Authors: Fiona Cheong
What Maria knows about the widow is what Auntie Eve's
old neighbors tell anyone who asks, that there was once a
falling out between the widow and her grown-up daughter, that
this falling out was the reason the widow's daughter migrated to America in the first place. The widow's daughter didn't return
for fifteen years, and when she did, it was to give birth to the
widow's granddaughter, conceived out of wedlock and delivered
dead in the widow's house. No wonder the widow lost her mind.
This is how Auntie Eve's old neighbors put it. They never saw
the widow's daughter again after that night, which is why some
say she probably died, too, shortly after giving birth. Others say
they're sure the widow's daughter's gone back to America, and is
living in New York City and doing well, teaching in a university over there, all things considered.
That's what they say, and no one mentions the sticks tied to
the widow's fence the night the daughter was giving birth. My
mother's friends say it was Sister Rosalind's mother's idea (whom
we've never seen visiting Sister Rosalind at school-Maria says
why would her mother come, Sister Rosalind won't talk to anyone and not even to the other nuns, which is true-Sister
Rosalind mostly stays in her room, although some nights on
retreat, or so we hear, girls have seen her sitting in the lime
orchard, her back all straight on the stone bench, her gaze fixed
far ahead in the distance, as if someone were coming towards
her or as if Sister Rosalind's caught up remembering when
someone was). My mother's friends say it took Sister Rosalind's
mother over an hour to arrange the sticks, because they had to
be tied straight, with all the sharp ends pointing up, an even
row of makeshift swords to pierce Pontianak's belly, should she
venture to fly over and try to steal the baby. But Sister Rosalind's
mother wasn't in the room when the baby was born, because
although she was a neighbor, she wasn't close to the widow like
family.
They say it's sheer coincidence this happened exactly
twelve years ago, in 1994 when Maria was born, a year before
me. (The lady Coco Han's sister disappeared that year, too).
Maria's never wondered as I have, why no one knows where the
baby's buried, or if a funeral was even held. Auntie Eve says the baby was taken away in an ambulance, and I don't ask her much
else, because I know she knows Maria and I don't talk about this,
and I won't betray Maria.
But Auntie Eve knows, too, about Maria's dreams, and she
knows I know. (Maria says it's always the same girl calling her
over to the sugar cane. She says the girl's trying to make her see
something, but all Maria ever remembers is the girl's bracelet
sliding down her wrist, a string of green stones. She says whenever she tries to walk over to the girl, she wakes up. Malika
knows about these dreams as well. You can tell Malika knows
from the way she watches Maria. But Malika doesn't speak
much, and I swear she must be a hundred years old and whackocrazy, but Maria loves Malika, so I don't say anything about it.)
I had noticed the widow as soon as Maria and I were in the
church, as she was the only other person there. She was over at
the candles, and I thought she was just some Catholic lady,
kneeling before one of the tall marble statues along the left wall
(of St. Anthony, I found later, who's the patron saint of lost
things), and she had seemed to be praying so intently, gazing up
at the statue as if it were the saint himself, his face benevolent
in the flickering light. So I wasn't on guard. Maria and I had our
backs to her when she came up to us. We were facing the
church doors, watching for the other choir members to arrive.
Before I could stop her, Maria was telling the widow her name.
"Maria Thumboo," she said, her voice echoing fearlessly in
the foyer.
The widow smiled, and I could see it in her face that she recognized Maria, even though they had never met. I could see she
knew who Maria was, who she is, and that I've been right all along.
S E E R I I I'S BA N E) L'S E I) to go after young girls. They're saying
the widow had always suspected his nature, but before she had
married this man, she had loved him madly and allowed herself a moment's indiscretion, telling herself he felt the same, and she
wouldn't admit he was marrying her only for her family's money,
which they say remains her money even though her family's cut
her off. That happened when the family found out about my
Auntie Bettina, when my grandmother told them. My mother
was four when my Auntie Bettina was raped, and my auntie herself was only fifteen. That was when the widow should have
known she had averted her eyes long enough, but my mother
says she wouldn't face the fact her husband would never change,
until the day she found her own daughter bleeding on her bed.
This, too, was long before Maria and I were born, before
even my Uncle Abdul was born, and before the robbery in
which almost everyone in our family would be slaughtered like
pigs. My mother says my Auntie Bettina was working as a hotel
maid at the Goodwood, to help the family make ends meet,
because we were poor and my auntie was the eldest daughter.
She says the widow's husband was waiting for my auntie when
she got off the bus that night, but my auntie didn't know she
was being waylaid, because the widow's husband was handsome and charming, and he was a neighbor, and he was a father
with a baby daughter at home. They had spoken before, so
when he offered to walk her back to the kampong, she accepted, won over by his good looks and his charm but also because
it was past midnight and she was often afraid, walking home by
herself.
He raped her near the tadpole pond, halfway between the
kampong compound and the road. My auntie was in such shock,
she walked home after that without putting her clothes back on
(later, my mother would have to accompany her second eldest
sister, my Auntie Noi, to the pond to retrieve the muddied blue
dress and torn white panties). My mother was the first to notice
my Auntie Bettina appearing out of the trees. She had woken up
to pee and happened to be outside. There was a full moon, she
says, and she watched her sister stepping out of the trees as naked as an animal, and when my auntie came closer, my mother saw
the blood on her legs and that was when she screamed.
No one heard the widow scream when she found her daughter, but it was what made her give in, in the end, that sweep of
excruciating shame and loss of face and unabated fury. Some time
had passed since my grandmother had spoken to the widow's
family, and then on a rainy November night, when the air was
especially potent and sweet, the widow was seen coming down
the steps outside Che' Halimah's house. My mother remembers
the frangipani around the house glowing that night as if the flowers were tiny lanterns, about the size of children's hands.
She says I'm almost too young to hear all this, but old
enough because I look older than I am, she says, because I'm tall
for my age, and my breasts are developing, and I'm pretty.
Not as pretty as Maria, though. I know Maria's prettier,
even though Maria worries about how flat she is, because
Maria's seen my breasts when we shower. Even if beauty's in the
eye of the beholder, I feel Maria's prettiness. I feel it in my
heart's unreeling at the sight of her, faster than a fish line
hooked to a shark heading for deep water when she touches
me, when she touches my breast to know how touching a
breast feels. I feel it, and sometimes I think I want to kiss her.
But sometimes I just want to look at her. Sometimes when we're
sitting side by side, doing nothing but just talking, my heart
flies like a kite let loose so high up in the sky it has become
invisible, and all that's left is the fine thread tugging at me in
the wind.
My mother and I don't talk about Maria anymore, these
days, not since she found out about Maria's dreams. Her face
bangs shut whenever I say Maria's name, as if there's something
there she would rather I not know. So I don't tell her how Derek
Ashley's breaking my heart even though he hasn't yet seen
Maria, because they haven't exactly met, not yet, but they will,
because Maria's got it planned, and I know when they do, he'll fall for her, head over heels, even if she's flatter than a pancake
right now, which is how Maria puts it.
Because she won't be for long, and it isn't true that she's
even as flat as she thinks. I've felt the bumps on Maria's chest,
the rise around her nipples, which are softer than the rest of her
at first, then wrinkle like raisins, just like mine.
Maybe that was what made it possible for the widow to
catch us by surprise. Because my attention was on Maria the
whole time and she hadn't told me she had found out about
Derek Ashley's being in the choir, and I was looking in the other
direction and puzzling over why she would want us to waste
every Saturday afternoon in a church, among those mournful
marble statues and eerie white candles, with the prayers of the
sick and lonely Catholics hanging over our heads like curses.
(There seem to he a lot of sick and lonely people among the
Catholics, and sometimes I wonder if it's because they're not
allowed to visit a bomoh or believe in reincarnation, only in
heaven and hell and purgatory, and because all Catholics get
sent to purgatory first, no matter what they do. Or so it seems,
because we're always offering prayers for them during Assembly
at St. Agnes, after we've sung the National Anthem and recited
the Pledge.)
Whatever the reason for my inattentiveness, I was there
with Maria, and my mother says we're responsible for every life
that shares our path in this world, whether it's the life of a plant
or an animal or another human being.
But that's not why I did it.
BFC'At SF. MARIA WAS wearing her new perfume yesterday and
her skin was fragrant when we were in the foyer, fragrant like
jasmine in the dark, like pandan leaves when it rains, like the
world when we're listening to it from inside the cemetery
(where we're not supposed to go, but what my mother and Auntie Eve don't know can't hurt us, and Maria agrees with me
on this). That was why, and my heart knows it. But if Auntie Eve
asks, I'm going to say it's because I recognized the widow, and
she found out Maria's name, and I knew Maria might be in danger because that must have been why Auntie Eve had kept the
truth from her all these years. I'll say that's why I decided to tell
her, because I wasn't ready when the widow came up to us and
Maria had already given the widow her name.
I didn't mean to tell Maria everything, just who Valerie Nair
really was. I decided I would just say it.
"She's your grandmother," I said. And she's crazy."
This was about five minutes later, after I had managed to get
Maria away from the widow, and we were still at the church but
outside, on the steps. There was still no sign of the choir members. I could feel the breeze sweeping down through the fan
palms across the church driveway, and on the road, a few cars
passed with sunlight bouncing off their rearview mirrors. We
were on the Changi Road side of the church, so I knew at least
some of the choir members would be coming from the other
side, the Siglap Hill side, where the car park is, and the parish
house. (So I didn't think we might be there at the wrong time,
because some of the members could have arrived already and
might be hanging out in the parish house.)
Maria thought I was joking, at first. She laughed and
pushed me in her playful way, and said, "You're the crazy one."
"I'm not joking," I said. "That's why you don't know. She
killed your grandfather, okay? She used black magic on him.
That's why you were adopted by your Auntie Eve, to hide you
from your crazy grandmother."
Maria already knew she was adopted, and I knew she knew,
even though we don't talk about that. So I wasn't hurting her
feelings. But I hadn't meant to tell her about what the widow
had done, and I didn't know until the words were out of my
mouth that I would say all that.
She stared at me as if I had just slapped her face, as if I had
slapped her hard, as I would never do.
You can't take your words back once they're out. You can't,
so I just looked at her and hoped she would say something, anything, to let me know what to say next.
"Why are you saying that?" she asked, her voice lowering to
a hush, shaky with disbelief.
I shrugged my shoulders. I felt miserable, but I still thought
if I could get Maria to believe me, and believe that we had to
leave the church immediately, since the widow was still inside,
then she might even change her mind about joining the choir.
Then she and I could go do what we usually do on Saturdays
and Sundays. We could ride the bus to Ocean Theatre and
see a cheap matinee, or window-shop at Katong Shopping
Center and try on new jeans at Bibi and Baba and read the new
T-shirt slogans, or we could cycle to Marine Parade and feed
bread crumbs to the fish weaving about in the water in the
lagoon, and walk in the waves on the beach, and sit on the sand,
side by side, and talk into the sunset, with our arms and elbows
rubbing, and her perfume blowing in the saltwater breeze.
But Maria looked at me a long time, and then she said,
calmly, "I'm going to ask my Auntie Eve if you're lying."
And I saw her expression had changed, and I knew there
was no way she would change her mind about the choir. I knew
it even before she turned and stepped back into the church,
without looking to see if I would follow her.
That was yesterday.
Today I'm remembering watching Maria as she disappeared
into the dim foyer, slipping in between the church doors. I'm
remembering her shoulders, and the curve of her arms in her
sleeveless white blouse with the tiny lace collar and the five tiny
buttons shaped like starfish down her back.
My heart is falling as if it will never stop. Somewhere far
inside me, it just falls and falls, without making a sound.