by Hart Tillett
“You wouldn’t believe what happened at the market today, Wally!”
Hilda had just returned from the open market in Orange Walk town where she, with Wally (her husband) and their two children lived. She had taken 4-year old Wally Junior and his 3-year old sister Adrianna along, left the two on the grassy verge to play where she could keep an eye on them, and popped into the fresh vegetables section to get oranges and cassava.
“Junior found this used banana stem and sat down counting the stubs,” she said amidst peals of laughter. “People stopped and stared; some took pictures, especially when he started coaching Adrianna with her numbers, using the stem as a kind of abacus.”
“And what did Junior do?” asked Wally, with just a hint of the pride that colored his cheeks.
“He was quite the dramatist,” she replied, “turning to the spectators periodically and smiling as if to acknowledge their presence. You know, the way a concert pianist will bow to the applause of his audience.”
Wally was silent for a moment.
“And what did you do?” he enquired.
“What would you expect me to do,” she demanded heatedly. “Told him to throw the filthy thing away.” There was a pause, and Wally could tell there was more.
“And?” he asked, prompting.
“Well, he began to cry,” she admitted, “and the onlookers protested, urging me to let him keep his trophy!” Again, a meaningful pause. “How could I do that? The thing was thrash that someone had thrown out. What use was it to anyone?”
And with that she continued stocking the foodstuff she had bought.
Wally meanwhile felt a tug of the boyish fetish for collecting things. Things that a boy liked—rocks, a crab-claw, a bent nail or a crow’s tail feather. No need for a reason or a market value. He felt that if his boy wanted that old banana stem, he should have it. During breakfast he watched Junior, a cheerful lad most of the time, but that morning he was silent and brooding over his cereal which remained mostly untouched. He needed to help Junior get past the gloom that enveloped him, and when breakfast was over, he set about doing just that.
“Let’s go, Junior,” he told the lad, snagging the keys for the pick-up.
“Where to?” asked Hilda.
“Hardware,” he replied vaguely.
“As you’ll be passing the market, get us some limes, will you?”
“Sure thing,” he said gladly. That’s exactly where I’m going, he thought.
He drove to the vegetable section of the market and saw the discarded banana stem was still on the heap of trash as Hilda had said. He took the child’s hand after exiting the vehicle, and as they walked by the rubbish heap, Junior pulled away and ran to retrieve it. Excitement was in his broad grin, hugging the thing with an unspoken request that made his eyes gleam.
“What’s that, Junior?” Wally asked him gently, seeing him hug the banana stem like a trophy.
“My picture,” he answered cheerily.
“How so?” he asked. “That’s not a picture,” he corrected, “only an old banana stem, son,” his protest fatherly and compassionate.
“It’s in my picture book,” the boy punted. “I wanted to have one like it. Like the one in the picture book.”
“OK, then,” he capitulated. “What will you do with it?”
“Take a picture for teacher,” the boy replied.
When they returned home, it took a little explaining for Hilda to understand what he had done, but once she could lean into the impulse of the child, she became agreeable and even ventured ideas as to how they could work it into his make-believe world.
“I’ll have a word with the teacher about this on Monday when I drop him off at the preschool,” she ventured.
“And Junior and I will clean this thing up a bit to make it more presentable—okay, son?”
On the face of it, the marriage between Wallenstein Brown and Hilda Stain would not fly as a matchmaker’s finest creation. The incident with the banana stem was only a tiny evidence of that. They were both from Guinea Grass Village a few miles out of town, and it was generally believed they were distant cousins. Not so distant either!
Another thing that marked the match for matrimonial discord was their backgrounds. Shortly after Hernando Stain joined the police force, he moved his family from Guinea Grass Village to Belize City, where his wife found a teaching job. So, Hilda, their only daughter, was more city-bred than of village stock. Wally Brown was not the academic sort, preferring life as a farmer and occasional jobber in the cane fields of Corozal and Orange Walk. Hilda, on the other hand, was blessed with a sharp, analytical mind. She had won a government scholarship for high school, and from there went on to sixth form, where she majored in education. She liked the classes in psychology and econometrics which came easily to her. She found herself helping other students unravel the mysteries of equations and mathematical formulas, and from this experience grew the desire to teach. She taught for a while in Belize City after graduation, then enrolled in the teachers’ college, where she got into the dramatic arts at the Bliss Institute. Thereafter, she took up a job as a teacher at a high school in Orange Walk Town.
But the most compelling reason of all was something instilled in her by her parents—especially her father, Hernando Stain (known as Mando), a man who liked the word “progress,” and used it a lot.
See, with an annual salary of $7,800, even with his wife teaching, life was hard. He began attending evening classes, got his high school diploma, resigned from the “Force”, and entered the private workplace of a large commercial enterprise as a book-keeper with his eyes on the post of Finance Officer. He liked to recount this story to his children in particular, and generally to anyone with the time to listen. And he would always end it with a wish that “more of our people” would realize how dearly was that attribute of the human spirit—the pursuit of progress.
“The ones who fail,” he would become condescending, “are to be pitied. Pitied but not pampered!”
Hilda was mindful of her father’s feelings. And knew he was right. It was what drove her to strive for success in whatever she did. Excellence came with each undertaking. Her career bloomed, and fortune seemed to have opened its welcoming arms to her. Mando was proud of her accomplishments, satisfied that she had shown such progress in her young life. For her 16th birthday he gave her a gala birthday party and included a one-week vacation in Oklahoma City, where he had family.
Wally was not invited, but that meant nothing to him. He was a few years older than Hilda and, even though they had attended the same village school as kids, they had been in different classes, had different friends and pursuits, and did not share the same interests. Hilda was more inclined to things like music and reading, while he was all about animals and sports.
Shortly before the party, Hilda had asked her father about Wally. Mando bristled at the mention of the name and replied with unbridled asperity: “That boy is a failure—no ambition, no plans, and worse still, no evidence of a desire to progress in life.”
It was true that the kind of advancement which Mando Stain had in mind was not for Wally. Owning pastures and cattle and horses was the younger man’s ambition, and by the time he was 23 he had a well-established career as a rancher. An uncle named Reuben ran a meat shop in the town and relied on Wally for his beef and pork regularly. At Christmas time his fresh turkeys were eagerly sought by the townspeople, and he had, with the urging of his uncle, learned the commercial curing of hams.
Wally had felt the tug of success. He began to pay attention to his attire so that, whenever he would visit Shipyard for grains or went to town, he packed nice clothing and shoes in the event he decided to spend some time there prior to returning home.
It was on one of these business trips into town that he had an unfortunate accident. On his way home one night, he stepped on a loose rock, fell and broke his foot. He had to wait for a while before the surgeon from Belize City made his bi-weekly visit to the northern districts for it to be seen.
“Have you heard the news about Wally?” Reuben asked Hilda two days later when she was in the shop.
“W-what happened?” she asked and the older man thought he heard a tenderness he hadn’t heard in the schoolteacher’s voice before.
“Tripped and broke an ankle,” he replied knowledgeably. The information flow went on, and she learned that Wally was still in the hospital awaiting the doctor’s visit.
“Too bad,” Hilda said bitterly, and was gone. Wally, she thought as she drove away. The last time she had seen him was at a party Reuben’s wife had organized for his 65th birthday. That was three years before. They had hardly spoken, and she wondered what he must be like then. She made a mental note to stop by the hospital to see him. Purely coincidental, of course, she reasoned—village folk concern, merely.
But there was a problem. How could she just show up at the hospital asking for him without setting the rumor mill of the hospital staff abuzz? And another matter niggled: once there, what would they talk about—pigs and horses? Wally would not appreciate any discourses on music and literature and other academic stuff. Or would he? As she drove along, these thoughts crowded in, and in desperation she felt like nixing the idea altogether. She momentarily put the question aside, and concentrated on getting home to deal with the pork loin in her bag.
One of her students was absent on Friday morning, and on enquiry she learned that the girl’s mother had been hospitalized and, being the eldest, she had to skip school to keep the household running. It was the opportunity Hilda needed to justify a visit to the hospital, and on Sunday afternoon she presented herself at the in-patient ward enquiring about the student’s mom, someone she knew well.
“Come this way, teacher,” chirped the helpful nurse leading the way to the female ward. To get there they had to pass the male ward, and standing at the doorway was Wally’s uncle.
“Hello, Miss Stain,” he said with a broad grin. “Here to see Wally?” he asked in a knowing way that the nurse didn’t miss.
Before the conversation went further off the rails, Hilda hastened to explain about her student’s dilemma and moved on at the nurse’s urging. After visiting with the patient for a half-hour, she was ready to leave and hoped that the butcher had left by then. He had, and on her way out she slipped into the ward where Wally lay, his injured foot elevated in a sling attached to the foot of the bed. He was not alone, however. A younger woman stood by his bedside. A moment of silence hung between them, but it was quickly dispelled by Wally.
“Hello, teacher,” he said with a chuckle. “The last time I saw you I was able to stand up to you,” he joked. He was attired in a hospital patient gown which reminded Hilda of scenes from Julius Caesar with the senators in their togas. His pillow was doubled up and his head propped up, revealing his dimpled chin and black hair. His arms were folded across his chest, and Hilda saw a pair of clean hands with knuckles that glistened with perspiration.
The woman companion then spoke up to join in the convo.
“Don’t pay Wally any mind, Miss,” she said companionably. The smile didn’t quite reach up to her eyes.
“Teacher,” said Wally, “this is Eleanor. Eleanor, meet Miss Hilda Stain from Sacred Angels High School.” They both nodded politely, but did not shake hands. “What brings you to these parts on a nice Sunday afternoon?” he asked conversationally.
Hilda told them and then added:
“Your uncle the butcher told me of your accident, and I thought that if there was time today I’d stop by and see how you did.”
“As you can tell, Wally’s doing very well, Miss Stain.” Eleanor’s voice was clipped and cold. “If all goes well, he should be coming home in a few days.”
“Actually, that will depend on how long it takes before I can put any weight on the leg,” he corrected gently.
Hilda felt the rising tension in the room, and had been looking for an opportunity to get away quickly. The timing of his hospital discharge provided the chance she wanted.
“Well,” she said with genuine concern, “I just wanted to see how you did, and as I was visiting a friend…”
But she was not allowed to finish her response. Eleanor was talking again:
“At times like this, friends are important, indeed, and that’s why I come to see Wally every day. Not just when it’s convenient.”
“I’m sure that’s not what Miss Stain meant, Eleanor.” Hilda didn’t miss the tinge of asperity in his voice. “I’m glad you stopped by, Miss. Did you see my uncle when you came in?” The question was evidently aimed at prolonging her stay, but she was ready to leave.
“I did,” she replied shortly. “And I’m glad to see you are doing alright.” She moved towards the door, but turned to him and said, “By the way, Wally, I agree with Eleanor here; one does need friends!” She smiled before adding, “And, in that regard, I’d rather you called me Hilda when we meet again.” She gave a curt wave then left.
Her face felt flushed as she moved away. Can’t let the nurses see me like this, she thought, so she leaned on the bannister momentarily, allowing her body to calm itself. Why did I say that, she asked herself silently. It was Eleanor, she realized, behaving too possessively towards Wally. Clearly, she resented my being there, she reasoned, as she felt the calm returning. But why would that matter to me as to make me want to put down the village girl?
“Goodbye, teacher,” the lone nurse at the Nurses’ Station chirped as she emerged. “Was Mrs. Sutton happy to see you?”
“Yes… yes,” she stuttered. “She’s looking forward to being discharged,” she added as she continued on to the exit.
The week following her visit to the hospital went by in a blur. The first semester was drawing to a close, and her test questions needed to be ready for printing by week’s end. A few loose ends remained unresolved regarding the class trip to the National Zoo after exams, and she still needed to meet with the class captain on their arrangements for Spring Break activities coming up in the following year.
But, despite the convection of so many matters of moment, slivers of the encounter at the hospital continued to intrude onto the outlying ledges of her consciousness. Like, why did Eleanor inject herself so forcibly into the conversation? Or, what did she mean when she said that Wally would be going “home?” And then there was Wally’s efforts to be nice, even if that meant his mild reproof over his hospital discharge? Each time she would end these musings with a reminder that it didn’t concern her; that she hardly knew the man, and that if he and Eleanor were lovers, more so she should not be concerned.
What puzzled her the most, however, was the saltiness in her voice when she said goodbye to Wally as she left his hospital room. That was out of character for her, and she couldn’t understand what drove her to it. Instinct? A natural reaction to someone who had stepped out of line? Perhaps, but what line? It was clear that she and Wally were involved with each other in some way, but again, whatever that tie was, it was none of her business. (to be continued)