Vernon Mooers writes

THE WHITE MAN'S GRAVEYARD

chapter 21 (3)

"I'm just going for a walk," Falmata said as she opened the door, "I won't be long." She liked freedom. All her life she'd lived and cooked outside. She could never adjust to a life stuck in a small cubby-hole in some apartment dwelling or a place without open windows. As an African, her roots were close to nature, dependent on the movement and rhythm of the earth. She hardly wore shoes, except when the sand would burn in the hot season and she'd slip flip-flops or sandals on. 

Alex rang for room service and waited by the window. It had been a while since he'd used a telephone. In a few moments a tray was wheeled in and he poured a coffee out of the steaming pot as oblivious to the bell-boy who brought it as the young man was to whom he gave it. Machines, he said to himself -- vending machines. He thought of the roadside kiosks and the drums of boiling water, blackened by so many continuous fires, and the crude tables laid out with tins of Nescafe and tea and Bournvita. He'd even learned to enjoy it form the dirty red and blue plastic cups.

Alex stared at the airline tickets laying on the bureau. Never in his life had those booklets caused so much trepidation and such anxiety. The dilemma now that they were half-way home consumed his thoughts. It seemed to be more trouble than it was worth. 

 

He could visualize the airport scene. His step-father, jovial and boisterous, slapping him on the back like the boys at work, always masking his true feelings beneath the habitual, "Hell of a fella," routine. His mother, quiet and submissive by his side, politely enduring the behaviour she'd learned to live with -- must be six or seven years now, he figured -- in the new role she'd unassumedly accepted.

Would they respect the unconventional marriage? He had experienced his step-father's aggressive, opinionated views and his anger when someone disagreed. Trying to break that barrier only made his guard that much stronger. But he wasn't sure now. Bill Kavanaugh would be getting old and age brought a mellowing and understanding of what was important in life. He might have changed.

His mother, he hoped, would take the girl aside and confide and talk to her with the intimacy that women knew when they shared their thoughts. Maybe it was bearing children. He didn't know. 

But he had not been close to either of his parents, not since as far back as he could remember. Somewhere, in the presence of growing up, they had lost contact, had stopped communicating. There was just his mother now and her husband, their ex-neighbour whose wife had died of cancer, now his step-father, like an appendage. 

Despite their trials, his mother would always be there. It was her way. But even then, he'd been away so long, more than years. He hadn't even laid eyes on her in all that time. As time had gone on he'd just been caught up in so many things. There were months, he knew, they'd never heard from him. He'd been moving around. Their correspondence had been so infrequent. He'd become the prodigal son, gone off into Africa and into his own experiences, buried in his own life. Now he was to return, drop back in, at least till they got set up somewhere.

So much of him had changed. In Wolfville, things stayed pretty much the same. His mother would be older too, but in a different way. There were years gone by. They had grown more distant, would have to get reacquainted. Alex was ready to go back now, ready to face her, to compromise. Africa had taken away his anger. He could not fight any more. What was to happen? And the townspeople, in Wolfville, what of their reaction? Alex didn't care a whole lot. He knew their small minds and the view they got of the world from the television and the newspapers. He remembered his grandmother telling him of how in the depression they used to burn crosses on the hill in front of the school. And they lived half a continent from Alabama. When times got tough they looked for scapegoats. They could be very, very mean if given a chance. They still complained of foreigners and immigrants coming into the country. The old attitudes were still there Alex figured, buried beneath the surface. Nowadays it only amounted to crude jokes and a slighting or ignoring.

Those people could rot for all Alex cared, but he wanted to protect Falmata from all of that. On the other hand, his mother had written the church groups had sponsored some boat families and they even had a Multi-Cultural Association. They were better off than most, the University exposing them to a broader perspective and the cosmopolitanism did slowly filter down a little to the rest of the town.

His friends from college would have left to work elsewhere. Alex figured people would view Falmata as a novelty more than anything. He had always wanted to travel. His oldest friends would have been surprised if he hadn't gotten into the culture. But he was twenty-nine now, would turn thirty in three weeks. He was older now, hardened. In almost eight years he'd lived through many things, survived. Too much had happened. Could he ever, Alex wondered, be content again in a small town in Canada?

Alex reached for the coffee, which was stone-cold by this time. He heard Falmata open the door. A contented smile swept his face when he saw her, holding Aishatu.

"We'll go for breakfast," Alex said."Our flight doesn't leave till eleven o'clock."