SANTA MARIA HIGH (COMPLETED)

Part One: 3

Andy was done mowing when Pa Jacob returned near afternoon. The tires of the mover squeaked alternatingly as he moved the equipment toward the road. the entire pitch has been relined; and the grasses, neatly felled, Pa Jacob observed, “all set for the football season I suppose.”

Andy smiled, looked back at the work, “you think it’s okay?” he asked. That doubt of youth, perfectionism maybe.

“it’s alright.” He affirmed. “you know you don’t have to work there; these children can handle it.”

He shrugged, “I guess they’d have some days to settle in without worrying about the pitch.”

They began walking towards the Janitor’s quarters, a ground building, a five-bedroom flat. “I think the bearings of these wheels need replacement. I should drop it in the maintenance shed.” Said Andy.

“I’ll see what I can do about it.” Pa groped for the pocket of the jacket, he felt the key to the shed. “I’d call that mechanic guy to come see to it.”

The young man nodded, and they walked on in silence. Pa Jacob began whistling again, watching the familiar frozen faces stare back, there’s that cupid he called baby Jesus when he was young, there is Mona Lisa, a bust made to resemble the woman in the famous paintings, beneath the shade of a willow tree, not bad at all…

“how is your mother doing?” he asked. Breaking the silence, words had rolled out of the mouth of the old man before he remembered that he’d asked before. It wasn’t uncommon for him now to check doors he thought were opened and find that he’d locked them few minutes ago.

Andy’s mother has been sick, as he had told him, this was the reason why he moved down country side. He was the poor woman’s only child, and his father was late.

“she’s been better.”

Lupus. Sounds unoriginal, bromidic, this generation will call it corny. that’s what the boy’s mother have, Pa Jacob knew, he had looked it up in the library one of the days he inspected the place, it isn’t anything good. They say it is the body fighting itself, and it has no cure.

The woman may be unfortunate to come down with this, but Pa Jacob was glad she at least has a dutiful son who wanted to help, left his flower business in Lagos to work as a gardener over here.

Andy looked up, as if thinking his earlier reply has been too succinct, he said, “we were in the hospital last week, pneumonia. She’s better now.”

“that’s good to know.”

“Do you want a dog?” the boy asked.

Pa Jacob was taken aback by the question, but then it was less awkward than the repeat situation he created so he seized on it. “you have one to give?”

“the litter of my mother’s dog,” Andy said, “she can’t take care of them, she wants to give them away.”

Pa Jacob had had a Rottweiler before, black feline thing, he called it shade. It had died, on Christmas eve. It was old, lived for eight years. He was fifteen then. His late father helped him bury it, on the edge of the plantation. He never had a dog since then, never needed one. “what breed?”

“Samoyed.”

Pa Jacob had heard of such breed, but not exactly familiar with them. He thought about it and realized he didn’t care, his hunting days are over anyway, he could use the company. He thought of waking up to meet call cards on the rug, but realized there were ways to handle that too, he shrugged, “I don’t mind, having one around. Thank you.” He said.

The Young man smiled shyly. “thank you.” Along the way he kept glancing at the hedges, at a time he stepped off the road to twine a vine round its stake. Andy had planted it and as far as Pa Jacob knew, Andy had done it of his own volition.