Letting Ratdust Sing
When my father woke me, I had no idea where I was. It was still dark. Waking at first light on Todos Santos had always been good enough for arriving at my teaching job on time. My father was giving the tenor of our singing group a ride to the airport. Colby was going to England, or at least trying to. He had a birth certificate only. Risky. But getting out was always risky. Colby did not want anyone to know. No one ever did. If he failed, it would be all the more humiliating when his attempt became public. Colby’s aim was to simply disappear and allow people to find out after he was safely ensconced with family in London. He was waiting for my dad and me when we arrived at his house. I helped load the bags while dad stayed at the wheel, engine running. We were out of Marigon long before the daybreak and saw no one. At the airport he waved to us before disappearing. Two days later we heard that he had arrived successfully. I never saw Colby again. All the members of my church singing group were teachers. Sandra Elahi, Debra Charles, and Imore Lewis were from the elementary school. Leandra Filmore and Owen Johnson taught those who had failed the common entrance exam and could not go to secondary school. Catherine Henry and I were secondary school teachers. Miss Henry wore clingy single-hue dresses, often with a sash around her waist, underscoring her form. She was a dougla; a mix of African and East Indian descent. And her face, like that of a typical dougla, was a combination of almond-shaped eyes, puffy cheeks, and full lips. When she walked, her hips gave the effortless sway of a coconut palm in the sea breeze. She taught English Literature with an organized confidence and had assembled a core of about ten girls who hung on her every word.
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