The New Moon's Arms Read Online Free PDF Page B

on Dolorosse. But tell me, nuh; why you and Clifton fighting?”
    “Our anniversary is next week. I bought us tickets to attend that speech on labour reform by Caroline Sookdeo-Grant.”
    “Not what you would call romantic.”
    “I have to see somebody to know if to trust them, you know? See if they look down and to the left when they lying—’cause you know a politician going to tell you lies—or up and to the right. My NLP teacher says—”
    I burst out laughing. “Ife, is what kind of stupidness that? You going to decide who to vote for by some kind of obeah?”
    “It’s called Neurolinguistic Programming. I’m taking a four-week course: ‘Instant Rapport Through Rapid Eye Movements.’”
    “Instant rapport with who?”
    “I was hoping with Clifton. We not getting along so good right now.”
    “Ife, don’t mess things up with that man, you know. You will suck salt before you find another one like him.”
    Silence. A sigh. Then: “Yes, Mummy. You rest good tonight, you hear?”
    And she was gone. I listened to the phone static for a second, playing the conversation back in my head, hearing where I had made it go wrong. Again.
    I kissed my teeth and snapped the phone shut. I threw it back into my handbag on the passenger seat, next to the yam I’d bought from a roadside vendor before we took the waterbus to Dolorosse. I led Gene the rest of the way home and parked in front of my house. When I started to think of Dadda’s home as mine?
    Gene pulled up behind me on the gravel road. We got out of our cars. He came towards me. Poor man; he looked a little shaky too from the funeral. “You’re home safe now,” he said. “So I will just go back and wait for the next waterb—”
    I felt a sudden panic. “No, don’t be silly.” I gave a little laugh. “The waterbus not coming for another forty-five minutes. At least come inside and have a cool drink.”
    He frowned. “But—”
    “No, I won’t hear any objections. I hauled you out all this way. It’s the least I can do.”
    “All right,” he said doubtfully. “If you’re sure.”
    “I’m certain.” I wasn’t, but I led him up the five steps to the porch.
    He pointed to the green wicker lounge chair and armchair that sat beside each other. “I’ll just wait out here,” he said.
    When I first moved back to Dolorosse, Dadda would sometimes let me help him out to the porch of an evening. I would lower him into the lounge chair, put his legs up so he could lie back. I would put a blanket around him and we would sit and watch the stars. Months now he hadn’t been able to do that. I started to ask Gene whether he liked grapefruit juice.
    Instead, I began to bawl.
    Gene leapt to his feet. “Mih lord,” he said. “You should sit down. You want me to bring you some water?”
    I tried to say, It’s all right , but words wouldn’t come out. The sobbing just got worse. It went bone deep, racking me to the core. Pretty soon I was wailing out my anguish, keening loud and harsh, like I was labouring.
    “Come,” said Gene. “Sit over here.” He tried to guide me to the chair, but my knees failed me. So he tried to bear me up, but I’m no fine-boned bird of a woman. I collapsed onto the floor. Best he could do was take some of my weight so I didn’t land braps like the soil on Dadda’s coffin lid.
    This wasn’t me. I wasn’t the type to faint away. I didn’t cry in front of strangers. But all I could do was pull my knees to me and rock, rock. And weep. A word came this time; pulled out of me with my breath: “Daddaa!” It spiralled up into the evening sky like a fleck of ash from a fire. It thinned out till I couldn’t hear it no more. The crying let up little bit.
    Gene got a good grip under my arms and tried again to lift me. This time he got me up and sitting on the edge of the lounge chair. He sat beside me. I hugged my arms around myself and rocked and wept. My muscles were rigid, like stone. They had to be. They had to hold me