back by the water, every movement happened in slow motion.

“Be careful,” Beatrice said to Elvis as he put the battery-powered record player down. “I just bought dat record player.”

“I’m doing my best, stop picking on me,” he said.

“Stop complaining and put on some music,” Efua said.

“Shut up, you!”

“Both of you shut up!” Oye said.

“Guess what we are going to listen to?” Beatrice asked.

“Elvis,” Efua replied. “We always listen to Elvis.”

Beatrice laughed and set the plastic disk on the record player. The needle scratched the edge a few times as though undecided, then launched into the throaty call of Elvis Presley. Beatrice grabbed Elvis and began to dance with him. Her illness made her movements slow, although it wasn’t hard to see they were once fluid and smooth. Dropping Elvis’s hands, she grabbed Efua and pulled her up. Soon all three were dancing, watched by a laughing Oye.

It was dusk and the purple stain of night was deepening slowly. Lamps and electric lights, in scattered patterns, were coming on in the houses around theirs. From their veranda they could see the whole town unfolding like a jigsaw puzzle. The sicker Beatrice got, the more *often she held these impromptu little music-and-dance sessions. There were soda and cookies and smoked meat on the table and they stuffed themselves with food and laughter and dancing.

Somewhere in the house a door slammed. Oye and Beatrice exchanged looks. Then Sunday walked out onto the veranda. He stopped by the record player and yanked the needle off the record. The kids stopped dancing.

“Why did you do dat?” Beatrice asked.

“What is wrong with you people? What are you celebrating? Your death?”

“Sunday!” Oye cautioned.

“Shut up, witch. I am not afraid of you!”

Elvis and Efua ran to hide behind Oye’s skirt and Sunday turned back to Beatrice.

“By de time I come back, I want dis nonsense over! How will you get well when you don’t listen to de doctor, you don’t listen to me? Do you want to die?”

“Sunday, dere are children here,” she replied.

He looked at her and raised his hand to strike her. It hung in the air between them as if he couldn’t remember what he meant to do with it. With a sigh he wiped his face.

“Beatrice, see de kind of man I am becoming? Shit!”

And then he was gone, clumping loudly down the steps. The silence on the veranda followed him down the path until he disappeared from sight.

Edith Piaf groaned from the record player, settling like deep night over the veranda. In the flicker of storm lanterns, Oye and Beatrice sat sipping hot tea. Elvis sat on the mat on the floor next to his mother, while Oye sat in the wicker chair.

“Why is my father always so angry?” Elvis asked.

Beatrice smiled and ruffled his hair.

“He didn’t used to be dat way. Not when I met him. He was full of life, and we would dance all night and he made me laugh all de time.”

“Tha’ was just in the beginning, when you were too blind to see him for what he was,” Oye said.

“Mama! You never liked him.”

“Uhum.”

“It’s dis sickness. It has infected him too.”

“Does that mean his body is angry with him too? Will it start fighting him?”

“No, Elvis,” Beatrice said. “It’s your father’s spirit dat is fighting him.”

“And he’s losing,” Oye said, spitting into the darkness.

“Mama! Elvis, read your book. I have to write some things.”

Beatrice had her journal open on her lap, pen poised to write. Elvis nodded and silently returned to the book he was reading.

It was about nine p.m. and Efua had been sent home. From the veranda they could see a line of farmers returning from the fields, which were located on communal land several miles from town and worked from before dawn to well after dusk with hoes and other manual tools. Elvis closed his book and watched as Beatrice wrote down a recipe for an herbal treatment that Oye was dictating to her. He watched her spidery handwriting spread across the page as though laying claim to an ancient kingdom.

“This is what the plant looks like,” Oye said, handing her a plant. “Draw it next to the recipe. So you won’t forget.”

“What are you doing?” Elvis asked.

“Your mother is getting ready for her next life.”

“By writing?”

“Yes, laddie, she is writing down tha things she wants to remember in her next life.”

“Dead people don’t come back, except as ghosts,” he said.