Vydia 1

(Arrival of an Afghan refugee family creates chaos in the life of a schoolgirl)

"Mrs Persaud," I ask, "to whom does that last 'she' refer?"
We're sitting side by side, so I can both see the text and hear her read aloud.
She places the cursor, "this one?"
I nod.
She starts again at the top of that paragraph. Gentle smile, "caught me again." Deletes "she" and enters a character's name; and not the one I would have thought.
"Come on Vydia, we're stiff and our eyes are getting sore. Let's go out on the balcony, have lemonade."
I prefer to stand, stretch a bit. Across is the empty lot, the now-bankrupt auto dealership. A group of boys, including her son Derek, is playing football (soccer).
I feel a surge of resentment. He does as well as I in school, surely ...
"Vydia dear, it was very kind of you to agree to help me."
"Mum says you get good karma if you aid a widow."
"It's going slower than I thought, take the rest of your school vacation. On the plus side, you do a good job, catch a lot. Even better than my daughter used to."
Again a flash of resentment.
"Vydia dear, she's out of the picture. Summer job in the government office in Georgetown, then start at UG (University of Guyana). Besides she's too old. If I use a word too big for a children's book, she won't notice. And Derek, he's borderline Attention Deficit Disorder."
I feel my resentment vanish, completely. She has explained herself perfectly well.
Another gentle smile, "and yes the publisher has people capable of doing the job. But you have to understand the tone. To people here, I look like a bigshot, getting publishing royalties. In New York, I'm just a minnow. Nothing sells more than about 5,000 copies, a lot to school libraries. So, that same publisher who has stayed with me through a dozen books, well if I caused him any work or hassle, he'd drop me."
We return to work.
"Isn't that a rather large word to use for age 8 to 12 readers?" I ask, pointing.
She chuckles, agrees.
As I arrive home, Mum calls, "in the kitchen Vydia honey, we have to talk."
I know the tone well, yet one more job for a "nice girl".
Oh yuck, she's doing pumpkin again, this time with shrimp. I hate her pumpkin, done to absolute mush. Prefer calaloo (a form of spinach) or green beans; at least she leaves some life in them. That pumpkin Aunt Lata gave us will last forever, or seem to.
"Honey, you know Fatima, the Afghan girl three doors down? Family moved in a month ago. She'll start same Grade Four as you next week."
From fifty yards, you can see it painted all over Fatima, needy, greedy, wants tons of attention, devour you alive, hold on like a drowning person. There is a reason I've been dodging Fatima.
"I know who you mean Mum."
"But you haven't met her yet?"
By a happy coincidence no. But pointless to argue with Mum. She's always been a know-all. Since the death of Dad, that's thrice as much. May as well try using powers of reason upon a herd of stampeding buffalo. "No Mum," I reply politely.
"So honey, what do children say of this family?"
"That geek Marvin reads fantasy and sci fi on the web. He's positive Fatima's Mum is graphic artist on about a dozen sites."
"No secrets in a town this size. She told me so herself when she visited in the store. What else do kids say?"
"Father sells smuggled cigarettes outa his taxi."
"Which makes him one of the harmless sort. Most peddle dope too. So, what do children guess, why did they show up in this backwater of backwaters?"
"He is a Political, Mum. Easy to spot, that demented, obsessed look."
"Vydia honey, your promise, what I say next stays between you and me."
And here it comes. The Queen of All Social Workers is about to increase her caseload by one.
"I promise Mum."
"He is Political, got in using refugee rules. Soon as he arrived started up his own political blog."
Yes Mum, I think, lemme guess, the government back in Kabul denounced him on their website, left nasty comments all over his blog.
"You see honey, people spammed his blog. Left hundreds of thousands of machine-generated comments clogging it."
Ah ha, am I right or what?
"No big deal Mum, he can just start another blog. They are free."
"Honey, you have it wrong. Not an enemy party doing it. His own, former party."
It starts to dawn, "you mean Mum, even his own party view him as a tedious nuisance? Wishes he would just disappear?"
"It goes downhill from there, he's started drinking."
I feel a wild insane desire to jump up, grab Mum by the collar, shout, "hello in there! Are you for real? Everyone here drinks. Rum is US $1.25 a large (26 ounce bottle). Hindus drink, Christians, Atheists, even gasp half the Muslims here drink. Does one drunk more or less really make any difference to our town?" But of course I don't do this, I'm a "nice girl", so "Mum, it is said that if drinking is inside of you, then Guyana will find it, bring it out."
"To you honey, it may seem unimportant. But Fatima's Mum has never seen anything like it, is terrified."
So lemme guess, they'll invite her to Al Anon, a chance for her to understand it all.
"She asked and I agreed honey. If things get too crazy, she can come stay here awhile. That would be fun, you and Fatima could roommate."
I'd rather be tied to the roots of a tree out by the backdam, left for alligators to devour. It would be more merciful in the long run. My castle, my privacy, invaded by that. Oy! Still, pointless to argue with Mum.
I send a silent prayer, "please give Fatima's father the king of all hangovers. Let him join the living dead for three days. That ought to smarten him up."