Clarence Chance - Contributed

Her heart was a booming drum in her ears, her eyes were balls of fire, and from her lips issued a muffled sound. Then her eyes softened and her heart settled back in her chest.

It was only the mad woman from Elgin Town. She was relieved that it was not grandma. She didn't wonder what the mad woman was doing there; after all, she was mad, wasn't she?

The mad woman looked on her briefly, then disappeared into the blackness of the night.

Stacian moved away from the pit latrine and over to the little rock. She put the scissors and the tinnin lamp down on the rock, then went over to a drum and filled a pail with water. She returned to the latrine, had a bath ... and that was it. It was done.

She had convinced herself it was the only way. For nine months she had carried a child in her belly without anyone knowing. When going to school she carried her schoolbag before her. She had always been chubby; that worked in her favour. But who could possibly guess that Stacian Stines was pregnant? After all, head girls at prominent high schools didn't get pregnant, especially not just before 'A' level exams. She had pulled it off, then. It was the way to go - she said it again to herself now. She couldn't let her mother down, she was working too hard in town; she couldn't let grandma down, she was working too hard in the field; she couldn't let her teachers down, they had worked too hard for six years. She was going to do her exams.

And so, on Wednesday, April 6, 1994, in the district of Applegate, in western St Mary, Stacian Stines threw her newborn baby down the hole of a pit latrine. And went to bed saying to herself, 'I was never pregnant, I was never pregnant.'

But there was no believing that for Stacian, because every year after that, on April 6, she felt frightened and tortured. And for eight years after her marriage she attempted to get pregnant; couldn't; remembered the act in the pit latrine a month before 'A' level exams, and thought that perhaps it was retribution.

6:30 a.m, Friday, September 15, 2006. A telephone was ringing somewhere in Norwood, St Andrew, a sophisticated whisper of a ring. Stacian reached over her husband, her hand brushing his chest (she was groggy), lifted the receiver, then put it down. There was a ringing again; this time, it was her cell- phone. She rose, flicked on the switch and listened to the voice on the line. 'You have made page 2, baby.'

It was Cynthia, her best friend. They had long been best friends, from their days at high school, in St Mary, through university, and now they were both working at the same bank, in management.

The message wasn't coming through to Stacian clearly. 'What you say?'

'You have made page 2 of the newspaper. Remember the bank's presentations to scholarship winners last week? Remember the boy you kissed?'

Stacian nodded, as if Cynthia could see her.

'Well, listen to what page 2 says. '... spitting image ... looks like, after years of trying with the handsome lawyer, Jamaica's favourite lady banker has finally got herself a baby. The resemblance is stunning ...'. And to tell you the truth, Stacy, I agree.'

The handsome lawyer was turning in his sleep now. Stacian told Cynthia 'Later,' and hung up.

She bought a paper at the corner of Hope and Trafalgar and thought it best not to look at it until she was in her office. But before that her cell started to ring, friends calling to say things like, 'What's up, Miss page 2?' or 'Page 2 honey!' Stacian was glad they didn't mention the resemblance.

That was until the company CEO called. She was exiting her car in the car park. In his starched British style, he said, 'Madam Page 2, I think I like your son; the resemblance is uncanny.'

Her stomach sank. She collected herself and said, 'Sir, I'm not feeling so good. Can I get some time off?'

She was surprised to hear him say, 'Take the day if you want. The advertisement you gave us on page 2 would have cost millions. Spend the day with your son.' And he laughed.

Stacian didn't laugh; she turned the newspaper to page 2 and stared at the boy's hair, and her heart became a cannon ball in her chest. His hair was Indian. She was reading now, hoping the boy wasn't twelve; she gasped when she saw his age. And then she saw the school he attended, and a tear forced itself out of her eye and down her chin and she dug her foot into the gas pedal.

The CRV raced over Devil's Race Course as if it weren't there. It passed Benbow, came to Guys Hill and turned left at the gas station; Stacian wasn't playing any music today. As she neared the mad woman's house her throat tightened. She knew Miss Mavis lived in Elgin Town; she wasn't sure where, but she soon got directions and arrived at the door. She lifted her hand to knock, then dropped it. This isn't easy, she thought. She again lifted her hand - and a voice said, 'Come in.'

Miss Mavis was sitting in a chair. She must have peeped through a hole or through the side window when the car drove up, Stacian surmised. The house was warm and smelt stale. Stacian glanced around it, then said to herself, 'Oh Lord.' There was a three-legged dining table leaning against a wall, a stripped-up coffee table, and a dresser with the glass broken, right there in the front room.

The old woman broke in on her thoughts. 'Only a mad woman could see that a schoolgirl was pregnant who didn't want that baby. That mad woman fetch the little baby from the bottom of a pit latrine, that little schoolgirl grows up, visits mad woman. What could she possibly want?'

Stacian was shaking. 'So it's true, then.'

'I must tell you before you ask that you won't get him back, you can't buy him back, you can't adopt him, and if you want to sue, go ahead, for then all of Jamaica will see you as a cruel murderous woman who threw her baby away in a pit latrine and now that the boy has passed the worst by the help of a formerly mad woman you want to steal him back. This story would really stink your name, ma'am.'

Stacian said, 'You're not mad anymore, Miss Mavis.'

'Glory be to the Lord, he healed me, and gave me that which was missing from my life, a child. Take my advice, ma'am, jump back in your fancy vehicle and forget me and Omar.'

'No, Miss Mavis, I couldn't do that.'

But defiance was etched deep on Miss Mavis' face. Stacian saw it and said, 'I don't mean it in that way. What I mean is that I could get you some furniture, clothes, food, etc.'

'Now that couldn't hurt anybody.' The old woman paused and examined Stacian. 'You've grown into a fine woman. When I saw the picture in the paper I was almost certain it was you. Omar goes to the same school you use to go.'

'Yes, I know. Can I see him?'

'That couldn't hurt anybody either. You are the lady who gave him a scholarship, isn't that so?'

'Please give me your number,' Stacian said; and she gave the old woman her own. She had already turned out of the house when Miss Mavis called out, 'Ask for Omar Peters!'

She was driving through Lucky Hill when she remembered the days she'd walked four miles here, to and from primary school, and a sweet nostalgia overpowered her. Then she thought the road was bad, as bad as a cow pen, and her thought swept quickly to the night in the cow pen, the Indian boy, the touches, the kisses, the feelings, new and strange, the tingling breasts.

She was dragging the pictures from the gallery of her mind. She saw the Indian boy shaking. She was seeing herself now, lying in the grass, and then she heard the boy's voice, soft and low, almost effeminate, saying disappointedly, 'I am sorry, Stacy.' Now the picture of the pit latrine was coming up. She knew it would be rolled over in just a second, and she couldn't allow that, so she hardened her face and flushed it from her mind and set her attention firmly on the road.

She drove through Guys Hill again and came to the school. She was the woman whose organization had given Omar Peters a scholarship; that's all she was now. She felt tears coming and, in the manner she had perfected over the years, she hardened her face and her mind and the tears went back to their place behind her eyes.

The principal was ecstatic to see the former head girl. She showed her the page 2 copy of her. Many of the teachers from her days were still there. Her eleventh-grade form teacher, Miss Hanson, Mr. Damien Haughton, her sixth form math teacher, and a host of others came to see her in the principal's office. And students with photocopied versions of page 2 came to see the former head girl who had distinguished herself in the corporate world. Stacian thought it was amazing; she hadn't expected this; but she belonged to them, just as little Omar did.

When she saw him she hugged him, just as she was pictured doing on page 2 of the newspaper.

She was in her car now; she started the engine and the tears started, too. This time she couldn't stop the images of the pit latrine from coming to mind. She saw when she cut the umbilical cord and just sort of made the baby fall into the latrine. 'But look what the boy has become, look on the beautiful specimen of a boy! And what brains! He was born with brains, too!' She was saying that as she cried.

They were there, standing waiting for her to drive away, and they saw that she didn't. A group started to walk towards the vehicle. Stacian saw them and drove away.

She came to the house she had lived in as a child. Nobody was living there anymore. Grandma was long dead, grandpa, even before her. She passed the latrine as if it wasn't there and went around to their graves, bent down and kissed them both and said, 'Thanks for all you gave me.'

She was leaving when she saw the pit latrine again and something broke over her. She beat both hands against it, she kicked it. Then she set her mind to go in, but she couldn't. Guilt, or pain, or fear, or maybe even some cosmic force prevented her from stepping inside. She turned and left.

The next day Stacian was at a furniture store looking over furniture when her cell phone rang. It was Miss Mavis. 'I need to speak to you, like today, ma'am.'

'You mean today?'

'I mean today.'

She was seized by apprehension as she knocked on the door. Miss Mavis said, 'Push it.' And when Stacian went in, Miss Mavis told her to sit down and pointed to a chair.

'You wonder why I have called you here? When I was about 16 years old I, too, became pregnant. And it is hard to say it, but I did the same thing you did.'

'You mean?'

'Yes, I threw the child into a pit latrine. But there was no one there to rescue it. And in thirty years of marriage I couldn't get a child. My womb was punished for that sinful act, and it played games with my mind. Now, when I saw you with your school bag before you, I knew you were hiding the belly. I knew you would throw it away, and I wanted the child to ease the pain. And, to tell you the truth, my mind was healed upon the very moment I fished that child from the feces. I told people it was my niece's child and I was asked to keep it, as she had been in a terrible accident that had caused the baby to be born.'

Stacian wondered for a moment if Miss Mavis was getting mad again. But then Miss Mavis said, 'You may be thinking I am getting mad again; wipe that from your mind.' She paused and her face took on a serious demeanour. Then she said, 'No rightful mother should be deprived of her child. Justice demands that I give back this boy to you. For if the truth be told, you did what you thought was best at the time.'

Stacian was troubled. 'Are there conditions?'

'Yes,' Miss Mavis said firmly. 'Never tell him that he was drawn from a latrine or that his mother never wanted him. I will tell him that I am old and you will do a better job caring for him. Can you do that?'

Stacian was overjoyed. But Miss Mavis said, 'Remember you left him once; never leave him again. Seek a transfer for him and come for him when it is finalized. I don't know what you will tell the people around you, but I think it is best that you say you are adopting him.'

'I will think of something,' Stacian said. 'Where is he now?'

'I sent him away to a sister of mine. She is the one who help me out financially; the $900 a week pension can't do a thing. He couldn't hear this conversation, you know.'

Stacian nodded.

The old woman rose from her seat saying, 'How often will you make me see him?'

'As often as you like.'

'Once a month is good enough for me.' She held out her hands, and the women embraced each other, lively and warm, for in a sense they were sisters. And in a sense they were also mothers of the same boy.

- Clarence Chance