Zakes Mda - Cion

And there is Mahlon sitting on the swing looking as innocent and serene as the wooden Jesus in his garden. I look at him and suddenly my stomach churns.

“What was the call about,” Obed asks.

“It was just the women at the Center,” I say.

“I thought it was Beth.”

“With a voice like that? Why don’t you call her?”

He looks at me as if I have asked him the dumbest question ever. But I am interested in Mahlon Quigley. I want to know more about this man.

“Why?” asks Obed.

“I find him intriguing.”

“My old man intriguing?”

“Don’t you people know what happens under your own roof at night?” I was getting agitated.

“Oh, you mean about him and Orpah? Of course we know. Everyone knows. They have been doing it since she was little. Since I was little too. But I outgrew it. Orpah’s still a child at heart.”

Then he walks away.

Mahlon Quigley, I learn from the women at the Center later that day as I help arrange the chairs in the hall, is a respected elder in the community despite his silence. On the rare occasions he utters something everyone listens and takes note. They don’t remember when and how his silence started; it just crept on them. They do have a memory of a much younger and vibrant Mahlon though. He and Ruth used to live on a small farm when Obed and Orpah were little. They raised all their food, including meat. They slaughtered hogs and chickens. They raised their own eggs too. But, alas, farms were commercialized and the family had to leave the land.

But no one could take the farmer out of Mahlon. Even when he had moved to the village he kept cows. “He got them as calves and then grew them up till they was big and then sold them for beef,” said Irene. Sometimes he had up to eight cows at a time. He had two or three pigs and a few chickens as well. “Back in them days you could keep them animals in your backyard without the government whupping your ass,” adds a man who had joined us helping set the place up for the party.

A strange disease attacked his animals; many of them died and others had to be put down. This pained him very much and he decided he would never again grow anything that would die. Hence his garden has gnomes and flags and statues. The only living thing is the bush that has survived for generations and is not likely to die in his lifetime. When women talk of him their eyes become moist and their voices drip honey. One senses awe in the men’s tones. Everyone is in agreement: there has never been a gentleman like Mahlon Quigley seen in these parts.

And there is this business about his mother, which the people here would rather whisper. She was a white woman from Stewart who fell in love with a colored man from Kilvert. Naturally her parents objected. She fell pregnant with Mahlon and had to run away to Kilvert to be with her man. She was only in her teens at the time. She found that in Kilvert she was not quite welcome either. People resented the fact that she was from Stewart first and foremost, and secondly that she was white. It was in the early 1940s, Irene reminds me, and prejudice was the order of the day. Why, even today you will still find it!

This intolerance by a community founded on the basis of fighting against intolerance is very sad. Something terrible must have happened to the poor woman. I remember Ruth telling me when we were still great buddies that her greatest wish at the moment was to get a proper tombstone on the presently nameless grave of Mr. Quigley’s mother.

Christmas dinner at the Kilvert Community Center. Five days before Christmas day. Everyone laments that it is not going to be a white Christmas. The rainbow people of the village have gathered and the hall is full. Little girls in red and white Christmas dresses. Little boys playing pranks on other little boys. Big and slender teenage girls with lipstick smeared thickly on their lips standing in a group next to a Christmas tree with red and white decorations. They are holding their babies in their arms. They are all in the latest of designer jeans. Grandmothers feeding their grandchildren. It strikes me that the children have become lighter in complexion than their parents down the generations. Some look totally Caucasian.

There is Margaret Tabler standing behind a long table under the picture of Martin Luther King Jr., directing the traffic that has lined up for the food. The table is bedecked with trays of cookies and cakes and pretzels and sandwiches and candy and hot dogs and chips and cans of pop. Irene insists that I must fill my paper plate many times over.

There are Nathan and Orpah sitting on a couch by the door. He waves at me and I wave back. They are laughing at something Nathan has said. Yes, Orpah is actually laughing. I am happy that she has been persuaded to come out and enjoy herself with other human beings. But also there is a slight pang of jealousy that she is with Nathan. I should have been brave enough to ask her out for this dinner. Who knows? She might have said yes. They look good together though: Orpah and Nathan. I am sure Ruth is happy too. She has been encouraging Orpah to go for Nathan because Nathan is a good man and Nathan is a hard-working man and Nathan is a responsible man who will look after her and Nathan will bring some sanity into her life.

“Nathan’s a wild man, Ruth,” that’s what Orpah said the last time I heard them talk about him.

“She’s looking for a tame man. They’re hard to come by. She’s gotta tame one for herself,” said Ruth, not addressing her daughter directly but looking at me for confirmation.

“I am not looking for no man, period,” that was Orpah’s response as she walked away.

And now here they are, Nathan and Orpah, laughing together under a red and white banner with a gold star of Bethlehem and the three wise men on camels.

There is Santa Claus sitting on a chair next to two big boxes with presents wrapped in colorful paper. The children are lining up for their gifts. A child sits on his lap and they exchange a few words, I don’t know about what, and then he selects a present from one or the other box depending on the sex of the child. Older children don’t sit on his lap but receive their presents while standing in front of him. Santa spots me and waves at me with a big grin. I can see Obed under that sloppy white beard and red and white hat. The scoundrel can be useful when he wants. It is amazing how he is able to bring out a giggle even from the shy kids.

There is Mahlon Quigley sitting with men who are obviously much older than him. Two men are trying to charm an equally senior citizen whose face and neck are mapped with deep furrows of wisdom. She is giggling like a teenage girl and her blue eyes glisten with tears. I think she has been laughing her dear little heart out. Mahlon for his part is just smiling as always.

Once again I wonder what goes on in that head. Especially after what I saw last night. I cannot understand why even the stormy Ruth holds this man in such awe and reverently refers to him as Mr. Quigley and never Mahlon. Mr. Quigley this, Mr. Quigley that, and Mr. Quigley needs to be well fed. He turns his head and looks at me. Maybe it is my imagination but I think the smile faded a bit. I get the feeling that if I were to compete for Orpah’s attention at all it would not be with Nathan but with Mahlon Quigley.

The thought sickens me and I slip out of the room. I walk among the many cars and SUVs parked in the yard to the gate and stand there alone. Why on earth would I think of competing for any woman in Kilvert? I think I am getting too comfortable in Tabler Town. I have forgotten my mission. I came here in search of mourning. Not to fight duels with fathers over their daughters. And how presumptuous of me to imagine that a woman like Orpah would be remotely interested in someone like me!