Nightcap
As Mathilda placed a big bowl
of soup before Edwin, he grunted. It was a hearty Caribbean soup for the healthy,
not a broth. She could see his mouth-watering.
Earlier,
she had seen him watching her as usual as she shelled pigeon peas, peeled
dasheens, white potatoes, yams and green bananas. She had sliced already peeled
carrots, chopped celery and balled cornmeal-flour dumplings in her palms.
After
that, she had gradually dropped them into a huge pot in which beef had been
boiling with onions and beef cube seasoning. Edwin was standing next to her
when the soup was done.
She
knew her soup was the only thing left that Edwin liked about her. She made a superb
one. It would last a few days.
It
was 7:00 p.m. Supper was on time and it smelled delicious.
Edwin
and Mathilda had married late. She in her fifties, he in his seventies. Edwin
was a tall man with a broad face and high cheekbones. His face reminded Mathilda
of a man wearing a permanent mask. She was of average height with a broad face,
too. Some said they had an uncanny resemblance. Mathilda liked that he was
thrifty, had a good nest egg. He bought a two-bedroom mobile home and the small
strip of land it sat on. It was located across from a big supermarket next to a
busy road. Near the supermarket was a housing project notorious for its gangs
but for Edwin, the deal was a steal.
Over time, Edwin became a stingy man who gave
grudgingly and often did the shopping himself. Mathilda suspected that he hid
money from her. She earned money cleaning homes and found relief in church on
Sundays where she hallelujahed her unhappiness in a loud voice. A weekday
prayer group bolstered her reserve.
These
days they barely spoke. Their home had become a place for verbal sparring and
tussling. The yellow and blue spots on
her arms were her souvenirs of rough handling and frequent tug of wars over her
shopping. She had bruises on her hips where she had fallen.
Just
yesterday, they had clashed over her shopping.
“You
find second job?” he had asked as she struggled in the door with three XXL size
packs of soap powder.
“Dey
on sale, fifty percent off, ah won’t have to buy any for long time,” Mathilda
said.
“We
go dead before dey finish,” he shot back. “Wey you go put dem? ‘Pon top de
udders in de bedroom?”
“Well,
you can’t tek money to de grave,” she shot back.
As
Edwin rushed over, she ducked expecting a blow. But instead, he wrestled the
goods from her. “Ah tekking them back. Wey de receipt?”
Mathilda,
still fearing he might strike her, quickly handed over the receipt. Edwin barged
out the door lugging the giant boxes. Ah go start putting potion in he soup
when he not watchin’, howerin’ like a chicken hawk. She tapped her
skirt-pocket to ascertain the powder was still there.
They
did not speak for the rest of the day. He had stripped her of one of her pleasures.
As
usual, after supper, they watched boxing because he loved it. He mimicked the
boxers in the ring, rising from the worn sofa, balling his fists, swinging his
shoulders right and left and hitting blows in the air. He yelled loudly.
She had no say about him watching his favorite
sport, the dessert after supper. But she was a fan of the nightcaps…two
criminal procedures that followed. Both
cheered on the police during deadly gun battles and could be heard shouting,
“kill im, kill em,” if you passed close enough to their home.
Sometimes
it was difficult to tell whether the gun battles were taking place on-screen or
outside in the streets.
They
were often so exhausted by the chase, they fell asleep on the sofa, each in
their corner, the TV watching and listening to their snoring.
Tonight
was no different. The rapid exchange of gunfire was louder than usual and the
wailing sirens seemed real.
When
Mathilda roused herself an hour later from the after-film-nap, Edwin sat sunken
in the sofa. Mathilda, certain he was exhausted from the night’s excitement,
did not nudge him. She went about her nightly chores, washing dishes, tidying
the kitchen.
Thirty minutes later, when she went over to tap Edwin’s shoulder
and usher him to bed, he did not stir. He felt cold to the touch. Then she saw
he was bleeding from his chest. His shirt was soaked a burgundy red.
Her
wailing attracted neighbors. Someone called the police who were already
canvassing the streets for gangs who had earlier engaged in a shooting spree.
The
police and medical examiner later declared Edwin had been shot by a stray
bullet. They had identified the spot where the bullet had sliced through the vinyl
wall of the mobile home before penetrating his chest.
Neighbors
fanned and prayed over Mathilda who sat frozen-faced. Tears welled, glistened
in her eyes but remained unshed. They blamed an unexplained glint in her eyes on
shock, grief held hostage to incomprehensible loss.
© Althea Romeo-Mark 2019
Born in Antigua, West Indies, Althea
Romeo-Mark is an educator and internationally published writer who grew up in
St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands. She has lived and taught in St. Thomas, Virgin
Islands, USA, Liberia, England, UK, and in Switzerland since 1991. She has
published six collections of poems: The Nakedness of New, 2018, USA; If
Only the Dust Would Settle, UK,
2009, English-German; Beyond
Dreams: The Ritual Dancer, Liberia
1989; Two Faces, Two Phases, Liberia 1984; Palaver, Downtown Poets
Co-op, New York, 1978 and Shu-Shu
Moko Jumbi: The Silent Dancing Spirit, Department of Pan-African Studies, Kent State University, 1974, USA.
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