There was some transformation in Bernice, these days: she was happy. Dots couldn’t understand how she could be so happy. She didn’t have a man. But still Bernice was happy. She didn’t notice it herself, at first; but after a while, she did notice that her behaviour and her actions, particularly her behaviour in front of and behind Mrs. Breighington-Kelly was more relaxed; there was not that old tension and that old hostility. It was merely work this time. And perhaps this transformation was due to Estelle, who was great company for Bernice, Dots felt. No matter how you curse and swear and say the worst things to your family, your family is still your flesh and blood, Dots said. Bernice was losing some of the excess weight she had when she worked in Forest Hill. Her dresses were fitting her well, now. And Estelle? She seemed happy, contented: although no one would believe that in her present condition, she could be a hundred percent happy.
All of a sudden, Bernice started to talk, as if she was making a speech. But the gist of what she said was something they all knew to be the truth. “And to imagine, that after almost four years, this is the very first time, the very first time that the four of us … well, Estelle wasn’t here three years ago, but this is the first time in a long time, that the four o’ we have sat down, like decent people, which we are, after all, and had a meal like anybody else this morning, in all of Toronto.”
“I was saying that very thing to myself as I was making this breakfast, gal.”
“It is like a re-union.”
“It is a re-union, boy!” Bernice said. “Somebody told me, or I was reading it somewhere, or I probably saw it on television, somewhere … anyhow, there is people in New York who don’t see their family until Saturday morning at the breakfast table, they are rushing rushing so much during the rest o’ the week! Life in that country is such a constant rush, anyhow.”
“It is like New York here, too, in this damn place, sometimes.”
“Well, look, since you-all women thinking so much ’bout a re-union, why don’t we call Henry?”
“And Agaffa! Don’t forget her now, man. Whenever we invite Henry nowadays, we have to invite Agaffa too. They is one, now, Boysie. Don’t forget that.”
“But woman, you didn’t let me finish what I was going to say. I was going to say Henry and Agaffa, and invite them down for breakfast, and then, afterwards we could listen to some records and drink some rum and generally have a good time this afternoon. Today is Sarturday! Nobody, except the police, godblindthem! — every time I think of a cop I want to kill all o’ them — nobody should have to work on a Saturday.”
They called Henry’s number. But there was no answer. And just as quickly as they had remembered him, so quickly did they forget him. When breakfast was finished, they did what they said they would do had Agatha and Henry come.
Hours later, they were still dancing and having a good time, when a voice was heard at the door. “Paper boy!”
Boysie had to turn down the music which was saying, they treat me like a savage … He went to the door. He opened it, and paid the paper boy. He threw the bulky weekend paper on the couch. He went back to his dancing. Dots glanced at the paper, the front page, and she turned her attention back to Boysie and Estelle, on the floor. She was trying to think of the exact hour, the exact day when Estelle would have to be taken to the hospital. “I hope she isn’t exerting herself too much!” The record came to an end. Dots got up and shouted, “My turn now, my turn!” Bernice, who was hoping it was her turn, merely sat back down and kept time with her hands, while Dots danced with Boysie.
Estelle was sitting beside the newspaper on the couch. She was tired. Perhaps she had exerted herself too much. There was a large photograph of a man on the bottom of the front page. She took up the paper, feeling she knew the man, and she read the line over the photograph: WEST INDIAN POET FOUND DEAD. She put it back down. Her mind could not conjure up or conceive of a West Indian poet she knew who would be found dead in Toronto. She never knew a West Indian poet. The poets she knew were in school books. Something however, about the face in the photograph had caught her curiosity; and she took a second look. She took up the paper, and looked at the photograph. “Wait! Boysie, come here.” They thought she had had a pain. “Tell me if I should know this face?”
“I dancing. Wait till this thing finish, Estelle. Gimme one more minute with this woman!” He laughed and Estelle laughed, and so did Dots.
“Come, man! come and see if I should know this face, in truth. They have a big ugly black man with a beard and long hair like an African on the front page …” Boysie left Dots to dance by herself. Bernice got up and started to dance with Dots. “You know this face?”
“Jesus Christ!”
“I knew so!”
“Henry!”
And when Dots came, and Bernice followed, Boysie was reading the
