Patricia Headlam, Gleaner Writer
Although my cousin Joel did not cry when he heard his good friend James was dead, his black face grew flushed and he left the house and did not return until after we had gone to bed.
My aunt, who is his mother, cried. She held her belly with both hands as if to keep the bottom from falling out and stomped and screamed. She surprised me.
She used to complain that James was leading Joel astray and always treated him with dislike and coldness. I did not expect her to be happy at the news of his death, but I did not expect her to cry so much either. I cried, too.
Joel had assured us he would be going to the funeral, but when it was time to leave he was nowhere to be found. That put my aunt in a worse mood.
She had been in a bad mood from yesterday when she opened the power company's envelope and realized that our bill had almost doubled.
That mood carried over into this morning; and now Joel was not here to go with us to James' funeral.
We leave, me in a blue dress and my aunt in green because she prefers to dwell on hope and life rather than on death. The neckline at the back of her new dress falls almost to her waist and reveals a little white spot which her floaty scarf cannot hide.
I have never seen the spot before. The people on the road say that my aunt does not know her age, but she is still young and everything she wears looks good on her. The green dress, though, is not suitable for church and funeral.
We walk to the church because it is nearby. It is just a roof on pillars, with sides open to the elements.
We see James' mother standing at the entrance, and although she looks as if she herself is dying, she revives long enough to ask for Joel.
My aunt mutters a reply and James' mother sags again. I know that Joel is in serious trouble.
We sit for only a few minutes; then my aunt drags me along to look at James lying in the coffin.
We wait in line. Everyone before me, including my aunt, looks and says James is looking good, as if he is asleep. 'Him don't even look dead at all.'
He looks dead to me. That thing lying there is not James. James snored, and had lips that were full and beautiful. My friends and I used to say James' lips were his best feature.
The turnout is good and there are many items on the programme.
The pastor says, 'If James were here he would want us to be happy,' and the congregation perks up.
But I feel sad. I want to do a lot of things after I leave high school and university. I want to travel to many places and I want three children. A girl first, and then a boy, and then a girl.
My husband and I will be professionals. We will live long and be healthy. James was only 18. I will be 18 two years from now. What if I do not live to be eighteen, or even seventeen? It would be terrible if I don't.
Granny, who is my great-grandmother, is 95, and her brothers and sister are still alive. I come from a family of long livers. Long, long life is in my genes. May God give me long life, too.
It is a comfortingly breezy day. The yellowish tall grass next door is luxurious and silky as the wind passes through it.
A large herd of goats roams aimlessly, until a brown dog scatters them.
Is that little egret chasing that goat? No, it is only trying to keep up. I am going to Sonia's house this evening to listen to her new CDs. Surely this service can't go on much longer. My eyes are burning.
I can feel my aunt's stare and would like to tell her that I am not sleeping but I can't be bothered.
'Blessed.'
Joel? I look up. The boy with the microphone in his hand standing at the rostrum is Joel.
'What the hell is Joel doing up there like that?' whispers my aunt, suddenly trying to arrange her scarf more correctly.
'Blessed,' Joel says again defiantly; and then he says he is going to do a tune for his friend.
Joel and his friends do not sing. They have no talent.
They used to deejay dancehall tunes on our verandah day and night. Aunt could not stand them. Many times they hummed parts of the songs when she was around. The little slackers. The deejaying continued half-heartedly when James fell ill and stopped completely when he died.
Although James and the rest of them (James was the ringleader) were terrible, I feel that I would rather live 24/7 with the racket they used to make than with the deejaying they did after he became ill, or the silence which fell on our house after he died.
Joel is singing, S-I-N-G-I-N-G, Amazing Grace, here in the people's church, in his green sleeveless shirt and blue shorts, his black track shoes and his hair styled in black pepper grain bumps.
His hair will not grow although he has tried many of the hair oils that promise length and beauty. His girlfriends give them to him. They have offered him bleaching creams too, but he has not accepted. He thinks he is gorgeous enough as is.
He is nice enough, but I would not tell him because he is vain enough already.
Aunt was right. Joel has a beautiful voice, but it is the first time I am hearing it since I came to live with them two years ago. He caresses the words. My cousin Joel is slim but his voice is big and wonderful and I can sense that aunt is torn in two, between pride and anger. I hope pride will win, even though she is now promising to box his head off his body when it is all over because he has shamed her by coming to church in those clothes.
We are not following to the cemetery, and so we three walk home together.
Aunt has had a hard time with Joel, but in the night I hear him - the same Joel who told her many times that he was a big man and she could not force him to go back to school - telling her he would like to do a computer course and would be seeing about it Monday morning.
Most times my aunt argues and rubs things in too much, but not this time. She shows wisdom. She says, 'Joel, you know that I will do anything to help my one son,' and leaves the matter there - for the time being only. I know my aunt.
