The Other Side of Paradise: A Memoir (19 page)

“Yes, Mr. Charles.”

“No, man—I am your Uncle Charlie. All the little schoolchildren call me that. Me is your Uncle Charlie, you hear?”

“Yes, Uncle Charlie.”

“Good, good, then. And make sure you get that food.”

He goes to his room and slams the door. Delano turns the Rubik’s Cube over and over without saying anything. I sit quietly until Miss Winsome calls me to come and get a plate. Delano says he is not ready to eat yet. I cut and bite and chew the food in silence. Uncle Charlie comes out of the bedroom and waves good-bye. I wave back with my mouth full. When there is nothing left on the plate, I take it back to the kitchen.

“Thanks, Miss Winsome.”

“Is nothing, man. There is enough food. Richard eat nuff, but Delano don’t eat too much.”

“Who is Richard?”

“Me tell you that already, man. Richard is me son. Him is Charles youngest. Delano little brother.”

“I thought you worked for Uncle Charlie.”

“Yes, man, I work for him, but I also have a son for him.”

“Okay. So do you live here too?”

“No, dahling. I tell you I only work here.”

“Okay.” I still don’t understand, but I decide not to ask any other questions about that. I lean against the wall and watch her rinse the dishes. Standing there makes me think of Grandma. I wonder if Delano has been to Kingston to see her.

“So how is your mother?”

“I don’t know, ma’am.”

“How you mean, you don’t know? When last you talk to her?”

“Almost three years now.”

“Three years! How you mean? She don’t call you?”

“No, ma’am. We don’t have a phone where I live.”

“My goodness! Delano call her sometimes from here. You should make him call her so you can talk to her. Is a good God shame when a little girl have to say she don’t talk to her mother in almost three years.”

In the living room, Delano turns the Rubik’s Cube. He has solved the red face. I want to grab him and shake him, but I sit there beside him and wait until he has solved the green face before I take a deep breath and ask, “Delano, Miss Winsome says that you call Mummy from here. Is true?”

He slowly puts the cube into his pocket. “Yes, I call her. But I call collect. Is not all the time that she accept the call. So don’t think me call her every night and talk to her.”

“So you do have a phone number for her?”

“Yes, Stacey, but is not for calling her for stupidness!”

“Delano, what you mean by stupidness? You know I have not talked to her from she leave me at Auntie’s house. Not one word. And she tell them she was coming back for me in two weeks. And you talk to her? What does she say about me?”

“We don’t really talk about you.”

I don’t say anything, but my eyes fill with tears.

“Stacey, man. Don’t bother with that! Is not like you think! She just talk to me about her garden and the weather and her flowers. And as soon as she get on the phone she say that she have to go. Long-distance phone calls are very, very expensive.”

Even though I do not want to cry, the tears roll down my cheeks and onto my white uniform. I use my tie to wipe my face. I fold my arms and press my back into the arm of the couch. Delano is turning the Rubik’s Cube again.

“All right, Stacey, you want me to call her now?”

I nod yes. He gets up from the couch and goes into his bedroom. He lifts the phone and dials the operator. He tells her he would like to make a collect call to Canada. Then he gives her a number that begins with a 514 area code. He waits. Then he hangs up.

“What happened? Delano, what happened? She’s not there?”

“Stacey, me tell you already that is not like how you think. She is there, but she pick up the phone and say that she cannot accept the charges. Sometimes she accept, and sometimes she doesn’t.”

“Well, give me the number so me can try on me own, then.”

“But you don’t have no phone up at Paradise.”

“No, but me can call collect from the phone booth on Church Street.”

“Okay, me going to give you, but make sure you don’t tell her that is me give it to you. She tell me not to give her phone number to any and anybody who ask for it.”

I am not any and anybody, but I remain silent. I’m afraid if I say anything he will change his mind. He writes the number down on a loose folder leaf. I fold it eight times and put it in my knapsack. It is almost five thirty. I tell him I have to go.

“Okay, then.” He tucks both hands into his jeans pockets. “Well, Daddy like you, so you can come anytime.”

“You sure? You don’t have to ask Uncle Charlie?”

“No, man. As long as you doing good in school, him will give you money. Him love when other children do well.”

“Okay. Take care of yourself.”

“Don’t worry ’bout me, man. Everything cool.”

“Okay.”

On the way home I read and reread the ten digits over and over again. By the time I get to the bustle of downtown, I have committed the unfamiliar sequence to memory. And I am in Paradise when I realize I can say the number backward and out loud while thinking of something else. Now, no matter what happens to the piece of paper, my mother’s phone number will always be in my head.

T
he more lies I tell at school, the more I have to do to cover my tracks. I begin to preempt the follow-up questions to my stories and prepare my answers beforehand. I learn to pause as if I am thinking hard about the question and give answers that leave room for reinvention later.

One Friday, I decide that I am riding to Paradise with the Grawleys after school. When the final bell rings, Uncle Hartley is already parked at the gate. I am both nervous and excited as we make our way to the white pickup truck. If Auntie finds out that I am riding with people she does not know, she will kill me. The truck can only fit two adult passengers, but Natalia says three children fit easily. Her father is a tall white man with a full graying beard. He looks very stern in the face, but as soon as he sees me, he smiles.

“You must be Stacey. I hear you hitching a ride on the night train to Georgia. Welcome aboard!”

“Thank you, Mr. Grawley.”

“No! No! No! We have no misters on this train. If you ride in my vehicle you are doomed to become family. I am Uncle Hartley to you and all of Natalia’s friends. Ask Natalia. Everybody at Mount Alvernia Prep knows me as Uncle Hartley. Now, Toni-Ann, jump in so Miss Chin can squeeze in between the two of you.”

As Natalia shuts the door, the strangest sensation washes over me. Packed in between the two girls in their father’s truck, I feel like Staceyann Grawley. Uncle Hartley makes funny jokes all the way. “You sure you not making the car too heavy, Stacey? I feel like we are a little heavier than usual. You sure you didn’t eat a rock for lunch today?”

A police car with the sirens wailing whizzes by. “Stacey, you didn’t tell me you were on the run! But don’t worry! I won’t let them get you. Just duck, and I will floor the gas!”

Natalia and Toni-Ann are beside themselves with laughter. I don’t know what to do with my red face. I sober up a little bit when we pass by my father’s house. The long stairway doesn’t look so long from inside the truck.

When we pass Blood Lane, I try not to look at the women standing in the road in their slips and brassieres. One of them is stark naked and bathing under the public standing pipe right there in the middle of the square. Children in dirty clothes wipe their runny noses on their bare arms. My face is hot and red. Uncle Hartley turns to me. “Which direction do we take to drop you off at your palace, Princess Stacey?”

I do not tell him that his truck could not drive the rocky path to my palace. “Just go up a little more, Uncle Hartley. Go way up, past Blood Lane, and leave me at that big house at the corner. I will get in trouble if my auntie sees me in this truck. I am not supposed to accept rides from people. I will walk the rest of the way, Uncle Hartley. Thanks for the ride home.”

“That is very sensible advice from your aunt, man. I should just come and say hello to her. Maybe she would feel better if she saw my handsome countenance. Then it would be okay for you to ride with the girls in the evening, because she would know who we are.”

A woman clears her throat and spits in the street.

“No, Uncle Hartley! I—I am just afraid that she will beat me. She doesn’t like when people come to the house without me telling her before.”

“Okay, Lady Chin, I will leave you to give her some warning. Maybe tomorrow evening, then?”

“Okay, maybe tomorrow.”

The next day when he asks, I tell him to drop me by my father’s gate. As I jump out of the van, I want to ask Uncle Hartley to wait for me, but I don’t. I need Natalia to think I spend the whole evening visiting with my father, so I just open the door and say, “Thanks, Uncle Hartley. See you tomorrow, Natalia.”

At the top of the steps I tap on the grille. From the top of the stairway, I can hear April squealing with laughter. I wish I were Uncle Desmond’s child. Then I wouldn’t be out here waiting on the steps like a stray dog.
Finally, Miss P. appears with an envelope. I wish I could go in and spend time inside the house like his real children. I sign in the right column, thank her, and promise myself that one day I am going to ask to use the bathroom or say I am thirsty—anything just so I can be inside the house. More than a month’s worth of lunch money and taxi fare in hand, I walk to the bottom of the hill, where I flag down a taxi that takes me home to Paradise.

E
verybody in the seventh grade wants to be Natalia’s friend. The girls who have been to her house after school say she has the nicest things: a waterbed, a personal computer, wall-to-wall carpeting to match the peach on her walls. Parents encourage their daughters to cultivate a friendship with Natalia. I like to think my mother would also want me to have a friend like Natalia. But Auntie is so backward she can’t even see how it could benefit me to develop a friendship with someone who is pretty and rich and popular.

It is getting harder and harder to refuse when Natalia asks me over to watch a movie or to swim or to do homework. At night I have dreams about living with her family. In the dreams we do everything together. And because I am no longer living in the squalor of Auntie’s house, my pimples go away and I develop a beautiful figure too. Natalia and I look like twins and everyone tells us how beautiful we look walking downtown, holding hands, and smiling.

At home, every time I mention my friends at school, Auntie tells me that the only good company is the company of the Lord. I know that she will never give me permission. So one Friday morning, as I am going through the door, I tell Auntie that the debate team is meeting after school and I am thinking of joining. When she asks what time the meeting ends, I say I don’t exactly know, but since the school has offered to pay part of the school fees of the students who make the team, I think it is a good idea to go. She grunts and tells me to make sure I am home before the sundown.

I know that Auntie would beat me to death if she found out that I told her such a baldfaced lie. But I am too excited to worry about that. That evening I climb into the truck and announce that my aunt has finally
given me permission to go home with them. Uncle Hartley looks at me like he does not believe me. I look him dead in the eyes and ask if it is still okay for me to come along.

He smiles and says, “Hmm, I really don’t know if that house can stand to have any more pretty girls in it, you know. Natalia and Toni-Ann blinding everybody as it is.”

“Uncle Hartley! Is it okay or not?”

“It is fine, as long as your aunt really knows where you are.”

“I asked her before I went to bed last night and then I reminded her this morning. She says she don’t mind if I go, as long as I don’t stay out too long.”

“Okay, ma’am. I really would love to talk to your aunt. But if she is not up to that, then…”

Their driveway is longer and much more beautiful than my father’s driveway. Trees line the pathway and there are plants everywhere. We enter through the side entrance. There is a separate room for doing laundry. The helper, Marcia, is dressed in a blue uniform. She smiles and waves at us as she stirs a pot. They have a very large living room that has peach carpet all over the floor. There are big comfortable couches and a big TV. Then there is a second living room with very expensive furniture in it. Outside, I can see a big satellite dish and
their very own
swimming pool.

Uncle Hartley says all hands have to be washed before we can have any dinner. Natalia and Toni-Ann have their own bathroom. The shower curtain is clear plastic with little yellow ducks all over it. Their brother, Mark, has his own bathroom too. And Natalia tells me that there is another bathroom in her parents’ room, and another in the den.

“Natalia, what is a den?”

“Well, everybody in the family has their own bedroom, and then there is an extra bedroom, which guests sleep in, or a room where we can just relax and chill—that is what we call a den.”

“Oh, okay.”

Uncle Hartley has a satellite dish, so we can watch American TV. Dinner is served on dinner trays and we watch
Love Connection
while we eat. I wonder if I will ever have a Love Connection. As it is, I don’t even have one person who I can say loves me, except maybe Grandma. But she is so far away.

Uncle Hartley rouses the girls and ushers us off to do homework. I
marvel that everybody in the house has a bedroom. After homework I watch CNN with Uncle Hartley while the girls shower. I like being at Natalia’s house. I like watching the American news in a large clean living room with an easy chair and remote controls for turning up the volume. I wish I could live here forever. I wish I never had to go back home.

“Stacey, what is wrong with you? Why are you crying?”

I don’t realize that my eyes are filled with tears. I stuff a piece of pork into my mouth and quickly mutter something about the food being extra spicy. I take my tray to the kitchen. Then I get my things and tell everyone that it is time for me to go home. When Natalia presses me to call Auntie to ask if I can spend the night, my heart expands and contracts at the same time. But I shake my head no and say very loudly and firmly, “Thank you, but we don’t have a phone. Plus, I really like to sleep in my own room at night. I really want to just go home now.”

I hoist my backpack onto my shoulders and wave good-bye. My legs feel like lead as I make my way down the asphalt path to the gate. I try my best not to look behind me. But I can’t help thinking that the long, beautiful driveway is even longer when you are walking.

I
hate waking up on the weekend in Paradise Crescent. At night, I can close my eyes and pretend that I am in Montreal. In my dreams I speak fluent French. My mother takes us to restaurants. I have Cheerios for breakfast and we have coats on because it is so cold. In the morning, it is hard to dream with the dirty wooden walls staring back at me.

Aunt June’s house in Bethel Town had wooden louvers: brown cedar slats separated by thin white strips of light with manners enough to creep quietly and slowly into the room. Not so in Paradise, where, as soon as the sun comes up, the harsh light of morning is immediately in my eyes.

On Saturdays, Auntie wakes us early. The whole day is filled with cleaning the living room floor, dusting the furniture, and washing all my clothes and my big smelly white sheet. When the washing is done, I pick up garbage and sweep the yard. Then I burn the garbage in the dump behind the house. If it is my turn, I have to cook dinner. By nightfall I am so tired I don’t feel like bathing. I only have time to drag the sheet from the line, wrap myself in it, and fall into bed.

But Sunday mornings are the hardest.

Sunday is a day that begs the body to stay asleep. And I am already tired from the day before. The music on the radio is soft and slow. The shops are all closed and people speak in quieter tones. At dawn, the coolest hours of the day, all I want to do is snuggle down under the covers. But no, I have to get up to catch Sunday school. At twelve years old, I know I am too old for things like Sunday school. On Sundays I wake up already annoyed with the day ahead.

“Stacey! Get up, is time for you to go to church. Stacey, is time for you to wake up! Gal, get up out that bed before I throw cold water ’pon you!” It is not even seven o’clock yet, and Auntie is already shouting from the veranda. I lie there, covered from head to toe, pretending I am asleep. Before long she is in the room pulling the sheet off me. She stands there until I sit up. She drops the sheet on the floor. “I don’t know who in them right mind would put that thing over themself at night. You really come from that nasty China breed that don’t give a damn about soap and water.”

I am not in the mood to listen this morning. I pick up the sheet and roll it into a bundle. “Please excuse me, Auntie. I think it is time for me to go to the bathroom now.”

“Put that thing down.” When I don’t drop it immediately, she grabs it and tosses it back on the floor. “I said to leave it there. I want everybody to step over it when them go to bathe. Maybe shame will make you keep your things clean. Only God knows how one little girl can smell so stink!”

I wish she would just shut up and leave me alone. I drop the rolled-up sheet by the bedside.

“And make sure this evening when you come home from church you wash that sheet and every piece of your clothes clean, clean, clean.”

“Yes, Auntie.”

The toilet is broken again. I peel off my T-shirt and shorts. Auntie is right. My clothes do smell like wet dog. I pee in the tub, because I am too lazy to fill the basin and flush. The water is cold, so I just wash the “necessaries” and quickly drag on clean panties. I wish it were Monday and I was going to school instead of church. I have to figure out a way to go to Natalia’s every evening.

Auntie’s voice pulls me back to reality. “Stacey, is what you waiting on to leave the house? Is almost eight o’clock already!”

I pull my yellow dress over my head and slip into my white heels. I
hate going to Sunday school. I hate heels. And the leather is chipped and peeling from walking the rocky path leading away from the house. Auntie is outside humming one of the Sunday school songs.

The songs are all so stupid. And the miraculous stories are even worse. Everything about church is beginning to feel very strange. Most of the stories we read in Sunday school are about telling the truth. First we read Bible passages aloud. Then we answer questions about them. The person who gets the most right answers is seen as having a deep understanding of God as truth. The winner also gets to take home a New Testament Bible or a bookmark with a Bible verse printed on it. I usually answer the most questions correctly. But I always want to tell them that the winner of their truth-telling championship is the biggest liar in Montego Bay. And that, often, I lie about what I think the real answers are so I can get the prize that I don’t really want. I am really beginning to loathe coming to this church.