The House Of Mr Christus

Chapter Ten - Running Away

The buses, purchased second hand from North America, were in danger of rattling apart on the roads. Pinned together by rivets, their sheet metal skins offered no protection in collisions and when, as often happened, the bus ran off the road, sometimes overturning, they opened up like a can of sardines, the jagged edges cutting through flesh with the ferocity of serrated carving knives. Yet, notwithstanding the dangers, the buses were part of the fabric of life's fragility. Death was a familiar face at one's door. Angelita, sitting in the bus terminal, had stepped into her mother's world and already she could feel the freedom of the road. She wanted to feel the breeze, from the open bus window, washing over her face and to be mesmerised by the shadow of the bus hurtling along, keeping pace on the sun baked roads; to hear the scream of cicadas from the jungle's edge. She wanted to be empty.

Through closed eyes, Angelita detected the motion of people by the shadows they cast. When the family with whom she shared her bench left, she sensed that someone had taken their place. She was touched on her hand and, opening her eyes, she saw that it was Lazario. He had brought her some food but she did not want him there and turned away. He talked quietly to her, telling her that the apartment above the liquor store had been painted white. He had put up, as she had requested, green and white awnings outside the windows. He told her how fresh and pretty it looked. But she did not have ears for the plans they had made for their first home. Eventually, he fell silent and she closed her eyes again and then got up and moved to another bench. She lay down, placing her croaker sack as a pillow under her head. She took off her shoes not caring that Lazario saw her like this. She would never see him again, so what did it matter.

Lazario watched over her, while she slept. He saw that her clothes were too small and that she had pinned her blouse to stop it from opening. Her plastic shoes, on the cement floor, were stretched and misshapen. He suspected that these were the clothes she had worn when she first came to the city many years ago. She had filled out since then. When he pictured her, in his mind's eye, it was always in bright floral dresses, which she sewed herself. She had taken to arranging her hair with clips and velvet bands to match her dress. It pained him to see her looking so impoverished and alone. It pained him even more that she would not accept his protection.  At five in the morning, he was still sitting on the bench alongside hers, and when she boarded the bus, he stood watching it maneuver the narrow street and disappear out of sight.
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The afternoon sun was low in the sky when Angelita stepped down from the bus onto the roadside. It was a new experience to be delivered almost to her door. When she had left the village, the only conveyance to the town, which served as a transport hub for the northern district, was the back of a truck. The truck service had been replaced by a bus which had raced along the newly paved highway. Her village was one of many strung along the highway. Dirt roads ran off in all directions. The dirt road to her house was just after the humped-back bridge crossing a dry, seasonal creek bed. She headed in the direction of the bridge, noticing how the village had changed. Where there had only been one shop there was now a bakery, restaurant, gas station, grocery shops, and a bar.  Tall, wooden, electricity poles supporting street lights and power lines were evidence of progress. As she turned into her road, she saw that the wood and thatch houses had been replaced by single story cement homes. Chickens scratched in yards planted with hibiscus and bougainvillea, and children played beside pickup trucks parked on grass verges.   As she passed the last house, someone called to her, "Miss Angelita, Miss Angelita". A woman carrying a baby waved her down, telling her to wait. She returned holding up a set of keys. "Nobadi deh hoam," she called.

She approached Angelita with a big smile, "Yu memba mee, Miss Angelita? "

Angelita nodded and gave her a hug. She remembered her well. Miss Martha had an asthmatic daughter. She was not from the village, but she had married a village man. Miss Martha gave her the keys and explained that the house was empty because her father was now living on the coast. He had remarried and had two sons by his new wife. She accompanied Angelita to her house, all the while, rocking the fretful baby.