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In a Garden
A high palisade that ensured nobody outside could see into where the nuns lived or the girls were taught surrounded St. Rose’s. Only girls with permission slips could ride the bus; the rest had to wait on stone steps outside the school walls, guarded by a nun who watched to ensure they got into the right car. As a car pulled up the nun would query the driver through his window, then straighten and call a girl’s name. While waiting, sitting on the steps like pastel pigeons, we could watch cars and people passing on the street and sidewalk. We were always out of sight of the naked swimmers but, still, there were things to see. One thing I saw was a heavily muscled black man with a rust coloured Afro, an auburn aureole around his dark face. He rode on the back of a garbage trailer, his legs dangling off the end, his back resting against a pile of bags. I remember that his pants were dirty, dirty white, his shirt was sleeveless and pulled tight across his chest. I caught his eye. “Girl,” she say. “You cut she eye on dah man.” Yes I did. I was 13 years old and he was older and he was black and he was a garbage man. And he had a halo and big hard arms from slinging garbage all day. And I was top girl in my form at St. Rose’s and a white girl from Canada and he rode the garbage trailer slowly past while I waited for my father’s driver to come and get me and take me home to Kaieteur Road where the ceiling fans made all-day breezes over the polished purple-heart floors and Victoreen with her waist-long braid of shiny black hair fought with Mazie the cook who would have a cool drink and maybe some breadfruit pudding waiting for me. And I smiled at him and he saw it and he laughed and smiled back and it was a big smile. My best friend Darlene saw it all and was shocked. |
