— What are you smiling at old man? It was the nurse pinching his toe. He cheups. Why de ass she can’t leave me alone?
She scanned the room as he eyed her through slits. Ah, chut, what she want now? Then he drifted off again to rejoin Mummy on the beach; she was dishing out the pelau and he was holding a bottle of peppa sauce waiting to dash it on the rice. It was he and Mummy for so long. She giving the peppa; he getting the sauce. And now he was on this bed in this shit-ass nursing home waiting to rejoin Mummy.
All of a sudden the dream shifted to the dusty yard of his boyhood home in Oronuevo Village. His brother Toli comes along with a flat stick whittled from the coconut tree in the front of their house, and running up to him is their friend Alfonso, bowling a ball he had fashioned from a rock and some twine. Toli hits the ball but Winston, another friend from down the road, picks it up, pivots magnificently, and breaks the wicket. Well played, bhai! Alfonso yells out to Winston. Well played. Yuh finally break a wicket, bhai. The three of them, all early teenagers, smile big at the sexual innuendo and wave at the old man. Then Toli says, You’re up, brother, and the old man, who appears in his youth, is now batting. He is younger than Toli and taller; Toli is fairer; both are slim. Alfonso turns his back to the old man in the bed and begins running toward the young man, chest thrust forward, head high, ball in his right hand, left touching it, and almost leaps into the air to begin the hand-over-hand movements that add thrust to the bowl. Perfect, perfect. Yes, buddy, I can well remember those days as if dey were yesterday.
The Young Terrors of Oronuevo consisted of eleven regulars and a few alternates. Both he and Toli batted, they were usually in partnership. Toli was a better batsman. In truth, Toli was better than him all around in cricket. Winston Ramkeeson and Alfonso Luces from the other side of the junction practiced cricket with them in the front yard morning, noon, and night when school was out. They played at school during recess and after school. Alfonso was their star bowler, but they all switched up batting and bowling and playing the field. Winston was another all around player. At any one point, one of them might brag after a good play, Worrell ent have nuteeng on us, yuh know. Yes, cricket is a sunshine game and a hot sun day like today always reminded the old man of airborne bowlers, broken wickets, and dramatic overs.
Yes buddy, is a nice game, nuh, a nice game. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see dose boys again, Toli, Alfonso, and Winston. It was eleven of dem in all. Dey made deir own pitch right dere to practice in de yard and made the wicket from dat same coconut tree. Well, in de first place, since cricket is played with two persons at de same time against all eleven of de other team, Toli and me were de lead batsmen. So whoever was de bowler would bowl to us first. You hit de ball and according to de distance you hit de ball you can make one run or two runs, or three runs or four if it roll on de ground and hit one of de boundary. When Toli hit dat ball and it go over de boundary, dat’s a six. It’s a game you really have to understand but it is a real nice game.
He tried many times to explain the game to Detroit people, but they never understood.
Yes, buddy, three men, six wickets; three wickets on dis end and three on de other end no, two wickets and six stumps. Yes, dat’s it. And when de bowler hits de wicket dat man is out and he hits de ball and it goes up in de air and it didn’t go far enough and one of the fielders pitching dat man is out, and if he hit de ball and don’t, ah, if he hit de ball … What de hell am I talking about?
Just then his eyes flew open, fully connecting him with buzzing activity in the hallway just outside of his room. While the sun played with the old man and he followed the shadows dancing across his memory, the nursing staff bustled up and down the hall, stepping over rays, walking right through them, completely oblivious as they cleaned every corner and reorganized this and that in anticipation of a surprise walk-through visit from the State Certification Board. Mainly, they wanted the joint to smell good, so bouquets of silk flowers sprayed with a potpourri scent appeared everywhere to brighten things up and help camouflage the urine odor that had sunk into the walls, under the paint, and behind the baseboards. Every staff member practiced sporting a wide smile while changing the loaded dydees of old and forgotten souls, vacant faces with drooling mouths. Staff cooed lovingly to them as if they were newborn darlings, deftly cleaned bottoms, switched stained or heavy dydees for fresh ones, and then made airplane noises to the darlings as encouragement to eat the colorless pap that would soon refill the dydees.
Not one hint of urine smell would escape from this home on this Sunday morning, certainly not on the fourth floor where staff prided itself on being the most efficient and most attentive team in the entire building. Staff squirted extra deodorizer in corners along the bed edges, in utility closets, and wherever used dydees congregated.
A young woman staffer, starched and pleasant with hair slicked into a neat little bun, entered the old man’s room, brushing past the section of the sunray that hugged the door frame. She quickly arrived at his side at the point the ray began its ascent to the bed. Whistling an elevator tune through bright red lips she stepped directly on it, startling the old man. He squinted up at her. She smiled cheerily at him.
— Good morning, sweetie.
It was the last day of her first week of employment there, and her first solo dydee change. But with eight brothers and sisters under her, she had performed enough diaper changes to feel absolutely confident that she could handle this resident. In addition, she had received a day’s worth of training on the art of changing adults.
Still, she wondered if the coming weeks would find her searching for another job. The nursing home, where her mother had worked for years, was hopefully a temporary stop for her on the way to community college and later maybe university. She wanted to be a doctor or a lawyer, someone successful, anyone but an aide in a nursing home where she was beginning to realize old people steal whatever years they can from young people. Look, in only one week, some of her had aged. She certainly felt it. How could she enjoy her youth looking at those old faces every day?
— Come on, sweetie, it’s time to clean you up. She patted him on his arm, while surveying the room to see what she would need for his sponge bath.
By this time, the old man’s reverie took him down East Grand Boulevard to Belle Isle. That’s where he and his wife spent many summer Sundays observing cricket matches with others from the small West Indian community in Detroit. Mummy would carefully wrap a cast iron pot full of pelau in an old dish towel, lovingly securing the four corners of the towel with a large safety pin. She would nest a couple of avocados in the corner of the picnic basket, along with peppa sauce, sweet cakes, and utensils. Others would bring fruits, rum and sugary drinks, ice, cookies, chips, and so on. One time someone brought a manual ice cream maker and everyone took turns churning. But always his loving wife would bring the pelau, her specialty, long-recognized as the best in the Detroit island community.
Ah, those were the days, when the cricket teams would come in from all over — Windsor, for sure, and as far as Chicago. Toledo and all had a team back then. All those brown bodies clad in white flannel and white shoes on the green field. They bowled and batted, broke wickets and often sent balls way over the boundary of the cricket field by the casino to shouts of, Well played, bhai, well played!