and tomorrow and the next day and the next day. I’m more certain than the river making high tide.”
*****
Despite the daily grind and unending tasks from sunrise to sunset, Mary Allicock made certain her son was cared for. Nothing was more important to her than making certain her son ate well, did his chores, and was not left unattended whenever he bathed at the landing. She took time out to teach him as much as she remembered in basic arithmetic and reading and writing. Before she was married, she had lived at Low Wood, a hamlet a few miles from Tenaboo, and attended the Presbyterian school that comprised of one classroom, a few benches, and an all-too-serious Mr. De Groot, a product of Queen College in Georgetown. She reiterated many times, “I’m glad I get to know a few things other than cooking, washing, and cleaning.”
It was mostly by day’s end, his dad soon to arrive from Dalgin, and his mother sitting in the old rocker, combing her unruly hair, Jason half seated on the arm of the rocker, with his arm around his mother’s neck, and so it was for many a time until her fevers got worse.
“Jason, this story took place a long time ago,” she began.
“Your daddy’s granny went to pick up conga-pump leaves to make tea after a bad rainstorm. She had a habit of running off by herself, but because of her age, the family had advised her not to do that. But she still persisted in going to the tree, which was down a narrow path through the jungle about a half mile behind this house. That particular day she went by herself and never returned. After missing her for a while, the family went in search of her. They looked everywhere. Not a single soul except that under the conga-pump tree, a ring and pieces of clothing were found on the ground, nothing else. Your daddy says masacuraman must have come up from the river, searching for food, and happened upon this precious soul. He says masacuraman is half-beast, half-man, with claws and teeth like a jaguar. I tell your dad to be careful on that river he’s on back and forth every day. He’s always laughing at me. He would tell me about the time the river vomited him up when he was small, and since then, he and the river have a special connection. He said the river is connected to the Allicocks’ in a way I could not understand. His navel string is buried there, he says. Even so, that is why I don’t want you bathing at the landing all by yourself. You never know.”
Jason would cling tightly to his mother, his face close to hers, looking out through the open doorway onto the clearing of Tenaboo Landing, and, in the dark, see a crouching man beast lurking at the river’s edge. In a moment, it would be there, and in another, it would be gone.
*****
Cleo Marks lived alone in her small two-room house with a detached kitchen at the narrow end of James Street. It was plain but comfortable. In one room there was an old but sturdy Berbice chair, a rocker that creaked at the least movement, set in a corner, and a small round coffee table with a blue vase of plastic flowers. She had no television, but she was quite proud of her large Philips radio perched high on a makeshift shelf that was also home to her Bible and hymnal. There was also a small wooden table with a white tablecloth and two wicker chairs.
The bedroom was smaller, making the large four-poster bed and dresser seem out of place. Under the bed lay the night pot that provided nocturnal comfort since the shared latrine was some distance aback in the open yard. New linoleum covered the entire floor of the house, giving it a Christmas smell in the middle of August.
Since her husband’s death, Cleo had to struggle to support herself. The small monetary settlement she had received after his untimely accident at the Fernandes Wharf while off-loading mora logs was almost depleted. Fortunately, she had used the last two hundred dollars to purchase from neighbor Gloria her refrigerator. Gloria boasted, “I getting a fridge that can make ice.”
Cleo made frozen custard blocks that tasted as good as Brown Betty ice cream. She awoke every morning before dawn, mixing her custard powder, milk, sugar, and essence, and when pressed to share the recipe, she offered, “My special Demerara ingredient.” Most of the folks around thought it was nothing more than the good concoction of a blessed lady. Blocks would be ready by midday and, before three in the afternoon, were sold. Children came from as far as the Public Road to try the Cleo special.
It was Christmas Eve; the postman was early, perhaps hoping for an early finish for a stint of late shopping for the pending holidays. He pushed an envelope into the slightly ajar doorway.
Cards from Mary were self-made, nothing fancy, with a cut-out picture of baby Jesus on the front, and inside, “Love and Best Wishes for the Season,” written neatly with crayons. The inserted letter was a bit of a surprise. Mary did not write many letters. This was the first time in years that she had written.
Cleo read aloud to herself.
“Dearest Big Sister:
Special holiday greetings from your small sister, John, and our only son, Jason.
I know I surprise you for writing this letter, but it was necessary, given the circumstances. We are all fine, except for me. I get so often a bit of fever. Nothing for you to worry about. John says I got a bad cold that is getting chronic. I’m still getting by. We are still trying to keep our heads above the water. John works at a sawmill at Dalgin, and recently we have been baking bread and selling. The business is doing great.
Jason is becoming a big boy. He is thirteen and almost as tall as I am. He is growing up to be a kind, loving, and mannerly boy. I am so proud of him. I have been teaching him all that I learned at Low Wood, and there is not much more I can do for him here. He is the reason for me writing to you. John and I think it will be better for our son to spend some time with you so that he could attend a Secondary School in Georgetown, just maybe for four years or so. We know your place is small, but Jason would fit in without much fuss. And besides, with your religious ways, we are very comfortable putting him into your charge.
How are you managing since your dear husband passed? It must be tough going. Sending Jason will not be a financial burden to you, far from it. We will send enough to cover his school expenses and food and clothes. On top of that, we will add a small piece for you just for the hassle. We are certain that Jason will be as loving and obedient to you as he is to us.
We are planning for the end of August in the new year. Please let us know your intentions.
Your loving sister,
Mary
It was perhaps the aroma of the pepper pot simmering in the kitchen or the shout from neighbor Gloria, “Dear heart! You’re smelling up the place!” that brought Cleo’s mind back from its wanderings. She remembered the last time she had laid eyes on Jason. It was a few days before his ninth birthday. She had journeyed to Tenaboo by steamer, recalling the horror of being literally deposited into a ballahoo that rode astride an idling RH Carr in the middle of the river. Her fear was only subsided when, with Mary in command, the boat slowly detached itself from the steamer. A smiling Jason took her bag.
“Auntie, welcome to Tenaboo. You will be fine. Sit tight, and don’t lean off too much to the sides.”
Then holding on for dear life, she counted the moments as her sister expertly steered and her nephew paddled into the clearing that was Tenaboo Landing.
*****
It was the day before Jason’s fourteenth birthday. It was unlike any other, except for the daily routine of baking, cleaning, washing, and cooking. By that time, Mary had begun to bake every other day as the fevers became more frequent and her evenings reposes longer. Jason was leaving for Georgetown the next day. This was the last full day for some time she would share with him. Butterflies churned in her stomach. Her usually
