"Take me now, Sweet Jesus, take me," she muttered, squeezing the rosary beads in her bony hands. The wave of pain crested, making her tremble, her frail body shaking the solid bed before blessed relief crept in. The good Lord never sent more than a sinner could bear but he was testing her. Every night, climbing into bed, she entered the Garden of Gethsemane. But the pain would subside. Sleep would come soon, bringing strength to face another day.
Today had been good. They had rented the St Ann's house that had been worrying her since the tenant moved out on Ash Wednesday. Trinidad's traffic had become bad–she could remember when black people were lucky to even sit down in a car–and many more people wanted to live in St Ann's, where traffic was light, than there were available houses. But times were hard. They had dropped the rent to the minimum required to pay her great-granddaughter's tuition. In her old age she should not have money worries; but Lorraine had only one more year at university; and her own needs were so few and simple now. She had five wigs, a different one for Mass every week, no matter how many Sundays the month might have. She had her own house and three others to rent, all paid for in full. Her husband's cigarettes had taken him long before he could gamble out her money. And what else would she spend it on? She ate soft foods, like a baby, couldn't even remember the last time she'd risked her remaining teeth to meat. Jesus had fed the multitudes with five loaves and two small fish and she didn't want the bread.
She had company all day, too, now. Her baby–she chuckled, thinking her youngest child was 65–had retired and come to live with her high in the Cascade hills. And now the St Ann's house was rented and Lorraine would become a doctor without her having to dip into her income; not that she had long again to suffer in this world, or need of money in the next. Some white people had rented the house, a couple with three young children. She wished she could get rid of all her black tenants. The last set in the St James house had paid her more compliments than rent. "You looking so young!" But she wasn't giddy enough to take basket to carry water. She had told her son to change the locks and left them to bake on the pavement. When they cried their long tears, she let them in to collect their clothes and go, fast. She knew there were black people in the White House now; they must be the only ones paying rent on time. The white people had asked for a key to move stuff in, although they wouldn't move in themselves for another week. Her son wanted to say no but she told him to let them have it.
She looked out the window at the city below. She could tell the difference between the Savannah and the buildings because the Savannah was dark. Her son had tried to show her Mr Manning's higher hotel but, day or night, she couldn't see it, only pretended to, so he would stop; and then he was busy showing her a ship in the Gulf! Silly boy. Give him 20 years, he would see. She giggled. Or rather, he wouldn't see. She'd made the money to buy this first house she put her parents in by scrubbing floors in England. All the 50 years she worked like a dog in London, she never thought she would rent to white people. She, who had to live the first five years of married life in a back room and shared a bathroom with two Paki families, she, lowest of the low, had become a property-owner in 1985, through Mrs Thatcher. All the disadvantages of her old council house–it was on Coldharbour Lane, a main road, right near the train tracks, and you could see the ugly police station from the front room window–had been blessings to the solicitor who bought it ten years later, when black people couldn't afford to live in Brixton anymore. And now she was back "home." Thank God and Mrs Thatcher and especially thank God for Mr Manning's 11-to-one exchange rate that let her buy three Trinidadian properties from the proceeds of her English one.
The rumblings started and she braced herself, gripped her rosary tight. "Take me, Sweet Jesus, I am weary," she muttered, more out of habit than need, because she knew the pain would now quickly taper off to mild, and she would soon sleep.
The phone rang.
"Mrs Norris?" It was the white man who had rented her house today. "Yes," she said, letting her London "haccent" come to the fore–her "white-people" voice, "this is her."
"I hope I didn't wake you?"
"No," she replied, "I had was to answer the phone anyway."
There was silence on the other end, so she spoke up.
"It nice to have decent folks in my 'ouse," she said. "I was 'appy to lower the rent for you. I feels more better than it just loie there hempty."
The man coughed and then spoke fast, as though the phone was burning his hand.
"I'm afraid we can't take the house," he said. "We found somewhere cheaper. It's not as nice but we have to live within our means."
The pain was creeping up again.
?"Thank you," said the man, "for everything."
"For nothing!" she thought, but didn't say it aloud.
?"God bless," said the man. Then she heard a click.
She closed her eyes. Sleep pulled her under.
She dreamed she was sweeping, and the dust kept blowing into her eyes.
BC Pires is taking time out to the city limits. Read a longer, more libellous version of this column and more of his writings at www.BCraw.com
