Lime Tree Can't Bear Orange Read online

  I stayed in the shade, at the first row of grapefruit trees. I had almost fallen asleep when I heard the thudding of Seafer’s hooves. I opened my eyes and saw Joseph Carr Brown riding into the field where the orange trees grew. When he saw Milo, he turned the horse around and came galloping toward me.

  “Sir, I came to check on the trees,” I said, getting up. “The grapefruits are okay. I looked at the leaves and bark and there weren’t any white stains.”

  Seafer’s red coat was gleaming in the sun.

  I said, “I haven’t checked the orange trees yet.”

  “I told you I don’t like anyone taking the horses unless they tell me first. You took Milo without asking.”

  He jumped down, and brushed the mud from his trousers.

  “Did you wonder if Soldier Ghost had taken him?”

  His face was serious. “I thought you were going back to Port of Spain.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “I thought you had a job there. Isn’t that why you left when Sula was sick?” “They gave my job to someone else.”

  A kiskidee bird said, “Qu’est-ce qu’elle dit! Qu’est-ce qu’elle dit!”

  “I hear Rodriguez threw you out. Rumors are flying around Port of Spain.”

  “That’s not true. Mrs. Rodriguez is crazy.”

  Then, “Wheep-wheep! Qu’est-ce qu’elle dit!”

  “Did you think that with his wife gone you’d become the next Mrs. Rodriguez?” He said this with a kind of pity, and I suddenly felt ashamed. Then, “Celia, I don’t think this place is for you. If it wasn’t for Sula you would never have chosen to come to Tamana. People who love the country live here.”

  “I’ll work hard,” I said, but even as the words left my mouth, I knew it was pointless.

  “You should stay away from Solomon Shamiel; everybody knows he’s trouble.” His eyes were deep blue like the far-out sea where big ships sail. “You have your whole life ahead of you, Celia. Try to do something good with it; make something of it.”

  IN THE MORNING, there was a truck leaving for Port of Spain. The tray was filled with grapefruit, piled high in a hill. I could sit up front, Joseph Carr Brown said. The driver was called Dummy, because he could not speak or hear. (I was relieved that I would not have to speak to him.) He would carry me safely back to town.

  Joseph Carr Brown watched us leave, along with Ruth, Tatton, and Dolly, standing in a line against the chicken fence. Tatton waved; there was sadness in his eyes, as if he knew I’d never return.

  At the top of the muddy track, Cedar was swinging back and forth on the gate. As we passed, she stood up tall and bowed like a tree in the wind.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  DUMMY DROPPED ME AT THE DOCKS. FROM THERE, I took a tram up to the top of town. I got off at the corner, and then walked slowly along the edge of the Savannah. It would soon be carnival; streamers and flags hung between trees, carts were parked here and there; men were carrying wooden blocks across the yellow-brown grass, ready to build the stand for the players to cross. Red dust was everywhere. Meanwhile, the sun beat down; it was hot enough to die.

  THE RODRIGUEZ HOUSE was locked up, at least the veranda doors and the front shutters. The outside furniture had been put away. It looked like no one lived there. I walked around the side of the house, and under the eaves to the back where I could hear water running. “You?” Marva said, as if I was a ghost, her long face at the kitchen window. She came out and stood on the step, hands on her bony hips. “You can’t stay here, you know that.”

  “Dr. Rodriguez told me I could stay until I found somewhere else.” Then I said, “Is William here?” and put down my bag.

  “He cutting the hedge. He has a lot to do before the end of the day, so don’t go troubling him.”

  I said, “I’d forgotten how miserable you are.”

  Marva sucked her teeth. “Well you better not forget because Dr. Rodriguez phoning here tonight, and when he ask me what goin’ on, I’ll tell him.”

  WHEN HE SAW me, William put down the shears and quickly made his way across the grass. He was wearing overalls and boots and they made him look even taller. “I was worried,” he said, wiping his forehead. “I thought you might stay in Tamana. I thought I might have to come up there and get you.” He smiled.

  “Tamana’s not for me. People who love the country live there.”

  “You staying here?”

  “I don’t know where I’m staying,” and I suddenly felt sad and hopeless about everything. “I hate Marva.”

  “Come home with me.” He said it without question, as if it was the most natural and simple thing to do. “I told you before, you have a place in Laventille.”

  “What about your mother? I’m sure she’s angry with me for not visiting her.”

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  “Solomon?”

  “He could say what he likes. It has nothing to do with him.”

  I would rather go to Laventille than stay with Marva.

  “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as that is sky,” he said, and pointed at the sky. Then, “You want me to help you pack?”

  And while Marva stood like a guard, we emptied my belongings— dresses, skirts, blouses, and books and toiletries—into boxes. I was surprised by how much I had collected. Many of these clothes had come from Helen Rodriguez. I took down the pictures I had stuck to the wall, the photographs of Hollywood movie stars, the postcard of Southampton I had taken from Aunt Tassi, a little map of England with the port marked in ink. Together, William and I carried the boxes out to the gate.

  “So where you going?” Marva asked, scanning the room, which, apart from the bed, looked exactly the same as when I had arrived. “Tobago?”

  “Where I go and what I do has absolutely nothing to do with you.” “You’ll never get work here in Port of Spain, you know that.” Then, to William, “I thought you had things to do? The yard needs water.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’ll see you in the morning, Marva.” In the doorway, I saw an upside-down broom, its bristles white with salt. I knew what this meant, this obeah spell; Marva was making sure I would never come back. I had once seen Aunt Tassi do the same thing, when she feared her first husband would return to Black Rock to steal the twins.

  “Don’t worry, Marva,” I said, “I’m not coming back here.”

  I told William we could wait for Solomon in the park, but he said there was no point hanging about. On the corner, he hailed a taxi. Next minute, my belongings were in the trunk of an old American car and we were driving away.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I CANNOT SAY THAT EDNA SHAMIEL WAS PLEASED TO have me in her house. Yes, she greeted me, her round face friendly and bright, but I knew her show of warmth was for William. There was no doubt, to forgive my long absence, I would have to work hard. And I knew, like everyone, she must have heard the rumors. “You’re very bad for not coming to see me,” she said, wagging her finger. “All this time I hear from William how busy you are. I wait and wait. I say, Celia D’Abadie will visit me one day. That girl wouldn’t let me down.” For some reason, when she said, “That girl wouldn’t let me down,” I wanted to cry. She realized, and quickly softened. “I forget your aunt die just the other day. William say you were close like two peas.” Then, “Come, come,” and she led me up the brick steps.

  The house had changed; there had been a small extension to the back, and this allowed for a larger dining area and another bedroom. The new bedroom was tiny, but there was a narrow mattress which was just about long enough. Mrs. Shamiel gave me two clean sheets and showed me hooks where I could hang my dresses. Meanwhile, William put the rest of my belongings in a crate, under the house. Apart from this extension, everything else was just as I remembered it; the porch with the two wooden chairs, the picture of the Virgin Mary, the cluster of banana trees, the breadfruit tree in the back, the larder with its stacked plates and pots.

  That night, Mrs. Shamiel cooked breadfruit and coconut, with baked chicken. We sa
t around the table, her, William, and I, and it struck me that although many things were exactly the same, others were very different. I was not the same person who had sat here three years ago. I ran my finger over the tablecloth pattern of apples and pears. I wished I was hungry; since the funeral my appetite had vanished. Mrs. Shamiel said it was because I was sad.

  “Nothing kill your appetite like grief. Sometimes God take away things we love and we don’t know why.”

  After supper, William got up and cleared the table, and then he gave me a lamp to take to my room. “Don’t worry,” he said, “you’ll be okay.” His eyes were soft and watery, like two dark pools.

  LATER, MRS. SHAMIEL knocked on my door. Her face was calm and not unkind. She spoke quietly, so quietly, had someone stood right there, they would not have heard what she said.

  “You and me need to have a little talk.” She sat on the edge of the mattress. Then, “William tell me it’s not true what people say. He say Mrs. Rodriguez go back to England because she sick and it have nothing to do with you. But we both know there’s no smoke without fire.”

  I drew up the sheet; I felt for the piece of black rock under my pillow.

  “These things happen,” she said, “these men in high positions think they could do what they like.” Her eyes were dark, but for the lamp that flickered them with gold.

  “It’s not the first time. Rodriguez should be struck off. One minute, he’s here examining you, and the next, he’s up to no good.”

  On the wall, her shadow was enormous.

  “This kind of thing goes on all the time. I’ve seen it again and again. It doesn’t make it right.”

  I looked down at the folds of cotton. “It’s not like you think,” I said.

  Mrs. Shamiel put her finger to her lips.

  “I want you to understand something, Celia. I’m not here to judge you. If anything I feel sorry for you. I know you had a hard time. I know when you came to Trinidad, something bad happen to you, and I pitied you for that. You’ve had some bad luck. So I don’t mind you coming here to stay in my house. But”—and here she made her eyes small like beads—“you and I both know how William feel about you. From the first day he put eyes on you he fall in love. You and me both know that.”

  I nodded.

  “So, I say this: if you hurt William, if you play games with my son, my precious son who would not hurt an ant, I will throw you out in the street like that,” she snapped her fingers. “You understand, Celia?”

  Again, I nodded.

  “Good,” she said, in a louder and more cheerful voice. “Now, let’s forget this little conversation, put it to the back of our minds.” She got up and she was suddenly very tall.

  “Sleep well. Remember that tomorrow is another day. Remember God is good.”

  IN THE MORNING, after William and Mrs. Shamiel had left (Solomon had not come home that night), I walked down the hill to the stand and bought a newspaper. I took it home, poured over the classified sections, marking up any jobs I thought I could do. Before the sun was too hot, I made my way to the post office where I telephoned several “domestic” vacancies. Mostly, though, as soon as I told them my name and where I had last been employed, they lost interest. That was probably because the jobs were all in Port of Spain. I heard Marva’s words, “Everybody know everybody in this place.”

  Over the following week, I applied for a cashier job in Hi-Lo grocery. The manager seemed to like me, but, for some reason, his assistant manager didn’t. “Where did you go to school? Why did you leave your last job? Where are you living?” The questions came fast as if she was trying to catch me out.

  I dropped off a handwritten résumé at the Queen’s Park Hotel, and it looked as if I might get a position as a chambermaid, but they insisted on a reference, which of course I couldn’t get, at least, not until Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez was back. I asked for clerical work at the main post office, but they said there was nothing. One morning, I went to St. Peter’s primary school in Woodbrook and explained that I had high standards of English and arithmetic and wanted to offer my services as a teacher. I showed the principal my handwriting, which she said was excellent. I offered to sit an exam, to read to her from the Bible so she could hear how well I read. “Perhaps you should think of going to university,” she said, her face sympathetic. “With references and a diploma, we’d be delighted to give you a try.”

  That afternoon I left the school and walked in the blistering sun up to the Botanical Gardens, where I sat under the African tree until dusk.

  What to do. What to do.

  I HELPED IN the house, preparing meals and tidying up the place. Mrs. Shamiel was grateful. She didn’t have time, she said. The bakery had been taken over and business was good. I swept the floors, and polished the furniture. I washed and ironed clothes, it was a way to earn my keep. It was better than doing nothing; it was better than sitting around thinking about my life.

  William came home from work as usual. He hardly talked about Marva or mentioned the Rodriguez family, but I knew they must be due back anytime. He always looked glad to see me. He told me, “Every day like Christmas now you’re here.”

  Solomon was out a lot; and when he was home, he seemed restless. Apparently, he was trying to buy a boat, to start a ferry service between Trinidad and Venezuela. He was looking for sponsorship. But William said, Any person in their right mind will see at once Solomon is up to no good. “They have plenty drugs in Venezuela. I hope he’s not getting into that.” Mrs. Shamiel must have told Solomon something, because he never asked about my plans, although I sometimes saw him looking at me, as if to say, Yes, she desperate now.

  Days passed. And then more days passed.

  THAT EVENING, WILLIAM asked if I would like to go out. “I could take you to The Black Hat,” he said. “The food is real good.” I didn’t want to go, but I didn’t want to stay at home either. Tonight Mrs. Shamiel was working late. Across the hill, just last week, a young woman had been found dead in her yard, her throat cut. Solomon said he knew who did it. “The baby father. They say she sleeping with some other man and he get jealous.” These kinds of murders happened often in Laventille.

  I didn’t bother to dress up. I wore a skirt and blouse that I’d had for some time, and a pair of leather sandals. William said I looked nice.

  As we walked through Woodbrook, he talked about a new movie opening next week. It was a western with an actor called John Wayne. Everybody like John Wayne, William said. I half listened to him, but mostly I was far away. I watched people out and about—young people—just like me. Only they seemed happier, somehow, like they were living, and not crawling through their lives.

  The Black Hat was on the corner of two streets. It was dark inside. Low lamps hung over wooden tables, and there was a horseshoe bar. It wasn’t yet busy, but I knew it wouldn’t be quiet for long. It had a lively reputation. William said you couldn’t book a table; you just had to turn up.

  “Sometimes it’s good to take a chance,” he said.

  “Is it?”

  And he smiled, as if I was making a joke. He asked if I would like a beer.

  “Yes,” I said, “why not. I’ll try it.”

  Next thing, we were sitting together near the window, and the place was filling up. William was smoking a cigarette. His eyes were shining, his face bright and open. The beer was refreshing and I liked the bitter taste; it soon went to my head. He asked if I would like another and I said yes! Then somebody put a coin in the jukebox and “Matilda” came on.

  “This is a great song.” William looked uncertain, but then he got up.

  “Would you like to dance, Celia?” He reached out his hand.

  “Why not,” I said, again.

  I let him gently pull me up from my seat, and lead me onto the small dance floor. We took a place in the middle and we started to dance, twisting our hips, moving down toward the floor, and back up again. William knew what to do. The song went, “Ma-tild-a, Ma-tild-a, Matilda she take me money and
gone Venezuela!” He twirled me around and then tipped me back toward the ground, then back up again, and round and round; slow, quick quick, slow, quick quick. At arm’s length, he pulled me to him and let me go, in and out, in and out. And then he put his hand on my waist, and mine was on his shoulder, and our bodies were pressed closely together like pages in a book. And there were cheers and whoops from the crowd, and somebody said, Pampalam! Pampalam!

  French fries arrived with steak and fried vegetables. There was so much of it, the plates with covers, and the huge steaming dishes with huge spoons, and the rich smells of onion and pepper and oil. I ate all I could, which wasn’t very much. William asked if I liked the food and I told him, yes. But then I suddenly felt sick, so I went to the ladies’ bathroom where I threw up. I waited for a while before returning to the table. “I’m sorry,” I said, “it must be the beer.” William said maybe we should go home. I was glad to step out into the night air.

  But the following morning I was sick again. Solomon had just come back after an all-night fête. In the kitchen, as he passed, I caught the smell of stale rum and cigarettes, and next thing, I was suddenly hit by a wave of nausea as if I was on a boat. He followed me outside. “What happen to you? Like every time you come here, you sick?” I went inside my room, lay on my bed and closed my eyes. The next day, the same thing happened.