The Heart Does Not Bend by Makeda Silvera Page B

They danced slowly, their bodies pressed against each other in the heat, the hems of their dresses above their knees. Beads of sweat had formed on Helen’supper lip. I stood nearby, their bodies brushed mine, and I trembled.
    Frank came to visit often, and Uncle Mikey blossomed. He became more talkative, seemed more comfortable with his small, thin frame. Frank was a real charmer. He’d bring fresh-cut flowers for my grandmother, even though we had a gardenful. I especially loved that he brought me bars of chocolate, which I handed out to my friends on the street. He was a sharp dresser and his shoes gleamed with polish. He bought a brand-new black BMW, the first ever parked on our street. We didn’t know much about him except that he was the son of a successful hotelier. He told my grandmother that he worked with his father, a man she seemed to know by name and reputation. She didn’t say much, just “Oh, dats yuh father?”
    Frank and Mama chatted a lot on the verandah. She was, I learned, knowledgeable about the North Coast hotel business, where she had worked many years as a cook. “Is a growing and profitable industry,” she often said.
    Looking back, I can’t say that my grandmother was unfriendly toward him, but during the Sunday parties she began to dance less and watch more. As time went by, Uncle Mikey began to spend part of every Sunday afternoon in his room with Frank. Once, on my way to the bathroom, I noticed Uncle Mikey’s door was slightly ajar. I peeked in and saw them kissing each other’s mouths. Frank’s shirt hung neatly on a rack above the closed window. When I walked back from the bathroom, the bedroom door was shut. I pressed my ear against it and heard the slight creaking of the bed and my uncle’s voice sounding like a sparrow’s cry.
    Hours later, Uncle Mikey’s friends were still dancing and eating and talking in the living room, oblivious to his absence. Mama sat crumpled like cardboard.

    Myers left for the country that September to get married and be a father to his three children. I cried for a long time, and even after I stopped crying, my throat ached each time I looked at the garden and my small bed of flowers. He promised to come back and see me, to bring his daughter who was the same age as me, but he never did.
    Uncle Mikey began to spend more time away from home, and Mama took it badly.
    “Is Barbican yuh live now?” she asked him one night when he came home late. She had waited up for him and I was in bed.
    “No, Mama,” he said in a light and happy voice. “Ah just working out some plans with Frank. Ah going to try mi hands at designing a signature set of towels, bedsheets and napkins for the hotels, so dat’s why ah not around as much.”
    “So what ’bout yuh present job?”
    “Dat going well, but ah just feel dat ah need to branch out, try different things. Frank thinks it would be a good idea, him say de hotel business profitable.”
    “Yuh just be careful,” Mama warned. With that she left him in the living room and came to bed.
    Uncle Mikey didn’t heed her warning, and Mama began to drink more heavily. It was no longer an afternoon at Olive’s, or a drink or two on the verandah, or a nightcap at Shady’s after our movie. She’d drink for a week straight, beginning atdawn. Some mornings she left when I left for school, stopping at Olive’s, Shady’s or her new place, Johnny One Stop. In the evening she’d stagger down the street. Sometimes she’d be sitting on the verandah, nodding off when I came home from school. Sometimes she wasn’t there when I got home. I’d fix myself something to eat, then play on the street with Punsie and the others. When she didn’t come home by dark, I’d search the different rum shops till I found her.
    One evening when I was almost thirteen, I came home from school and saw Mama nodding off on the bed. I changed my clothes and was about to go over to Punsie’s, when she suddenly asked, “Where yuh going?” Her