—So, what happen? I’m not people?
—You know what I mean. Somebody who is into you.
—Dev’s on your mind?
No answer. Another swig of the green slime. How she could stomach that I will never know.
—Girl, stop worrying your head. Every bread have its cheese.
—So, what you saying? Sunil was my cheese?
—Not that moldy cheddar. Sorry, I shouldn’t say that.
She shook her head.
—It’s just the two of us. Say what you want.
—Well, you don’t have to eat moldy cheese. Fresh cheddar in Massy supermarket every week. You only have to get out there and look.
At least she smiled while she drained her glass.
—You see me? I’m done. From now on is bread and water for me.
—You mustn’t say that.
She gently rested the empty glass on the floor.
—You know what? I honestly think Sunil is my cross to bear until I’m six feet under. Like I can’t shake him off.
—From what you’ve told me that man should have been locked up. Nobody should feel they can treat another human being like that. Not your wife. Not your son. Especially not your wife or your son.
Miss Betty was next to me but her eyes were far away.
—The Dev thing didn’t work out but you know something? After you met him I find you’re walking taller, with your back straight. And you’re taking a little better care of yourself. I like your hair the way you have it now.
—Yeah right.
—I’m not lying. You’re looking good. For your age.
She whacked me with the newspaper.
—Watch your mouth. To me everybody that comes in your life there to teach you. Dev was the Lord’s way of reminding me that things in that department shut down for good. My life is me and Solo. Period.
—What if Dev pulled up here right now and said that he’s left the witch he married and is you he wants to make a life with?
—Nothing doing.
—You’re sure about that?
—Even if that witch flew away on a broomstick and took she two big head children with she.
We both well laughed hard. But soon Miss Betty looked sad again and sighed.
—Sunil’s always in the background. That man’s spirit was bad. No. Like I said, I’m done with all this love business.
I sat up in the hammock.
—Watch me. I have a theory. You have some people who know when they see a good cheese. They don’t wait. They bite it straight away. Right. Then there are other people who think the cheese is so-so. It’s not tasting quite right but it’s not too bad either. So they say, what the hell, and eat it. But then you have the third group who never went near the cheese. Them so? When they hit a certain age they does start bawling down the place. Where my cheese? Who take all the cheese? I ain’t even get a little piece of cheese.
Miss Betty rocked back laughing.
—Half the time you’re quiet as a mouse but when you’re ready you well know how to talk foolishness.
—All I’m saying is don’t end up asking where the cheese gone when you never went looking in the first place.
—You’re full of big talk today. You even remember what cheese tastes like? I’ve never once seen you with a girlfriend.
I eased myself up out of the hammock and stretched out my hand for her empty glass.
—You want anything else?
—I’m good.
—I’m going to take a five in my bed. If you’re feeling for Movietown tonight I’m cool with that.
Girlfriend? Hopefully that talk won’t come up again. Or maybe the answer is simply: Miss Betty. I keep going over this. It’s funny but in all the years I’ve been living here not a single harsh word has passed between us. I had my doubts but we clicked so easily. Almost convinces me to try. In fairness, she’s not put out vibes that she liked me that way. Maybe she’s waiting for me to make the first move. Why is it always the man who must make the first move? She’s not backward. If she wanted me she’s had plenty chances. Every day. But when she asked me about a girlfriend, why didn’t I say something? It would have been so easy. But no, Chetan. You had to run and hide leaving the woman high and dry.
I slumped into my chair and picked up the book I was reading. If I sat quietly and read this moment would pass. Hopefully she’s already forgotten she even asked me that question. My mind kept drifting and I reread the same two paragraphs at least three times. I had to settle my spinning head. A happy, comfortable life was feet away. This isn’t a huge sacrifice. Look at all I could have. A ready-made family. Solo as my son. My son. Our DNA may be different and yes he can be stubborn and moody but he’s my boy. He’s growing up and the mother needs to cut those apron strings. When my time’s up, whatever little I have is his.
I don’t know what to do. I just don’t. I’ve had this argument with myself so many times and it never gets any easier or clearer. There’s no peace. It’s like traveling in a maxi taxi on the wrong side of the Solomon Hochoy Highway. Swerving, screeching, overtaking on the inside, never slowing down, driving on the hard shoulder. I need an ease-up.
A tap, tap, tap on the door snatched me from this half dream.
—What about a sandwich? And a brownie? Solo didn’t take all.
In no time she was back with a tray. Four neat triangles of tuna sandwich, salad, and fresh lime juice to wash it down.
—You did that for spite.
—What?
—You know I hate salad.
—Stop acting like a two-year-old and eat the thing.
She had used one of her special bone china plates—the ones that live in the tall glass cabinet. I didn’t know if I should say something or pretend not to notice. She remained standing, half in, half out the room.
—Thanks for all this.
—Okay. Let me leave you to your beauty rest.
That’s the thing about this sweet woman. I didn’t know I wanted a tuna sandwich. She knew what I wanted before I did.
I can’t say how long I sat staring at that wall, thinking about the little cracks on the right-hand side that need filling and repainting. Without moving I filled and painted the cracks over and over. I began to have flashbacks to pum-pum shorts man from Maracas Beach. I tried to push him away and think of Miss Betty. When I couldn’t I shifted to the patterns made by the hairline cracks. I thought of squeezing the tube of ready-mix filler, putting a tiny bit on an old knife, and forcing it into the open gaps. Before the filler was dry the image living in my head, his profile, his smell—they filled my insides. Again I pushed him aside, imagining opening the tube of filler, putting some on the old knife, dragging the knife along the crack lines. Each time he returned. His hard chest, his strong legs, they stopped me from getting further to the part where the filler has dried and I can sand it down twice—rough followed by smooth sandpaper. Forget repainting. Replaying the rough, muscular way he handled me made concentration impossible. When I think of Miss B it’s not the same. She’s someone I want to protect, look after, not throw around the bedroom.