John was at his wit’s end. Returning early from Dalgin on the day of her fiftieth birthday and finding her in bed was about all he could take.
“Mary, you’re not telling me the truth about what’s the matter with you. You’re getting worse. You’re becoming a shadow of your former self.”
Mary was in tears.
“John, don’t get mad with me. I didn’t want to tell you because we couldn’t afford the treatment. We barely had enough to run the house and keep Jason at my sister’s.” She continued as she wiped her eyes with her dress.
“The doctor in Georgetown told me I showed early signs of lung cancer and that he could treat it. I asked him what it was going to cost for all the medication and radiation and so on. I can’t recall the amount. It gave me one serious headache. I said at the time it was a choice between me or my boy getting a chance to make himself something. I chose him.”
John said mockingly, “You sacrifice yourself for that ungrateful boy. Little good it did you.”
Mary was unapologetic.
“I’ll do it again anytime if I had to. I wouldn’t have felt good if I didn’t at least make the effort to do what I did. Someday Jason’s going to realize his mistakes. I might be in my grave, but I know it for certain.”
“All well and good. We’re closing this house tomorrow, and I’m taking you to see that doctor before it’s too late. You are all I got. The bread baking will have to wait.” And with an afterthought, he added, “I’m going to Bruckship to ask Mr. Cornelius to carry us to catch the steamer tomorrow.”
“Okay, John. I wouldn’t fight you.”
*****
They were met by a surprised Cleo.
“You could have informed me you were coming. Anyhow, make yourselves at home. You’re not strangers. Mary, you look pulled down.”
Mary slowly reclined on the Berbice chair.
“It was a snap decision we had to make. I come to see the doctor. I think I’m getting worse.”
“Let me get a warm cup of Ovaltine for you and John.”
As if by design, they did not discuss the continuing saga of Jason’s absence. They talked about silly old stuff like only sisters do until the wee hours of the morning while John slept comfortably on the Berbice chair. The next day, it would be the doctor and tests and more tests.
*****
The doctor was visited, tests were done, and the Allicocks returned to Tenaboo. It was just a matter of time.
*****
Joan Walton grew up in the adjoining village of Plaisance. From the age of fourteen, she attended the Church of Salvation of the New Testament—first to Sunday school and later to the morning service. She always looked big for her age, “took after” her dad, everyone said. Her mother had died of cancer when she was seven, and her father worked long hours in the fields at the Ogle sugar estate to support himself and his only daughter. Mark Walton was not a religious man, but he was glad he had insisted earlier on that she attend Sunday school.
“Your mommy would be proud to see how you’ve become one saint, Joan. You’re doing double duty for your pappy and you. You taking me straight to heaven with you.”
She had a good singing voice and soon joined the choir. Her leading voice on Sunday mornings was well received by the entire congregation. Amens were appropriate. Recently, the pastor took a strong interest in her. At first, it was a gentle pat on the shoulder, which was accompanied by a smiling Reverend Turnbull.
“How pretty is my little sunshine today.” Later she noticed that immediately after service, he would gravitate to her side, smiling, holding both of her hands, which made her uncomfortable, and then she would pull them away.
“Don’t be shy, angel. The Lord’s preparing you for great things,” he once exhorted.
Joan was very surprised on her eighteenth birthday, on returning home after choir practice, to find Reverend Turnbull sitting with her father in their living room. The pastor had visited them just once before, after a particularly heavy rainstorm blew a portion of the roof off the house. He had come to give solace and offered to have the congregation donate a portion of the following Sunday’s collection to help defray the cost of replacing the roof. Mr. Walton had thankfully declined. As she entered, her father, a burly six footer, with a rusty-brown complexion that spoke of exposure to too much sun, shook the hands of Reverend Turnbull. They both shared a hearty laugh, patted each other on the back, and were soon parted.
“Joan, we need to talk. Come. Sit next to me here on the sofa,” Mr. Walton began. “Since your mother died, you have been my whole world, and every time I throw a bundle of cane on my back, I say to myself, ‘this is for you.’ You grow up nice and pretty, got your school leaving certificate, and doing your short-hand lessons. I proud. You is eighteen today, and I know you getting to the age when men would look at you differently. They must be starting already.” He smiled, hugging her affectionately.
Joan fidgeted, wondered where the monologue was going. Father and daughter were in the habit of speaking regularly about Joan’s chores and church, and her dad’s work in the cane field, cutting cane, but this was different.
“Dad, what is this all about?” she queried.
He cleared his throat and shifted closer to his daughter.
“Your pastor want to marry you.”
“What?”
“He say that his wife died about ten years ago, and he been looking for someone to fill she shoes. And since he’s put eyes on you, he’s come to realize you are the one and only. He waited until your eighteenth birthday. He thinks it’s the appropriate time.”
Joan jumped to her feet.
“I don’t know about that! I’m planning to get a job after my lessons finish and to help contribute to the home. You’re not getting any younger. How long do you think you could continue with that back-breaking work at Ogle? Besides, there is talk around about it closing down. Who’s going to look after you?”
He responded, hands clasped behind his head and with a wry smile, “I heard about it too. I’m not worried. Got plans. Me and some of the guys in the fields are thinking about forming a cooperative. We can lease some land and plant some cash crops for the new market soon to open at Turkeyen. We plan to have a stall in the market. Sweetheart, you don’t have to bother with me. I can take care of myself. I don’t want you to feel obligated to your old man. I want the best for you…you of age and any choice you make is good with me. I will always love you.”
Teary eyed, she sat again close to her dad and kissed him on the cheek.
“I am going to wait awhile before I get married or do anything like that. I don’t dislike Pastor, nor am I crazy about him. And besides, he is so much older than I am.”
Mark Walton looked adorningly at his daughter.
“You are so grown up now. Your mother must be smiling in her grave, seeing how you’ve turned out. I will tell Pastor you ain’t ready and it’s best he look elsewhere for the chosen one.”
*****
About two months later, after Sunday service, Reverend Turnbull stood at the entrance of the church to meet and greet the brethren.
“Joan, my angel, how sweeter and prettier you look every day. Can I have a word with you before you leave?”
Joan had a hesitant look on her face.
“Daddy is expecting me. I’ve got to get