Rachel's Blue Read online

  RACHEL’S BLUE

  Zakes Mda

  Kwela Books

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the following for their inspiring feedback: Elelwani Netshifhire, Jim Shirey, Spree McDonald, Black Porcelain and Melisa Klimaszewski (The Sculpture Climber of De Moines).

  1

  Old hippies never die, an old song suggests, they just fade away. Actually, they just drift to Yellow Springs where they’ve become a haunting presence on the sidewalks and storefront benches. Some in discoloured tie-dyes, strumming battered guitars, wailing a Bob-Dylan-of-old for some change in the guitar case. Others just chewing the fat. Or giving curious passers-by toothless grins, while exhibiting works of art they have created from pine cones and found objects.

  Jason de Klerk is too young to be one of the baby-boomer originals, though he puts a lot of effort into looking like them. He was drawn to Yellow Springs after dropping out of high school, and in that town he fell under the spell of a faded hippy called Big Flake Thomas with whom he busked at the public square or gigged at the Chindo Grille when no act with at least some regional profile had been booked. The master’s fat fingers strummed and plucked on an Appalachian dulcimer, while the acolyte furiously beat a conga drum, and then blew his didgeridoo. He carried the latter instrument with him everywhere he went, slung on his shoulder, almost touching the ground and peeking just above the top of his head. In the evenings in the tiny bar of Ye Olde Trail Tavern – reputed to be Ohio’s second oldest restaurant, in operation since 1847 – Big Flake took the acolyte on some nostalgic trip to an age of free love and flower power. After a few beers they staggered home under a cloud of Mary Jane. The master got high; the acolyte got stoned. And it happened like that every day. Until one day Big Flake Thomas was taken ill with pneumonia and passed on without any fuss or argument.

  For Jason, Yellow Springs died with the big man. He loaded pieces of his life in his old Pontiac – and these included his mentor’s fretted dulcimer, the tumbadora and the didgeridoo – and drove back home to Athens, another county famous for its ageing hippy community. But unlike Yellow Springs, here the hippies have melted into the hills, emerging only on Wednesdays and Saturdays to sell their organic produce at the farmers’ market.

  It is at the farmers’ market that we meet Jason loitering among the marquees, his didgeridoo on his back. People occasionally stop to admire the black, white and yellow lizards painted on it by an unknown Australian Aboriginal artist. Unless, of course, it is one of those ersatz products of some factory in China. He never really reflected on its pedigree since he received it as a gift from one of Big Flake Thomas’s buddies, who’d lost interest in the instrument with creeping age.

  Jason walks past a busker, a clean-cut man on a stool playing a guitar and singing some country song whose lyrics are on a music stand in front of him. It must be the man’s own composition because Jason has never heard it anywhere before. He is selling CDs of his music. Jason would like to do that too. As soon as he gets settled he will cut a CD of some of the songs he used to play with Big Flake Thomas. It will be a wonderful tribute to his mentor, and it will also earn him a few bucks. But he will need a guitarist for that. Or at least a dulcimer player. A tumbadora and a didgeridoo on their own will not sustain the kind of performance he has in mind, let alone the recording. He has the big man’s dulcimer as a keepsake, but he never learned to play it. To make it in the busking world he needs some strings. But there is no sweat about that. Someone is bound to know some adventurous guitarist, or even a banjo or mandolin player, who would be willing to dabble in experimental sounds with him.

  After a few stalls of beets, kale and zucchinis, and of candles made from beeswax and shaped into angels by a beekeeper who is also selling bottled honey, Jason stops to listen to yet another busker. She is strumming her guitar and singing “Oh My Darling Clementine”. Though her floppy straw hat covers part of her face he can see at once that she is one of those rural Ohio girls who look like milk. He concludes that it is not for her voice – rather airy and desperate – that her open guitar case is bristling with greenbacks. It is for her strawberry blonde bangs peeping out from under her hat, and her deep blue eyes, and her willowy stature, and her brown gingham prairie skirt, and her bare feet with tan lines drawn by sandals, and her black T with “Appalachia Active” in big white letters across her breasts – the entire wholesome package that stands before him. She is trying hard to make her voice sound full-bodied and round, but she was not born for singing. She loses a beat to say “thank you” after Jason deposits a single, and then she hurries to catch up with the song before it goes out of control.

  At that moment Jason recognises her. Rachel. Rachel Boucher from Jensen Township, about ten miles or so from his Rome Township. She has grown taller and has matured quite a bit since they did Athens High School together. She was a crush, once. And for a while it looked like it would be actualised. There was a period when they spent lots of time together. To him each moment was a date; at least that’s how he bragged about it to his buddies. To her it was just hanging out, and that’s what she told the yentas – as the Yiddish-speaking maths teacher from Germany called the notorious gossipmongers – with whom she shared the lunch table. He was a class clown and therefore was popular with other boys. He would have been popular with girls too, what with his soft eyes and friendly face – even when he thought he was scowling it looked like a smile. Girls, however, kept their distance because of his rich odour – a result of his estrangement from either shower or bath.

  Rachel was the brave one who risked snide remarks for his company and jokes. “One day we gonna see you on Saturday Night Live,” she used to tell him. Until the ribbing got to her – especially from Schuyler, the yenta queen who had taken a shine to her – and she began to have excuses when he asked her out to Movies 10 or some such place. And then one day he saw her and the yentas at the cafeteria. His tray was loaded with pizza, Tater Tots, Bosco Sticks and milk. He smiled when he saw Rachel, but the smile froze on his lips when he heard a stage whisper: “Here comes Jason. I hope he doesn’t sit at this table otherwise I’ll gag.” It was Rachel. This stunned him. Of all people, not Rachel! But he soon recovered and walked with an exaggerated swagger to join a bunch of loud-mouthed jocks at the table opposite. Jocks are inured to body odours; they live with them every day.

  Jason was facing Rachel directly, and he shoved his middle and index fingers into his mouth and pretended to gag. The mindless jocks laughed boisterously and did likewise with their fingers, even though they didn’t know the reason for the apery. They thought Jason was just teasing the girls, and imagined it was a good idea to join in the fun.

  That’s when she became aware that he had heard her. If only she could shrink herself to invisibility. She was ashamed for trying to impress the yentas at Jason’s expense. She did not know what possessed her to utter such words about a friend who, truth be told, she would find attractive if it were not for the little matter of hygiene. Her cruelty had been a result of trying to assure Schuyler that there was nothing between him and her, hoping that the yentas would stop referring to her behind her back as “that girl who dates the stinky kid”.

  Unfortunately there was no chance of her disappearing or, at the very least, of taking her words back. They had registered with Jason, and on subsequent days his bearing made it clear that he did not want to have anything to do with her. At one point she thought she should explain to Jason, and even apologise. But he was not interested in any explanation. He did not need her as a friend. For the remainder of their junior year not a word passed between them. Jason dropped out even before the senior year was over, while she stayed to complete high school.

  Strange that he never thought of her again. But now it all flo
ods back as he listens to her croon Oh, the cuckoo! in the manner of her mountain people. It is obvious that she does not recognise him behind all the beard, even though her eyes are fixed on his. Jason is not surprised by the fact. It’s been more than five years and he has since lost his boyish looks. What can be seen of his face has been sculpted into rugged lines by the severe summers and winters of Yellow Springs. His flaxen mane is an unintended disguise; it is braided into three ropes that hang down past his shoulder under a fawn embroidered kufi kofi hat – another inheritance from Big Flake Thomas. Red and green glass ornaments pretend to be rubies and emeralds all around the hat.

  Even before the song ends Jason saunters away among the stalls.

  “Play us something on your didj,” a boy makes his request.

  “It don’t play good with a beard,” says Jason without stopping.

  “Then what good is it carrying it around?” asks the boy’s pal.

  The two boys are close on his heels.

  “Yeah, and what good is your beard if you can’t play the didj with it?” asks the boy, rolling his eyes.

  Jason stops to glare at them.

  “It ain’t none of nobody’s business,” he says, and then walks away.

  The boys just stand there looking at the man and his didgeridoo disappear among the cars in the parking lot.

  A good woman does not resist temptation; she succumbs. That’s Nana Moira’s philosophy. She is really talking of candy, not of anything that would warrant the blushes of the women around the table. It is the way she says it that is suggestive. And the fact that she is a grand mature lady of eighty who is not expected to dish out double entendres so freely and unflinchingly is the source of suppressed giggles. It is because most of these young women are new to the Jensen Township Quilting Circle – their first day, in fact – and are therefore not yet used to her robust humour which is always accompanied by cackling laughter that comes even before the punchline.

  Nana Moira never fails to crack herself up.

  Rachel can hear her raspy voice even as she gets out of her green Ford Escort and walks into the Jensen Community Centre. Nana Moira is telling the women how she has always liked Star Mints and Hershey’s Kisses and she is not about to stop satisfying her sweet tooth now just because some quack tells her to take it easy on the sugar on account of her weight. But she suddenly stops when she sees Rachel walking into the room. Her hand, which was reaching for another piece of candy from a glass jar on the table, withdraws ashamedly.

  “You ain’t even that big, Nana Moira,” says one of the women.

  “She’s big enough to have diabetes,” says Rachel sternly. “She knows that she’s gotta deal with her weight if she wanna have diabetes under control.”

  She is not “that big” only if you compare her weight with that of some of her neighbours who are morbidly obese. In these parts obesity is a malady of poverty. The last time Nana Moira was taken to the ER at O’Bleness the doctor said she was no longer overweight, she was obese. Now she walks with the aid of a stick, which is something new. It worries Rachel no end.

  “Sweet grief, child, you ain’t my Officer Rick,” says Nana Moira. “You ain’t my nanny neither.”

  Officer Rick is a popular Athens policeman, famous for his programmes that help teenagers to steer clear of drugs.

  “I’m nobody’s cop, but you know you got high blood pressure and arthritis too. You got everything that kills and you don’t give a damn.”

  Nana Moira chuckles dismissively.

  “Well, I’m bound to go one day. Rather go happy than sad and blue.”

  Rachel hates Nana Moira when she jokes about going. She resents her already as it is for getting sick. She wants her Nana back, the one who was hale and lusty, foraging for morels with her deep in the Wayne Forest. And this joke about going; it’s no joke at all to Rachel. It’s a threat. It’s blackmail. This adds to the resentment that is building up in her. The resentment is so apparent that an old lady from the neighbourhood once asked Nana Moira: “That ungrateful Rachel, I wonder why she’s not so nice to her grandma who brought her up all by herself with nobody’s help but good ol’ Uncle Sam’s food stamps?” But Nana Moira was not about to gossip about her granddaughter with any blabbermouth.

  Rachel grabs the candy jar and pours all its contents into her handbag.

  “Some kids will appreciate this,” she says. “You guys, don’t you bring this poison to the Centre again.”

  The five women sitting at the table – some cutting fabric with scissors and Rotary Cutters, and others fiddling with uncooperative bobbins – may be new to the Circle, but they already know they don’t like Rachel. She is so full of herself, they whisper among themselves when she and Nana Moira have gone to the kitchen. One makes the observation that arthritis never killed anybody, and she knows this from personal experience because her own grandma lived to be ninety-five though she practically spent a number of her later years in a wheelchair because of arthritis. What finally took her to God’s own house which has many mansions was old age and not arthritis.

  It would seem today is Nana Moira’s day to impart skills. First there were the young women who have recently joined the Quilting Circle and were learning how to cut and sew the Irish Chain, the Ohio Star and the Bowtie from her all morning, and now it is Rachel’s turn for edification. Her grandma promised to teach her how to make the pawpaw bread that she learned from her own grandma. It never fails to get gushing compliments from the visitors at the Centre every time she bakes it and puts it on the table for everyone to have a slice or two. Even those folks who profess not to care for the fruit love her bread. She was persuaded to display and sell it at the Ohio Pawpaw Festival, which is an annual event in mid-September by the shores of Lake Snowden. And there, among such pawpaw delicacies as sorbet, jams, pies, beer and sauces, her bread won the hearts of the lovers of this native fruit. Rachel hopes that if she can make pawpaw bread that is half as good as Nana Moira’s she will be able to sell it at the farmers’ market and supplement the money she makes from her busking. People will come for the bread, listen to her music and drop a few bills into her guitar case. Or they may stop to listen to her songs and notice the bread and buy a loaf or two.

  “You just do it like any other bread,” says Nana Moira as she sifts the all-purpose flour and mixes it with salt and baking soda. “It ain’t no big sweat.”

  She asks Rachel to put butter in the mixer and cream it. Under her direction Rachel adds sugar, and then eggs, and continues beating the mixture until it is fluffy. She adds the flour, mashed pawpaw pulp and hickory nuts. She then places the dough in the oven. As it slowly bakes Rachel and Nana Moira go back to the sewing room to join the quilters. But the women are already calling it a day and packing the fabric and sewing machines away.

  “Don’t leave before you taste my bread,” says Rachel. “I need your expert opinion.”

  “We got things to do,” says one of the women abruptly.

  They say goodbye to Nana Moira and leave.

  “Did I say something?”

  “They think you’re a party pooper, that’s all,” says Nana Moira. “They don’t know my sweet little girl, that’s why.”

  “Am not a little girl any more, Nana Moira.”

  “Sweet Jesus! It don’t make no never mind how big you think you are, Rachel. You’ll always be my little girl.”

  “Party pooper! What party did I poop on?”

  Nana Moira bursts out cackling and says, “They don’t like nobody who confisicate my Hershey’s Kisses.”

  “Confiscate, Nana Moira.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Rachel does not respond. Instead she busies herself with paging through Monday’s issue of the Athens News while Nana Moira spreads cut pieces of cloth on a long white table for the next quilt she will be stitching together.

  The loaf is rosy-brown when Rachel takes it out of the oven an hour later. She covers it with a cloth and asks Nana Moira to share it with her
Centre regulars and visitors tomorrow. She will return on Friday to bake a number of loaves for the Saturday market. And she will do that every week for the rest of the pawpaw season.

  “I’ve a surprise for you in your room,” says Nana Moira as Rachel gets into her car.

  Their home is only half a mile from the Centre. It is a double-wide, much bigger than the other five trailers that form a row. Unlike the rest, which are in bad shape with peeling paint and gutters that need fixing, Rachel’s trailer is glistening with new paint. Its surroundings are clean and neat with cottage pinks and tomatoes growing in pots. The big satellite dish on the roof makes it look like a spaceship from some awkward sci-fi movie.

  Rachel parks her car on the paved driveway in front of the trailer, making sure that she leaves enough space for Nana Moira to park her 1983 GMC Suburban when she returns in the evening. To Rachel’s consternation she still drives at night at her age, and loves speed. These days she struggles to climb into the car since it has become too high for her arthritic knees. But she won’t give it up or trade it for a lower car; it belonged to her late husband.

  The mobile home is just as neat inside, and smells of Febreze in every room. Rachel goes straight to her room, the master bedroom that used to belong to her parents. When Nana Moira came to live with them after her late husband’s creditors obtained a default judgment and foreclosure decree on her truck farm, she took the smaller bedroom and filled the third bedroom to the roof with boxes of all the sentimental stuff she owned. Those days Rachel used to sleep on the sofa-bunk bed that is still in the living area in front of the television.

  Since then Rachel has upgraded the place, fixed new tiles in the bathroom and shower, and bought a new stove for the kitchen area. It is rarely used though because Nana Moira does most of the cooking at the Centre and brings the food home in the evening.

  In the bedroom Rachel is greeted by a rag doll sitting perkily on top of her pillow as if it owns the place. At first she cannot believe her eyes, and then she shrieks and reaches for it.