Oonya Kempadoo - All Decent Animals

“And poor Thomas, all now-so he must be still blaming heself … Jeez, man.”

“The thing is, we all feel guilty,” Helen said, looking at Mrs. Goodman. “It’s natural we feel we didn’t do enough.”

Mr. Goodman was looking at Mrs. Goodman too, looking for the guilt. She glared at Vernon some more.

A clack of shoes approaching announced Dr. Turner, a tall female nephrologist with a slight stoop, ill-fitting ordinary clothes, and a medical preoccupation about her — the air of someone who cares more about their profession than their own health and appearance. Dr. Turner turned to the parents.

After the complicated report and answers about procedures were finished, Helen kept looking anxiously from Dr. Turner to Mrs. Goodman, again and again. Something else was bothering Helen. She pretended to usher Dr. Turner out, to get out of earshot. The details had already been softened by all the general predictions and preparatory medical explanations of renal failure but Fraser’s parents both looked a little older and weaker. SC put an arm around Mrs. Goodman’s narrow shoulders.

“We going in to see him,” Mrs. Goodman said to Ata and Pierre. “When Helen comes back, tell her to meet us in there.”

SC moved off slowly with them toward Fraser’s room

“There’s something more, that Helen’s hiding,” Ata whispered.

“I daresay,” Pierre mumbled, hugging himself again.

Vernon was still seated across the room, studying his hands.

Pierre continued, “They had to test for HIV, of course. And that would change everything. It’s highly likely.”

Ata almost hit him in sheer anger. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“The results are only now ready! It’s only a possibility … and I didn’t want to worry you any more—”

“I should have thought of it anyway, of course it’s a possibility. But … I don’t like you hiding things from me.”

Helen returned and Pierre demanded immediately, “He’s positive, isn’t he?”

Helen looked at him, startled, then she softened.

“Worse. It’s advanced too. You know as well as I do that renal failure is sometimes the consequence of AIDS.”

Ata’s eyes welled as she turned away and held on to the aluminum window rim.

“But we don’t have to tell his mother this — it would kill her!” Helen insisted. “It would kill him — to come out of a coma and find out that his mother knows, before he has a chance to…”

“The doctor wants, is obligated, to tell the parents but I asked her to give us some time.”

“What? You plan not to inform his parents?” Pierre demanded again.

Ata turned back to them as Helen accused Pierre of not understanding Fraser’s relationship with his parents.

“But they do have a right to the full picture of what’s happening with their son. And how could we ask Dr. Turner to not do what she’s legally and ethically bound to? We can’t do that,” Pierre said, as if he had the final say.

“At least give it a few days — give Fraser a chance to gain consciousness and tell his parents himself, or give permission to someone else to do so.”

“And if something happens?”

“Like what?” Ata asked instantly.

They all became silent as the true implications crept through.

“They can’t put him on hemodialysis because they only have two machines, and everyone has to use them,” Helen whispered.

Wood-lash pain-cracking ribs and heartstrings twang. Breath feeding life falters, curdles, wringing soul salt. Ata crumpled into tears with Helen now, hugging. Over her shoulder she saw Vernon sitting across there, looking at them.

“I’ll ask Dr. Turner again if she could put it off for a few days. It’s asking a lot but I’ll try.”

Vernon watched all of this and no one knew how much he could hear, how much he wanted to hear or maybe knew already.

“IT SHOULD CONSUME YOU!” God of Design’s voice rings steel-clear in the big old airplane hangar. Ata’s shadow hops in ahead of her in the slanty sunlight, through the door cut out of the metal entrance, to work. Her eyes cool from the outside brightness.

“Imagine. Just imagine.” His white T-shirt materializes in the dim center. Performers, dressed in black, group dark round him. He starts twisting up his body, contorting. “Let your mind crawl beyond your eyes. Let it move your body, push away limits. Let it breathe and expand. Fill up this whole space!” He flings out his arms and spins around.

Ata can see clearer now. Hanging his glary face forward, Slinger shrinks the dancers, pushing them back. Elfin ears red and trembling, blazing eyes skinning under a clean white skull, he pauses. None of the performers know where to look, unsure if they should stare back in his eyes, or freeze looking at a speck on the floor, or what. Dare not smile. A few new members glance around, fidgeting.

“IMAGINE!” So loud everyone jumps. It booms out like his chest is an empty warehouse itself. “A parade in celebration of … a wedding! Cupid has been at work and Venus is at her peak. Imagine. Columbus is marrying Liberty. Saint Valentine has given his blessing, Eros a gift, and all the gods in heaven are watching — the Old World marries the New. The conqueror and the virgin. But oh!” He jumps aside and crouches.

Ata moves up next to the manager leaning on a crate, smoking a cigarette. She braces on the crate too, knowing it will take a while before she can talk to him.

“A virgin with such great virtues and will , Liberté! Imagine a wonderful christening of these islands. And Trinity”—he gathers up precious air in his fingers—“Trinity is receiving them now. Between the two cold continents — Europe and America — a tropical Eden for them to lie in, surrounded by miles of warm silk sea … the bridal train a froth of frangipani flowers floating…,” frillying his fingers, clasping hands tight, “an island, an island, an island … of FESTIVITY!” and cracking his mask at the lips, he starts the festival with a clap, plucking revelers out the air, swaying, as if pulled by invisible strings, music carrying him in a rhythm that only he can hear.

The performers listen hard. They hear it too. He calls them in. Rhythm growing.

The manager chuckles.

“Yuh see it? Yuh hear it?” Slinger shouts over his shoulder, leading away. “Oh God, look it have tassa drummers over so, and steelpan playing. Look Sugar Boy and Tantie wining, gyrating theyself Kitchener and Sparrow singing. Come, nuh. Moko Jumbies will fall in. Pierrot, Sailors, and Wild Indians coming too. Mind you don’t dirty the bridesmaid dress. Tingaling, tingaling…” Wiggling an arm, they fall in behind him. “Tingaling, tingaling, chip, chip…”

“ Ring de bell ,” they chorus.

Now they chanting up more mas, chirping and whooping. A whistle echoing shrill jabs.

Slinger loops away from the train and comes to watch them with the manager and Ata. They are beautiful, these dancers and actors. A set of beautiful young Trinis, sexy and flexy with theyselves.

Slinger takes a pull from the manager’s cigarette, slow, as if tasting the shiny bodies undulating in the soft light. “Allyou know the thing,” he murmurs, his face clammy and drained. “But don’t just stay there … stuck.”

“I won’t be able to come in this week because.”

“I know. We heard. I’m sorry.” The manager reaches out and holds Ata’s hand.

Slinger turns to her with great effort. “Come here, girl.” He hugs her, damp and heavy.

The dancers are still snaking and puppeting around. Slinger drops his arms, steps in, and stops them, too tired now for more imagination. He tells them to elaborate, that this could just be the beginning, they should come up with the performance piece for this year’s band, Matrimony. Try. Something.