Lucy: A Novel by Jamaica Kincaid Page B

taken, in black-and-white, of the children with Mariah, of Mariah all by herself, and of some of the things I had acquired since leaving home. I had no photographs of Lewis and no photographs of myself. I was trying to imitate the mood of the photographs in the book Mariah had given me, and though in that regard I failed completely, I was pleased with them all the same. I had a picture of the children eating toasted marshmallows; a picture of them with their bottoms facing the camera—their way of showing me how disgusted they were with requests for more smiles; a picture of Mariah in the middle of an elaborate preparation of chicken and vegetables cooked slowly in red wine; a picture of my dresser top with my dirty panties and lipstick, an unused sanitary napkin, and an open pocketbook scattered about; a picture of a necklace made of strange seeds, which I had bought from a woman on the street; a picture of a vase I had bought at the museum, a reproduction of one found at the site of a lost civilization. Why is a picture of something real eventually more exciting than the thing itself? I did not yet know the answer to that. I was lying there in a state of no state, almost as if under ether, thinking nothing, feeling nothing. It is a bad way to be—your spirit feels the void and will summon something to come in, usually something bad.
    There was a knock, and the door opened. It was Mariah. Someone was there to see me. From the way she said it, I could tell it wasn’t someone she knew; I could tell it wasn’t good news. I followed Mariah into the living room and saw seated there, in a chair that had too much stuffing, a familiar face, the face of Maude Quick, only now she was a woman. She was still a bully—I could see it in her overstuffed frame, matching the chair she sat in. When she saw me, she stood, growing up and out. She said my name, and I felt as if all the earth’s gravity had been gathered and made to center only on me; I was reduced to a tiny speck that weighed a world. She said that she had been home for a few weeks and had returned only yesterday. She said, “Here,” and she gave me a blue envelope that had stamped on it PAR AVION , and my name and address written in my mother’s handwriting. She said, “Your mother asked me to give you this.” She said, “Your father died a month ago now.” She said, “It happened all of a sudden. His heart just gave out.” She said, “You know, his heart always gave him trouble.”
    I was silent. I remained silent for a long time. I was thinking, Look at how pleased with herself this person is. I was thinking, Everything she has ever done has brought her such satisfaction: eating, especially eating, sleeping, telling me the things she has just told me.
    She said, “Your mother is so sad you never answer her letters. Perhaps you never receive them.”
    Mariah had not left the room; she had been standing a little bit away from where we were standing. She now came and stood beside me and placed one arm around my shoulders, and with the other she held on to my two hands; she drew me close to her. She must have known that I was about to break apart, and what she was doing was holding me together in one piece, like the series of tin bands that hold a box of goods together if it is being sent far overseas. I stood still in silence. My head ached, my eyes ached, my mouth was dry but I could not swallow, my throat ached, inside my ears was the sound of waves wanting to break free but only dashing themselves against a wall of rocks. I could not cry. I could not speak. I was trying to get the muscles in my face to do what I wanted them to do, trying to gain control over myself.
    Maude laughed, a small laugh, the laugh of someone who did not even have to make an effort to be correct. She said, “You remind me of Miss Annie, you really remind me of your mother.”
    I was dying, and she saved my life. I shall always be grateful to her for that. She could not have known that