Free No Safeguards by H. Nigel Thomas Page A

Night after night I dreamed we were together, and would awaken right after, usually in the middle of the night, and spend a long time thinking about her. We heard from her every two to three weeks. She sent us a parcel at Christmas and on our birthdays. Then she remembered our birthdays. Grama told us that Anna sent money to pay for our expenses, but I read all her letters (Grama caught me once and reprimanded me), and in each of them Anna apologized for not sending any money.
    Paul conquered Grama’s heart. She loved him unconditionally, dotingly. On Friday afternoons, when Paul and I returned from school in Kingstown, she’d be standing on the front porch waiting for us. As soon as the car door opened, Paul would break loose as if from prison and run straight into her arms, and she lifted him up, and he kissed her (the lifting was replaced by bending when Paul became too heavy, but the kissing never stopped). And while I was transporting our dirty clothes to the laundry room, Paul would be inside planting kisses on Aunt Mercy’s cheeks before rushing back to Grama, by now seated on the living room sofa, waiting for him to show her his workbooks covered with stars, and regale her with all that had happened at school and at Cousin Alice’s that week.
    With me her physical contact was never more than a perfunctory, dutiful kiss, and an occasional hug. In the first three or so years that I lived with her — before she became tired of saying it — she would sometimes say: “You’re already an old man, Jay” — her eyes narrowing, boring into me, her forehead deeply creased. “Not a hint of adventure in you. Not a playful bone in that old man’s body. What are you in mourning for? Your life hasn’t even started. I never see you with a cricket bat. You don’t go out to the playing field to kick a soccer ball with the other children. Do like your brother. He can’t play because of his asthma, but he goes out there and enjoys watching the players.” Sometimes, if she thought she’d been harsh, she’d come to stand or sit beside me. “Don’t think I’m blaming you for being yourself.” But she would sigh and add: “Jay, I want you to be happy.” One time I was standing on the front porch watching her dead-head the roses and bougainvillaea that encircled the porch; she looked up at me, and said: “Stop being so sullen.” She sounded worried. It had upset me. I felt like an ingrate. Now I think she probably felt that she had failed in some way, or was guilty that Paul took up most of the space in her affection. The doubts parents have, I suppose. I have since seen it firsthand in Anna’s trials with Paul.
    The first few years with Grama were tough. I had to steel myself just to visit my father and deal with the shame I felt, and avoid saying anything that would hurt his feelings. When I came to Canada, away from it all, it struck me, how warm, affectionate, and harmless my father became when he was drunk, and I wondered why he wasn’t that way when he was sober. One late afternoon when I’d returned from visiting Caleb, Grama asked me jokingly: “How’s your father doing in his alcoholic heaven?” I was silent, and she saw that her words were hurtful, and she came out to the front porch where I was and put her arms around me and muttered: “You are too young — too young for all this. Too young.” Then she sighed, left me there, and returned inside. There was an unusual silence at the supper table that evening. Even Paul was quiet.
    No, it would be wrong to find fault with Grama. During the July-August holidays, she played scrabble and Chinese checkers with me, and we read together. She plied me with the books Caleb had prevented me from reading. She would come in from the store and have a short nap, write her journal, after which we’d have supper and read for two to three hours. She had all