Mr. Loverman Read online

  and you believed him

  then

  after Maxine born in 1970 you was sunk so deep into the swamp-a madness you temporarily lost your belief in Our Lord

  even to this day you don’t understand what happened to you

  just as well Barry didn’t believe in sending nobody to the crazy house, You see how quickly they put us in those places, Carmel? Getting us sectioned? Well, it’s not happening to the mother of my children

  which is why he let you ride your madness out

  that’s why he agreed not to let the doctor see you until you was showing signs of improvement, which you did after eighteen mad months

  but in the end it was Our Lord who raised you up, wasn’t it? soon as you started goin’ church again, your spirits lifted and it was like you was

  bathed in Holy Light and was blessed by His Hand and you glowed with His Love from deep within

  even though Barry said the reason you felt better was because of the Valium prescribed by Dr. Sampson (typical heathen speak)

  oh, but you’ll never forget that September evening in 1971 when Barry came home from work, sleeves rolled up as usual, showing off his strong forearms, canvas satchel slung over his shoulder, and he stood handsomely, broadly, a Hollywood heartthrob in the doorway, with his fine mustache and sexy eyes and thick head of hair, and he looked so shock that you wasn’t the usual catatonic wreck with madwoman hair in a scruffy dressing gown slumped on the settee barely managing to greet him

  no, you was wearing a new pair of cream nylon slacks and a cream nylon blouse with orange frills down the front, and you’d got your hair straightened into a lovely bob, and you had on a touch of foundation and peachy lipstick, and you and Donna was playing Snap! around the kitchen table collapsing into a fit of giggles while Maxine was sleeping in her cot by the fridge

  and then Barry announced theatrically

  I see the God-Pill of Mood Upliftment seems to have done the trick, Wifey

  and you realized it was the first time since Maxine born that he wasn’t looking at you like you was standing on the window ledge of a skyscraper about to jump

  best thing about that time is how Barry stood right by you

  but soon as you was back in the swing of things, he started forgetting that decent men come straight home after work, except Fridays, when they allowed to go down the pub with their mates

  or that decent men actually do come home every night; otherwise their wives get upset and end up crying themselves to sleep

  Merty says all men is dogs and that he’ll never change—even though Clement never spent a single night apart from her until he decided never to spend another day with her—running off with that whore-bitch Janet from church

  Drusilla says you got to make your man jealous, let him know he got rivals, more the

  merrier

  she should know, falling for all those sweet-talking charmers who only need tell her how beautiful she is for her to drop her girdled panties whenever they feel like popping round for dinner and a quick one

  she should learn to keep her fanny hole bolted until good husband material show up instead of this one in the front door and that one out the back door

  Merty says if Drusilla started charging she’d be a millionaire in no time

  Merty’s been getting more and more bitter since Clement left her and her eldest boy went to prison for “resisting arrest and aggravated assault,” when he was the one the notorious Stoke Newington police assaulted by beating him up in a Black Maria underneath a blanket so it wouldn’t show

  and now Merty holds prayer meetings four evenings a week in her sitting room, and she’s still got that cleaning job, but she don’t own her own home, because the mortgage plan fell through on her meager salary alone when Clement left her

  and Candaisy says you got to give husbands time to appreciate you (as if twenty years of marriage to Barry is not long enough?)

  she’s a charge nurse up at the Whittington, which y’all agree has a better class of patient than Hackney Hospital, where she was for seventeen years previous, and Robert don’t gamble no more so they bought their own house on Amhurst Road

  even Asseleitha’s a proper chef now for the BBC, with a mortgage on a one-bedroom flat in Shacklewell Lane, also known as the Front Line, but the louts down there stopped ssssssing her every time she walked past (in blatant disrespect of such a good, churchgoing woman), ever since she started standing at the corner of Shacklewell and Kingsland and preaching from the Bible with a loudspeaker

  which even you thought was a bit much but

  who else you ladies goin’ turn to?

  Asseleitha says God will sort Barry out if you ask him nicely, and you tend to agree with Sister Asseleitha, who’s no nun but should be

  Barry calls her the Patron Saint of Celibacy . . . like you’d find that funny, since you’ve not been getting no conjugals since Maxine conceived over ten years ago now

  in the meantime, you enrolled in an access course at Hackney Adult Education, and before six years was up you’d got yourself a 2.1 in business administration from the Open University at the grand ole age of thirty-four

  you, Carmelita Walker, née Miller—has got a degree

  you, lady, are finally fulfilling your potential

  Barry was proud of you when you collected your diploma in your gown and mortar board at the graduation ceremony all the way over in Milton Keynes, showing his better nature, even though it gave you the “academical advantage,” which, as he put it, can’t be easy for such a vain, egotistical man

  his problem is he’s not got enough staying power to study for his Achilles’ heel—a degree

  Barry’s a dibbler-dabbler who hides his flimsy knowledge behind an intellectual self-aggrandizement that is plainly showing off, but woe betide anybody who tells him that to his face

  he can dish it out but he can’t take it

  thick ego, thin skin—that’s him

  and then what happen, Carmel?

  the Lord came to your assistance, that’s what happen

  only two weeks after graduation in 1978 he found you a job with prospects: housing assistant for Hackney Council, sharing an office with

  Theresa from Barnet, who is twenty-five and engaged

  Joan from Manchester, who is twenty-six and never getting married

  Mumtaz from Leicester, who is twenty-eight and happily single, so long as she stays in hiding from her entire extended family and

  you can’t wait to get into the office in the morning and start cracking jokes with your new friends

  some lunchtimes you even enjoy a sneaky half of lager-and-lime with a ploughman’s at the Queen Eleanor

  although you’d prefer hard dough with your cheddar, and you even sometimes have a sneaky fag afterward too, which don’t make you feel as light-headed as the sneaky spliff Joan persuades y’all to smoke behind the bushes in the summertime in London Fields

  see, Barry’s not the only one with secrets

  got a photograph of him on your desk to show everybody what you got, the one from Maxine’s birthday party, when she was blowing out candles and Barry leaned over and kissed you on the cheek and you thought he was goin’ say, I love you, Wifey

  for the first time ever, but instead he whispered, Thank you for bringing me Maxine

  and you wanted to slap him

  as for Maxine, she got too much personality for she own damned good

  since when do children get to rule the roost?

  needs a good beating, but Barry won’t allow it, because he’s a pussy when it come to corporal punishment, treats her like his little princess, stuffing her bedroom with dolls and toys, allowing her to scrawl with crayon all over its walls and indulging her sulks, which just makes your job harder

  Maxine looks like him too, with her long-long legs and pretty-pretty face, prettier than Donna, but more of a handful than Donna was at her age

  Maxine might be ten years old now, but she still fights like mad when
you give her a cup of senna tea to clear her out Saturday mornings

  still won’t do housework without a fight

  as if you would allow her to be the first West Indian girl in the world to get away with not knowing how to look after a household?

  Barry lets her think she has a choice about things, when you know better—children should do what they told

  her finicky eating drives you mad too, and it’s Barry’s fault because he indulges her

  don’t like soursop, don’t like tamarind jam, don’t like sugarcake, don’t like ginger beer, sorrel, guineps, dates, dumps, stinking toe, saltfish, don’t like anything cooked in fat meat, don’t like stew fish, don’t like white yam, pumpkin, cassava, don’t like condensed milk in her tea

  what she like?

  Coke, donuts, crisps, burgers

  this is the problem with raising children away from their homeland

  as for Donna, thanks God she comes back every other weekend, even though she brings all of her laundry home for you to do

  and because you taught her to never wear nothing twice without washing it, it’s a lot

  she living in halls at Birmingham University, and in seventeen months’ time she will graduate in social science and then train to become a social worker, which you don’t really approve of, but Donna is too strong-headed to listen to your objections, and even so—a degree is a degree

  you already planning your outfit for her graduation

  and after Maxine has been dragged to bed, you and Donna curl up on the settee to catch up, you with a cup of camomile tea and her with a bottle of wine, which she almost empties (you notice)

  and you should never-a told her the number of nights you couldn’t sleep for weeping about Barry, even today, because now she’s always on at you to divorce him on the grounds of twenty years of patriarchal oppression

  she says black women been oppressed so long they forgotten what it is to be free, it’s all black this and black that since Donna went to university

  As a black woman I think . . . As a black woman I believe . . . As a black woman I object . . .

  Yes, Donna, you told her when she’d said it for the umpteenth time, you don’t need to keep reminding me you is a black woman, seeing as you talking to the woman who gave birth to you

  just as well you’ve always hidden those Barbara Cartland novels in the front room that you and the Ladies’ Society of Antigua been passing around ever since you arrived in England (Barry thinks you in there reading the Bible)

  it’s like an addiction because those books give you such a high that you

  can feel your heart pounding through your rib cage like the heroines in the stories

  unlike that book Donna gave you awhile back called The Women’s Room

  Mum, this is what you need to be reading

  but it was so depressing you didn’t even get past the first chapter

  Donna’s always doing the Bob Marley stand up for your rights talk, but every time she got a new boyfriend, and the latest is some Lesroy who’s been two-timing her, she goes all mushy and you’re the one who ends up consoling her

  you just hope Donna gets married to a good man who is worthy of her, soon as she graduates is best, and then gives you grandchildren to babysit

  she won’t be complete until she does—no woman is

  until then, she knows nothing about marriage, so you don’t heed her advice

  Pastor George, on the other hand, does, he’s been married twenty-three years and preaches, Marriage is forever and forever is not finite, it is in-finite

  he also says that people who are at it like bunnies goin’ be dining with Lucifer, and as for the homos, they goin’ end up raped by Lucifer himself, and they won’t get no kicks from it either, because his scorching hot rod’s so big it will go in one end and come out the other . . .

  half the congregation goes quiet when he says stuff like that

  the other half, including you, holler right back, because you ain’t got nothing to hide

  you might as well be married to yourself, seeing as Barry don’t touch you, and to think you thought that bastard had a low sex drive

  girl, you was hoodwinked

  like you care anyway, because the longer you go without getting any, the more righteous you becoming, not sullying your mind or your body with craven desires for a man who’s still too damned sexy for his own good

  keeping yourself clean for Him

  you not bitter about Barry, because you got equanimity, which comes from reaching out to Our Lord with a pure and open heart

  a whole hour every night Reaching Out to Him

  the worn patch on the carpet is visual proof of your Dedication to Him

  you always denied yourself the comfort of a cushion because praying is not supposed to be a picnic, but Candaisy told you just the other day the knees are the first to go in the elderly, and, seeing as you about to hit the big 4-0 in four years’ time

  you goin’ get a shag pile soon, in the Continued Service of Our Lord

  got your eye on a luxurious creamy one in Debenhams

  and so you give thanks for the future shag pile upon which you shall contemplate the meaning of His Life and reflect on how you can make yourself worthy of Him and Humbly Walk in Jesus’ name

  Pastor George says you got to give thanks for your good fortunes as a way to happiness or you goin’ end up mean-spirited and get cancer

  so stop feeling sorry for yourself and see what you got to give thanks for, Carmel

  what you got, girl?

  what you got this night while you been reflecting and cogitating on the meaning of your life?

  you give thanks for your two daughters, that’s what, and your lovely degree, your lovely job, your lovely big house that is the envy of everyone you know

  you trying to give thanks for your husband too, even though it’s now past midnight and you still waiting

  you close your eyes to pray, but it hurts so much after all of these years that they spring open again

  you goin’ try, though, isn’t it?

  you give thanks for Barry, even though you know in your bones that he is an adulterer

  and then you feel rage surging through you, and you find yourself slaying instead of praying—

  may disease stop his heart, O Lord!

  may a high-speed train cut him in two where it hurts, O Lord!

  may he die in agony, O Lord!

  may he die alone, O Lord!

  may he die begging forgiveness, O Lord!

  then you think, hold your horses, Carmel, yuh hearing yourself, woman?

  what did Jesus preach?

  love or hate?

  and what is love?

  Love is Patient and Kind! Love is Pure and Holy! Love is Bountiful and Unconditional!

  love is not vengeful or vicious! it does not envy or boast! it is not arrogant or rude!

  let us love one another, for love is from God and

  God is Love and Whosever Loves God has been Born of God and Knows God!

  who is always here?

  He is!

  who listens?

  He does!

  who is loyal?

  He is!

  who is kind?

  He is!

  very good, Carmel, now every time you feel yourself goin’ astray, you got to rein yourself in, and exercise self-control, which is the only way you goin’ survive this marriage—for the rest of your life, even though you can’t help shouting at that bastard through any door he chooses to slam in your face or you choose to slam in his

  but hold up, Carmel, hold up, dear

  now . . . what is forgiveness?

  forgiveness is a purification of the heart, you accept forgiveness for your sins, for your faults and failings, and you forgive the sins of others . . . like, for example, a certain husband who has not come home to his bed for two nights and counting . . .

  ease up, lady, ease up, you having a tough time of it tonight, isn’t it?

&n
bsp; your good side says one thing, but your dark side keeps overpowering it

  don’t give in to the dark, Carmel, be Filled with Goodness, be Filled with Light

  so . . . let’s start again

  give thanks, Carmel, give thanks that he actually comes home at all, same day or next day or next-next day

  least you still married

  meanwhile . . . keep looking for hard, factual evidence of his misdemeanors—in his wallet, his pockets, sniffing his clothes, eavesdropping on his calls and conversations, opening his mail, following him every now and again, and generally trying to disentangle lies from truth, because you goin’ catch him off guard one of these days and then Armageddon goin’ rain down pestilence on him

  like you need evidence? Only one reason man don’t come home—is because he out there fornicating with some bitch hag

  don’t need no private detective charging a fortune to work that one out

  don’t need a human judge in a human courtroom to sentence him to eternal damnation

  someone else go do that when he dies—the Boss Judge, Judge of Judges, Judge Most High

  even so . . . even so . . . you letting yourself down tonight, lady

  you deviating from the path of righteousness, lady

  fill your heart with love, Carmel

  it’s not that you don’t love your husband

  it’s just that at the age of thirty-six you been waiting twenty years for him to love you

  9

  The Art of Being a Man

  Saturday, May 8, 2010

  Next morning I wade through the fog of sleep to the landing and pick up the telephone.

  I already guess the news it will bring.

  Carmel’s weeping as she tells me her daddy dead. I feel for her. Don’t need to love someone to be compassionate. Don’t matter what your parents are like, nothing compares to losing them, whatever age it happen. Only thing worse must be losing one of your children.

  “He wasn’t a bad man, Barry. He just had a bad temper, that’s all. I’m sure he felt guilty about what he did to Mommy.”

  Easy to feel guilty after the fact.

  “My papi’s with the angels now.”

  “Yes, my dear, he with the angels now.”

  The fallen ones burnin’ alongside him. You see, Carmel? Your grief don’t change what he was, a narsy man, but I ain’t goin over that ground with her right now.