Eatin' Chicken
Jemma Hathaway
Jemma Hathaway
Faria sighs and knocks on the door for the first time in too many years. It’s the same door, only worn and flaking, and the pane is cracked. She is sure she hears the faint distantly familiar sea inside a seashell sound of a caftan against thighs, and the coconut dropped on rock of jostling beads. Beyond the crack in the glass, she sees the gathering form, sees the thundercloud swell and advance as it used to, bringing with it the suggestion of a storm. And Faria quells the old urge to hide away before it breaks. She does not want to be here. Yolande opens the door, lacquered labyrinthine wrought iron hair, mouth a burnished chilli pepper in a pool of dark chocolate, and hooded yabettanatbelookinatmebambaclat eyes, framed by twilight shadow. ‘Cha, girl.’ She kisses her teeth, eyes wide. ‘Seems de Lord testin me today, im bring rain when I ang out de washin… And now im bring you.’ They stare at one another. Faria a little wriggling tadpole again, Yolande a belching, hopping frog. Yolande holds open the door, she is larger now, Faria sees, and the caftan is patched up in places. ‘Ya gwan stand dere all day?’ Faria steps onto the same mat, laid on the same carpet. Yolande leads the way, great oak tree stomps, one pounding root in front of the other again and again, kadunkkadunkdunk, floorboards acquiesce to her, pictures on the wall swing keeping time, dust dances. Faria follows; she treads lightly in her Louboutins, remembers the old fear of those feet stamping toward her. She knows they are going to the kitchen. Knows there will be plantain fermenting in the fridge, and knows she won’t go near it. ‘You da las person I be spectin at de door today.’ Yolande draws on each word like a cigarette, her voice a pulse of saxaphonic notes, of shamanistic incantations. ‘Seen ya in de paper las year. Done well for yaself girl. Dunno if I match up these days.’ Yolande sneers. ‘But since ya ere, ya ungry?’ Her back turned, Yolande begins to cut chicken into cubes, cleaves fearlessly, blindly. ‘I’ve eaten.’ ‘Makin rundown?’ ‘I’m a vegan.’ ‘You a what nuh?’ ‘I don’t eat meat … or fish, or dairy.’ ‘Cha, chicken yah favourite.’ ‘Yeah well, that was a long time ago.’ ‘Mmmmm hmm.’ Yolande’s head moves to a private tune, eyes closed, brows raised. The chilli pepper splits, seeds spill out. ‘No wonder ya like a string-bean. Lookatchoo, all bone. Huh, no man gwan eat a stick o gum for ims dinner.’ ‘You’d know I suppose.’ Faria sits at the kitchen table, its surface lost beneath a baize of wilting greens. Tainted pots and pans hang everywhere like tannic fruit, the linoleum flooring curls at the corners, patiently closing in on itself. She sees it all, takes it all in. Thinks of the kitchen she’s used to, of the sweeping splashbacks, the Le Creuset cookware, the mirror-shine floor. Yolande tosses handfuls of spices like a conductor, douses the chicken in autumnal tinted dust. ‘Whatchu doin ere?’ Faria doesn’t know what to say, how to phrase the words. ‘I had to come. Dad’s idea, not mine.’ ‘Still doin everytin ya father tell ya.’ Yolande’s eyes make lazy cartwheels. She scrapes the chicken into a pan; it hits the heat, sizzles ragingly. This is how Faria remembers her. Back turned; hisses, steam and spit. She remembers the cooking, so much cooking. Jerk, coconut, ginger, thyme. Flavours strong enough to garnish anything. ‘What im wantin me for?’ ‘It’s still always about you, isn’t it?’ Faria feels the bitterness well within her again, threatening to brim over since she learnt the news that brought her here. ‘Whatchu sayin to me girl?’ ‘You only ever cared about yourself.’ ‘Cha, and dat what ya come ere to tell me. Why dat take so long.’ Summer evening raindrops begin to patter at the kitchen window, like tiny bugs bursting on a windscreen at speed. ‘He died.’ Yolande stops cooking. She drops the wooden spoon into the pan, cuts off the heat, sets the pan aside, covers it; a sequence of simple movements. Faria never saw her mother turn from the stove, unless food was plated. ‘I aint seen dat man in twelve years.’ Yolande shuffles away, eases her big frame into the small chair alongside Faria. The wicker seat creaks beneath her. ‘And sometimes I still think im gonna come through the door, sniffin out plantain, like a pig untin truffles.’ Yolande shakes her head, hair immovable. Remembers when they met; remembers smoothness of skin, heat between legs. ‘He was in hospital for a while,…’ ‘And ya tell me nuthin.’ Yolande inhales deeply, as if readying to breathe fire, her eyes narrow as tears creep out. ‘Why would I? He left you.’ Faria spits. She stands, towers like Babel over Yolande. Now Faria is the thunder, she will talk down to Yolande; dish out punishments like so many plates of sweet potato, mock the tears dry from her face. She will laugh, she will say, toughen up girl, for Godsake. Aint nobody gonna do ya no favours in this world. And then she will cook, she will cook her way through every day; she will stuff Yolande’s stomach, and starve her soul. Except she can’t, he made sure of that. Faria wishes she could speak to him one last time. ‘Lord knows I paid for my mistakes.’ Yolande relents. They look at one another, Faria with bitterness, Yolande with pain and regret. ‘You said im told ya to come ere?’ Faria is back in the hospital, she sees the degrees of white and green, smells the sanitiser, hears the chatter and the moans in equal, uncomfortable measure. She sits at her father’s bedside, cancer sweeps through him like sulphur. Sees him telling her what he has done. Sees him slipping away over time, unable to convince him to change his mind. ‘If it was up to me I wouldn’t be here, believe me. But it’s out of my hands.’ Faria pauses, wishing he had talked to her. ‘He never stopped loving you, you know.’ ‘I always loved im. Only man I ever loved. Tell da truth.’ ‘Why do it then?’ Faria shouts. ‘You broke his heart.’ ‘I was lonely.’ ‘How could you be lonely, you were married.’ ‘Oh yes, im cared bout me, I know dat.’ Yolande looks round the room, sees how little it has changed since then, except for the emptiness. ‘But you, you was is true love. Seemed like de two of you was meant for each other. I neva got a look-in once you come along.’ Rain pounds at the window in great, heavy pelts as though trying to get in. Yolande draws the folds of her caftan around her. The chicken is almost cold. Faria stares down at Yolande, realises how small she is, for so big a woman. The hair, the make-up, even the flesh, all part of a costume. ‘Cha, I cook a meal every day ya know.’ Yolande sighs. ‘Enough to feed de dam street. Can’t cook for one. A bite ere, chat sumtin sumtin dere. Dat’s how it should be.’ She talks almost as if to herself. ‘I jus keep it all in de freezer. Well, at first. Now I jus throw de stuff away. No room left.’ Faria stands at the worktop, uncovers the pan. She inhales with a practiced air. ‘You know he opened a Caribbean restaurant.’ Faria ignites the hob, places the pan over the flame. Slowly, familiar fiery scents steal through the room. ‘I seen it in de paper. Thought it was ya restaurant. Member tinkin, gosh dat sumtin special. Never thought ya give a dam bout cookin. Thought ya’d do sumtin betta. Ya wan put sum red pepper in dere now. In de cupboard just dere.’ ‘You never asked. Too busy shouting.’ Faria winces, afraid, waits for the acid tongue to lick at her. It doesn’t come. She chops the pepper, cleaves it fearlessly, blindly. ‘I manage it, I don’t cook.’ Faria shakes her head. ‘He bought it, so he could eat your food everyday.’ Yolande laughs. ‘Im bought a restaurant for dat. He shoulda jus come ere. Plenty in de freezer.’ ‘Too proud.’ Faria picks a handful of the greens from the table, shreds them by hand, roughly and adds them to the pan; they shrink like magic. ‘He left it to me though, the restaurant, it’s all in his will.’ ‘Dat what ya come ere to tell me den?’ Yolande’s eyes darken, the black cloud threatens. ‘Ya jus come to gloat or sumtin, coz I aint got nuthin?’ ‘It’s only mine if you agree to come and cook there. At least for a year anyway. It’s binding, he was careful about that.’ ‘Cha.’ Yolande looks out at the darkening sky, smiles. ‘Ya be eatin chicken fore da year is out.’ © Jemma Hathaway All Rights Reserved. One Million Stories Creative Writing Project |
| We like this story because: It takes us to a place where reconciliation and hope can stand side by side... |
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