Authors: Makeda Silvera
Tags: #Fiction, #General
“The Heart Does Not Bend is
as much a story of familial love and loss as it is an important and interesting exercise in writing—and for the reader, in reading—against the grain.”
The Globe and Mail
“The Heart Does Not Bend
is guided by an emotional and intellectual honesty, making it both a highly entertaining and a thoroughly rewarding novel.”
Quill and Quire
“The Heart Does Not Bend
is an achingly rich, sensuous text…. Keep an eye on this author, because
The Heart Does Not Bend
is a refreshingly simple but undeniably intense addition to this country’s literary legacy.”
“This is a frank, vivid and sad tale about a family divided by distance, jealousy and disappointment. But Makeda Silvera’s first novel is also a tale about love and hope restored as it details the life of Maria Galloway, a fiery matriarch, and her familial web, which stretches from lush Jamaica to urban Toronto…. Silvera weaves wonderful descriptions throughout the story, engaging every sense.”
Victoria Times Colonist
Heart Does Not Bend
is] a novel of delicate eloquence…. Silvera does several things that impress when it comes to language…. Her dialogue is pure patois, delightfully expressive, but democratically measured…. [T]his portrait of a family is also a poignant saga of Jamaican society. In Maria, Silvera has created a completely idiosyncratic figure, strong and weak, generous and intolerant, the novel’s unbending heart.”
The Toronto Star
There Are No Honest Poems
About Dead Women
EVERYONE IS SITTING
at Grand-aunt Ruth’s breakfast table in Kingston—Uncle Peppie and Aunt Val; Uncle Mikey; Glory, my mother and the executor of my grandmother’s estate; the grand-aunts, Ruth and Joyce; cousins Icie, Ivan and Vittorio; and my daughter, Ciboney, and her eleven-month-old baby. Uncle Freddie is the only one missing.
The muttering around the table gives way to the crackling of the papers in Glory’s hand. Except for the three youngest, we are nervous. Ciboney, just fifteen, looks bored, but the hint of malice around her mouth makes me wonder what she is thinking. Vittorio, handsome at nineteen, idly plays with his brick-coloured, shoulder-length dreadlocks. Aunt Val has an arm protectively around Uncle Peppie’s shoulder. Uncle Mikey crosses and uncrosses his legs. Grand-aunt Ruth wipes sweat from her face with an old washrag, and Aunt Joyce fans herself profusely with a rattan fan she brought back from America. Cousin Icie and Cousin Ivan sit like tin soldiers. My thoughts are a muddle, and my heart is thumping so hard that I am convinced everyone can hear it.
“Okay, we all here?” Glory asks.
“Uh-hum,” we respond as one.
“Well ah think we should just get it over wid,” Glory says as she straightens the papers once more.
“‘I, Maria Maud Galloway, of sound mind and body, make this my Last Will and Testament.’”
“‘I hereby revoke all my former wills and other testamentary dispositions of every nature and kind whatsoever hereto before made by me.’”
Glory pauses, inhales heavily and says, “Dis is not Mama’s first will. Dis is about de tenth. De lawyer dem love her.”
“‘I nominate, constitute and appoint my daughter, Glory May Galloway, to be the sole executor of this my will.’”
She pauses again. “Ah skipping some of de legal talk.”
“‘To my grandson, Vittorio Oliver Galloway, I bequeath the properties known as 100 Pear Avenue, in the Municipality of Metropolitan Toronto, Canada, and the fifty-five acres of land in the township of Muskoka free and clear of all liens and encumbrances whatsoever, for his own use absolutely.’”
“‘To my grandson, Vittorio Oliver Galloway, I also bequeath the property at 3 Wigton Street, in the City of Kingston, Jamaica, free and clear of all liens and encumbrances whatsoever, for his own use absolutely.’”
A loud gasp escapes from Uncle Peppie; Aunt Val strokes his shoulder. Glory sighs. Uncle Mikey uncrosses his legs and plants his feet firmly on the ground, his face an ugly mask. Uncle Peppie slumps further into his chair.
“Lawd God Almighty!” Aunt Joyce shouts.
“Calm down. Quiet, Joyce, mek we hear de rest of de will,” Grand-aunt Ruth commands.
Glory’s mouth is clamped tight as she reads the rest of the will silently.
“Go on, Glory,” Grand-aunt Ruth says, gently resting her hand on Glory’s arm. Glory takes a sip of her coffee, as if to help loosen her mouth.
“‘To transfer my hope chest to my great-granddaughter, Ciboney Galloway, for her own use absolutely.
“‘To transfer all other household items on the properties to my grandson, Vittorio Oliver Galloway.
“‘To transfer all moneys from my bank account in the Municipality of Metropolitan Toronto and in the City of Kingston, Jamaica, to my grandson, Vittorio Oliver Galloway.’”
Glory is still reading. By now I am only half listening. I see Maria, Mama to me, in the hospital bed, me changing her soaked diaper. She grips my hands, her eyes pleading, the words coming out with difficulty.
“Molly, tek mi outa dis iron coffin. Tek me out, carry mi home. Mek mi dead in mi own bed.”
“‘Should my said grandson predecease me, or die at the same time or in circumstances rendering it uncertain which of us survived the other, or die within thirty days of my death, then I direct my Trustee to give my grandson’s share of my estate to charity, for the charity’s use absolutely.’”
Glory’s voice breaks. Her body sags from the weight of the will. Uncle Mikey offers her a glass of water.
“Here, Glory, drink dis.”
“Dis is madness. Dis is plain, outright madness,” Glory says. “Ah should have certified her a long time ago.” Her voice is full of contempt and she is trembling.
“Ah wonder if Maria was in her right mind for truth?”
Aunt Joyce adds, shaking her head in disbelief.
Uncle Mikey’s voice is bitter. “Mama is a wicked, revengeful ’oman. How she could do dis? Wherever she gone, she won’t find peace.” He pushes his chair back, ready to leave the table.
“Mikey, tek it easy. Sit down. Yuh not massa God. And only Him can judge,” Grand-aunt Ruth says. He opens his mouth to argue, but one look from Grand-aunt Ruth and he changes his mind.
“Ah try mi best all dese years to be a good daughter, and for what? Ah use to parcel up de whole of Canada and send home to her.”
“Yes, Glory, yuh give her your best, and she did love you very much. Don’t cuss and don’t harbour bad feelings. God not sleeping and Him work in mysterious ways. Dis is why life and death is a mystery to us all,” Grand-aunt Ruth says.
I remember Mama at the hospital, her eyes wild, her panicked whisper pleading with me to take her home.
“De man calling mi, Molly. Him ready to tek mi.”
Her breathing was harsh, her mouth caving in without her dentures.
I didn’t have to look across the table at Uncle Peppie to feel his shame. He was Maria’s first-born, the faithful, obedient son. It’s as if she’s in the room, sitting at the table, and he won’t say anything bad about her. Like me, he never stood up to her, and her death changes nothing. When Uncle Peppie finally speaks, he doesn’t mention the will.
“Well, at least she get her final wish. She bury right next to Mammy, in Port Maria Cemetery.”
“You too kind-hearted, Peppie,” Uncle Mikey jumps in, sucking his teeth.
Glory, in full agreement, cuts her eyes across the table.
“Is Peppie save her. Is him give her a second life.”
“Dis is her idea of revenge,” Mikey spits out. “She was always harbouring some anger. Freddie right fi nuh come.”
“Molly remember de dresses,” Uncle Peppie quietly reminds me.
They have forgotten Vittorio. It’s as if he weren’t there. Grand-aunt Ruth comes to his rescue.
“What time is yuh flight, Vic?”
“Soon, Aunt Ruth. I should get back to packing.” He pushes back his chair, eager to get away.
“Let we hold we head in prayer before yuh leave, Vic. Dis bickering and bad feeling toward de living and de dead nuh good,” Grand-aunt Ruth says, determined to bank the fire. “Okay, let we all hold hands. ‘Please, dear Father, help us to bury dis hatred and to ward off de temptation of Satan. Let us receive not de spirit of de world, but de Spirit which is of God.’” Her eyes are closed. She doesn’t need her Bible for this. “Praise de Lord and may Him Spirit and de goodness of Him heart be wid us.”
Uncle Peppie slowly pushes back his chair and excuses himself. Aunt Val follows. Vittorio mumbles something about finishing his packing. Uncle Mikey says he needs fresh air. Glory follows. The grand-aunts retire to the kitchen. Cousin Icie and Cousin Ivan escape to the backyard.