let ratdust sing/Michael neis

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.

Like my father, I wore custom-tailored pin-striped trousers with pastel shirt jacks which hung loose

around my torso. My father always assured me that one day I would fill in the belly area of my

clothes.

I taught Spanish my own way, disgusted with the Ministry of Education’s suggestions for books and

methods. Xavier Secondary School’s Spanish program was an ongoing problem until I turned it

around, and I had six strong scholars in my form five with excellent chances in the international

exams.

The form fives were the good part of our jobs. The awful part was most of the other classes. Just

about everyone on the staff routinely failed half the students. That was not a surprise, given the

semesters of untouched homework, fruitless drilling and brazen defiance. Miss Henry and I laughed

at the idea that banging our heads on the school walls would help hold the attention of our students

and might be better for our health.

We were the junior-most teachers, so we did not get the desk spaces around the wall of the staff

room. Instead, we shared the small table at its center.

In our singing group I was supposed to play the electronic keyboard, but I was not particularly good.

We often had no current anyway, so I did not have to worry about playing. Sandra was one of the

best guitarists on the island. She played the introductions by herself, and then Imore and I would

come in with our own instruments.

It was the singing group that got me involved with an old Todos Santian named Milo Matheson.

I had heard about Milo’s accomplishments before he left for Brooklyn. He was a track star for

Xavier. People still remembered his showdown with Chester Gibbs in the All Secondary 100 Meter

dash, how Milo narrowly lost. The race was contested, but Chester was from Todos Santos

Secondary, in the capital. The officials had to find that he won.

I never understood, growing up, how Milo was always cast as a loser in this story. As I grew older, I

became more and more appalled at what the villagers said about him.

In track I had been a distance runner, but I admired the sprinters. My favorite place to watch them

was from the other side of the football pitch, where I could see how they flew across the track, their

feet barely touching the ground. I could never run the way they did. In the 1600 meters I finished

about 20 seconds behind the leaders. After that I stopped competing for good.

When Milo returned from Brooklyn, he was not the powerful athlete I had heard of; he had become

slight and stoop-shouldered, and never seemed to want to stand any taller than what was necessary.

He wore sunglasses that covered half his face. When he wandered up and down the main street of

Marigon, his feet would shoot out in front, and the rest would follow, as if his body did not want to

commit anything to forward progress. It was as if some unseen force was pulling him along.

He had not been in the States for more than 15 years or so. And when he returned it was just him,

along with rumors of a girlfriend and a couple of children back in Brooklyn.

Milo’s house was away from the main road, so no one could easily see it. It was a simple, old,

prefabricated house; one of the houses the Canadians brought after Hurricane Janet, so we called

them Janet houses. It was not the typical big house that people usually built when they came back

from the States.

Marigon had three rum shops. You could find Milo at any one of them, starting early in the morning,

and he would yell. When the rum shops closed, he would yell from the street in front of his house.

Yelling into the sky.

“Jackass! Jackass! You tink you so smart! Jackass! You tink you have everyting! Well, you don’

have nuttin’. I do all dis work for you. You ungrateful! I killin’ you ass! You see. You see! Some

day. Jackass!”

Sometimes the Marigon rum shops would refuse to sell him anything. It made no difference. He

would go to Greenswalk, the next town up. He would buy his rum there, and then come back down

to do his yelling.

Some people called him “Jackass,” simply because he said it so much.

But most of the folk in Marigon called him “Ratdust,” remembering how he started talking some

foolishness about spreading dust from local spices in his house to ward off rats.

Sometimes, after wearing himself out, children would run around Milo, throwing stones and yelling

“Ratdust! Ratdust!” He would sit on the ground, in a stupor. If he stirred or got up, they would run

away, laughing and screaming.

Milo could be out yelling at any time, day or night, and then he would see me. He would stop and

say “Oh, hi Richard.” Then he would return to his yelling and cursing. That was nice of him. Most

of the Marigon folk called me by my childhood nickname “Wichie.”

So, I was not completely surprised when Milo approached me to say he wanted to join our singing

group.

“I talk to dem about it,” I said.

I could not come up with an elegant way to announce his wish, so I spat out my words at the

beginning of our next rehearsal.

“Milo want to join we singin’ group.”

Sandra and Debra looked like they were holding their breath. Owen flashed a huge smile. Imore

tilted her head back and closed her eyes.

“Ratdust want to sing? Wit we?”

“Don’ call he Ratdust!”

“Will he take off he big sunglasses?”

“Will he bathe?”

“When deh last time he in church?”

For Debra, the oldest among us, there could be no argument:

“He one of we.”

“Huh?”

“He in deh chillen’s choir, 40 years ago wit Mr. Pitt.”

“Debra, everyone in deh chillen’s choir, 40 years ago, wit Mr. Pitt.”

“But Rat—Milo was different. When deh pastor vex the choir and dey all leave, Milo stay. He come

back deh very next Sunday, wit he guitar—and for deh next year, he sing all deh music for deh Mass

all by he-self—until deh Irish volunteers come. No one in deh old choir would have nuttin’ to do wit

him. Den he leave to join he uncle in deh States.”

Sandra finally said the only thing she could have said. “Den we must let he in.”

I was appointed to tell him the news. I made it clear there would be no drinking rum around

rehearsals or Mass.

We told Fr. Michael, of course. He was an Irish missionary priest. He alternated between thinking

that it was all wonderful, or, that it was funny.

The next Thursday evening at 7:00, Milo was waiting in the front pew. His mind was clear as the

Caribbean sky in dry season. He knew all the songs, and even did a descant for “We Come before

You, Lord.”

“We have a new tenor,” I said to Miss Henry before she boarded the late bus to Greenswalk.

That Sunday, a lot of people came for Mass. They wanted to see if Ratdust would show up and sing.

He did not disappoint. His slacks hung on loose, and his shirt was wrinkled. He took off his

sunglasses, revealing a pair of milky eyes. His eyebrows, set under a flat forehead, were all but worn

away. His voice was so clear that it did not fit with his appearance, and with confidence he sang out

the descant of “We Come before You, Lord.”

I handed him a missalette, opened to the page that showed what the faithful were supposed to say.

Milo took the missalette but remained mute. He did not go up for communion.

The following Thursday evening he did not come to rehearsal. The group talked about it.

“Should we let he sing wit we dis Sunday?”

“It we rule dat you must do rehearsal to sing wit we for Mass.”

“Yea, but we don’ do dat rule, do we? It not fair to make he pay.”

“All right den,” said Sandra. “If he come, he come. I not going to stop he from singing.”

Milo was up until well past midnight that Saturday. I could hear him. We did not see him for Mass

the following morning.

He was yelling the following day too, a mournful noise, working its way down the street, up the hills

and through open doors. It settled in ears like the buzz of a fly on a window. When I went out at

dusk, I saw him. He was sitting on the culvert in front of his house as I walked by.

“Richard,” Milo croaked. He held out his hand, arm swaying and fingers extended. I went to him

and took his hand. The smell of rum enveloped us both as he spoke.

“I sorry. I still want to sing. I goin’ to hell.”

“Don’ worry about it, Milo. We figure out something.”

“I don’ know. I don’ know. I can’ do nuttin’ right. I sorry. I goin’ to hell. I so sorry. Will you tell

dem I sorry? Will you tell dem?”

Milo was still holding onto my hand.

“I tell dem, Milo.”

“Please tell dem. I goin’ to hell. Nuttin’ can save me. I goin’ to hell.”

“We talk about it later, Milo. When you better.”

I finally managed to get my hand back.

“We talk about it, Milo. Don’ worry.”

“I goin’ to hell. I know. Tell dem I sorry. Is no hope for me.”

When I left him, Milo was stooped low on the culvert, head in his hands, shaking.

I branched off to the bush path, just to get away from the road.

The bush path re-joined the main road by Jerome’s shop and Selfarlie bridge. There I sat down with

Jukes and Ajay, whom I had known since primary. We would watch the people and cars go by.

Ajay was lying down on the bridge’s side wall. He propped himself up on his elbows when he saw

me. “You let Ratdust sing wit you still?”

“I don’ know.”

Jukes was tossing little stones into the river. “He bawling all day about last Sunday. He say deh choir

all hate he now. How he goin’ to hell. He bawling all day.”

“Well. I don’ know.” I said.

Two blue Hondas passed by, heading south. We knew they were tourist cars, rented out from the

capital. They crossed the bridge and headed to the Coast Road, the one that had been washed out for

years.

“Dey be back soon,” said Jukes.

“You tink dey figure out dey must take deh Old Hill Road?” asked Ajay.

“Dey gonna have to,” I said. “Or else dey must go back all deh way ‘round the island to get back to

deh capital.”

“Dey should aks someone.”

“Dose Americans. Dey don’ talk to nobody.”

“Dey not all dat way.”

“Yes. Dey all dat way.”

“Dey be back soon.”

The two Hondas came back. Ajay got up, walked off the bridge and looked at the sea. Jukes stood

close to the road and watched the two cars coming.

The first car slowed down as it approached. It stopped when it reached our side and idled for minute.

I sat down on the end of the bridge wall. Then the driver-side window glided open with a high-

pitched whine A white man was inside, looking at us. He spoke with a brazen American inflection,

flat as a football pitch, hard as the bough of a cottonwood tree.

“Hey. You know if there’s a way to the capital from here? That road down there is gone.”

Jukes nodded. “Yeah mon. You kin pass. Take deh Hill Road.”

The American’s eyebrows creased and met together at the top of his face. His upper lip puckered up.

“Huh? What did you say?”

I intervened with my classroom English.

“He said you can get to the capital using the Old Hill Road. You took the Coast Road which is

washed out. Go to the left at the gap instead of going straight. The Old Hill Road is still good.”

The American turned his full attention to me. “Oh. Okay. Just go left at the intersection?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, Thanks. Thanks a lot.” He started closing his window. Then he stopped and opened it again.

“Hey. And another thing…”

“What?”

“Is there some trouble on this island? We’ve noticed a lot of people walking around in the street.

What are they doing? Is there some kind of trouble?”

“No, No,” I said. “No trouble. People are just visiting with their friends. No trouble at all.”

“Okay, Thanks.”

At that moment, a woman’s voice interrupted from inside the car. I could not see her. “By the way—

your country is sooo beautiful. I wish we could live here.”

The window closed. The two cars turned around, crossed the bridge and this time they turned left at

the Old Hill Road.

Ajay duplicated the woman’s pitch and inflection. “By the way—your country is sooo beautiful. I

wish we could live here.”

“She just bein’ nice, Ajay,” I said.

“Dem Americans don’ nice,” he said.

For the rest of the night, I wondered what Americans were really like.

Milo did not come the following Thursday. Miss Henry was the first to talk about him as we

finished rehearsal.

“We should help Milo, nuh?”

“When he not drunk, he can be nice.”

“But he always drunk.”

“We could take he first ting Sunday morning and make he shower, shave and put on some nice

clothes,” I said.

“So dat what we doing? We making he a project?”

No one said anything. The squeaking of the frogs in the bush floated into the church. A minibus

passed in front, its unmuffled engine noise killing all conversation.

“Why not?” said Miss Henry, and I started to like the idea of turning Ratdust into a project.

“I can help he get started,” I said. “But I don’ want to do it alone.”

“I help you,” said Miss Henry.

That night, Milo was out yelling in front of his house.

“Jackass! Jackass! You tink you so smart! You don’ know nuttin’! Nuttin’! An’ I doin’ no more

work for you! You ungrateful! Jackass!”

I walked to the middle of the street so he could see me. “Hi Milo.”

He stopped yelling and turned to me. “Oh. Hi, Richard.”

“Milo. We countin’ on you to help we sing. So, you should go in bed right now. Get some rest so

you can help we.”

“Right oh right. I go.”

He carefully picked his way down the narrow path to his house.

At 8:00 the next morning, Miss Henry and I met at the section of road just above where Milo lived.

She led the way down his path. She wore a trim yellow dress that reached down to her knees. Her

sandals had thin leather soles that made a crisp flap as she walked.

The shutters of his house were nailed shut. It looked like none of the boards on the walls had ever

been repainted since its construction in 1955, and some boards were missing altogether. A piece of

canvas served as a door. I called out: “Morning Milo. You all right?”

Miss Henry immediately picked up from where I left off, her lovely alto voice piercing the morning

air. “Morning morning Milo!” How are you?”

We heard a groan. I slipped through the canvas and entered with Miss Henry right behind me.

The smell of rum, urine and rotting meat filled my nose. In the darkness we could discern the

scraped-out tins of corned beef and baked beans that lay piled up against the bare walls, along with

crumpled packs of Digestive biscuits and empty bottles. A worn dresser, missing a drawer and

topped with a cracked mirror, stood on the left. A small wooden table with a broken leg was propped

up against the far wall, lopsided, as if it had taken too much rum. Beside the table was an oven,

colored in uneven shades of brown and gray. Its gas control knobs were all broken off. On top of the

stove’s burners sat another stove—a kerosene one. The walls and ceiling by the stoves were coated with

soot. On the opposite side of the ceiling, I saw what looked like hanging pieces of black bark. Then I

figured out they were slumbering bats. The house had no floor. Instead, Miss Henry and I hobbled on a

bed of smooth, round rocks. Milo lay on a mattress bundled up on the side of his Janet house.

I felt embarrassed that Miss Henry should be seeing this, but she gave no sign of shock.

“Come on Milo,” I said. “It only rum. And you go in bed early. You can do it.”

We helped Milo up. Miss Henry had brought towels and soap. We walked with him down the street to

the public shower. Once he started to bathe, he moved about more easily. He did not say much, as if he

had exhausted all his words the previous night.

Miss Henry had picked clothes out of his dresser, which I passed them along to Milo. He did have some

nice clothes, even if they were old.

After he dressed, we went back to his house. Miss Henry sat down on the only stool there, balanced on

the rocky floor. I sat on the mattress with Milo and shared out a mango I had cut up for breakfast.

Miss Henry’s eyes shot open wide after putting a piece in her mouth. “Where you get dat mango?”

“I teef it from Crosby yard,” I said. “Well, no—dey know I taking it.”

“Dat tree in the front by dem dere?” Milo said. “Deh one wit deh branches dat go over deh street?”

“Yeah, dat one.”

“Dat tree bearing good mangos now,” Milo said, chewing slowly. Miss Henry nodded.

During Mass, Milo was silent, but he followed along in the missalette and sang when he was supposed

to. He knew all the songs. He did not go to communion.

That evening as I went out to get some powdered milk, Milo was yelling in front of his house. He

stopped when he saw me. He took my hand and started shaking it.

“I must tank you for letting me sing wit you. I know I don’ deserve it. I know. Tank you so much—

so much for you kindness. I don’ deserve it. Don’ deserve it.”

I let him shake my hand as he talked on interminably. I told him he sang well and that I had to go get

some milk.

I decided to take the bush path the next time I had to run an errand.

After a big test I was lingering in the desolate quiet of the staff room to grade papers. I had been

working for a half hour when the door for Sister Theresa’s office opened. I figured the principal was

talking a parent of a troublesome student. But it was Miss Henry who came out.

Her eyes went blank when she first saw me. Then they regained their focus. “Oh, hello, Mr.

Sanderson.”

“Hello, Miss Henry.”

“How are you this afternoon?”

“I am fine. Thank you. How are you?”

“I am fine. Thank you very much.”

She stood there for a moment, biting her lower lip as we stared at each other.

“Well, I had best be going, Mr. Sanderson. I will see you tomorrow. Have a good evening.”

“Thank you, Miss Henry. You too. Have a good evening.”

Why was she talking to Sister Theresa? Did she want to become a nun? Was she going to leave?

Milo missed a lot of Thursday rehearsals, but Miss Henry and I brought him to Mass every Sunday,

no matter how drunk he was the night before. He surprised us with the tenor parts he knew. Miss

Henry and I fell into a rhythm for early Sunday mornings. Milo was extra work, but we did not

mind. It was like putting air in bicycle tires before peddling out.

I became accustomed to that cup of coffee Miss Henry brought for me. And I made sure to bring an

extra cut-up mango so that Miss Henry could eat it while she sat on that stool in Milo’s house.

After Corpus Christi, Fr. Michael decided that we would use a new set of chant psalms by this

French priest named Gelineau. Sandra was accepting of the news, but the rest of us were not.

“He want we sing he white man music.”

“Dis deh tanks we get for what we do for he?”

“He not a Todos Santos Man.”

“Sandra, you still deh best guitar player in Todos Santos. Pay he no mind.”

Milo sat there, mute, as we worked out our indignations. Then Sandra shouldered her guitar. “Come

on. Le’ we give dis new psalm a try. Richard, could you please play an “F” for we?”

With Sandra’s leadership, we were able to learn the psalm within ten minutes or so. But Sandra was

not finished with us. “Owen, Milo and Richard—I want you doin’ deh bass part. And Catherine—

could you please sing deh alto?—it all in deh music dere.”

These psalms had harmonies. We had never done that before.

After another ten minutes of practice and correcting mistakes we had each learned our parts. It

sounded good, really. But we had complained so much that none of us were willing to admit it.

That Saturday it rained, all day and all night. Todos Santians do not like the rain. It was a good night

to just fall asleep, and so that is what I did. Milo was alone in the street, his coarse words mixed with

the gentle rain.

Miss Henry was waiting for me when I got to Milo’s house the next morning. The rain had eased,

but it had not stopped, and we could not get Milo up. We finally gave up and went to Jerome’s shop

to wait for the church to open. I was sorry I did not tell Milo to go to bed the night before. Miss

Henry sat on a stool by the counter with her coffee. Her mango was untouched. I moved out to the

verandah and watched the drizzle.

When it came time to leave, Miss Henry walked ahead of me. The main road would have been

easier, but she wanted the bush path. I simply followed, watching her hips sway. A small layer of

sandy mud was building on the soles of her sandals.

We had not gone more than twenty steps from the main road when she stopped, turned around, and

looked at me square in the face.

“Mr. Sanderson. Dere someting I must tell you.”

My heart started to pound. I took in a long deep breath. “Okay.”

We maintained the three paces of distance between us.

“Mr. Sanderson.”

“Yes.”

She swallowed. “Mr. Sanderson. I goin’ in the States tomorrow. To Brooklyn. I have family dere.”

I reached out to my right and took hold of the nutmeg tree branch next to me. “Oh.”

Miss Henry’s lips were thin as bamboo leaves. Her eyes were locked onto mine. “I sorry.”

I could not feel the ground. I could not feel anything. “Me too.”

Miss Henry swallowed again. Her chest was expanding and shrinking with large breaths. “No! No!

Really! You don’ know how much it mean to me to sit across from you in deh staff room! You don’

know how much it mean to me to sing wit you in the choir. And most of all…” She stopped and

swallowed. She put her head in her hands and breathed. Then she put her head back up. Her eyes

had welled. “And most of all, you don’ know how much it mean to me to help Milo wit you. I really

wanted to tell you back when I got out of talking to Sister Theresa… Seeing you dere. I surprised. I

not ready. You don’ know! You just don’ know! An’ I sorry! I real sorry!” She put her head back in

her hands. Her shoulders shook. Drizzle glistened in her wavy hair.

I stood still as a breakwater. The shock of her news was a repelling force between us. She was a

ghost, dead and rotting. I would never see her again, and there was nothing either of us could do.

“Miss Henry. You don’ know how I like sharing dat stupid little table wit you in deh staff room. You don’

know how I like singing in choir wit you too... An’ helpin’ Milo—'specially helpin’ Milo. I never woulda

done it widout you. An’ I won’ tell nobody you leavin’.”

Miss Henry’s voice was a hoarse whisper. She shook her head in her hands. “You don’t know… you don’t

know… To just leave you—like dis. You don’ know… just—how—sorry—I—is. I wish I could say

goodbye better. I real real sorry!” She stopped and sniffed a couple of times. She could not stop wiping her

face.

Then she put her arms down, drilled me with her soaked eyes, and broke into an unrestrained wail. “An’ I

missin’ you real real awful!”

“I sorry,” I said, my own voice descending into a whisper. “Is okay. I would done deh same ting as you. Is

okay. I won’ tell nobody. An’ I missin’ you too. I real sorry you must go.”

We walked the rest of the bush path in silence.

Mass was good. The new psalm sounded nice, but I missed Milo.

During the homily Fr. Michael was telling us about how we must train to be spiritual, the way athletes

train in preparation to compete. Then the front doors of the church boomed open and banged against the

walls. The noise of the rain came in, and so did Milo. He wavered and clung to the pew closest to him. He

steadied himself and pointed at Fr. Michael. His words pelted into the sanctuary like overripe mangos

blown from a tree.

“You ungrateful!”

Silence throughout the church. Heads turned across the pews. Milo kept pointing at Fr. Michael.

“Yes! Yes! You! You ungrateful! Jackass! Dees young people givin’ dey lives for you—for deh church—

and dis how you tank them! We music not good enough for you? You ungrateful! Jackass! Jackass!”

By the time Miss Henry and I got outside he was walking away, cursing back towards the church.

“Jackass! Jackass!”

We tried to reach Milo, but he kept a brisk pace, stumbling, cursing and yelling. Miss Henry and I looked

at each other and burst out laughing. Then we went back inside.

Sandra, Miss Henry and I went to Fr. Michael after Mass to apologize. He was in his truck, getting ready

to go to Granbyville. He laughed, thanked us for what we were doing, and drove away.

A few days later my mother told me Miss Henry had made it safely to the States and was with family in

Brooklyn.

I took the bush path the next time we needed salt fish at the shop. I could see Milo through the leaves. He

was staring out as he sat on the culvert, legs stuck out into the street, not yelling or saying anything.

I stopped walking and watched Milo through the leaves. Then I went to Crosby’s tree for a couple of

mangos. I cut them up at home and went back to Milo.

He was not wearing his old gray slacks. Instead, he was wearing shorts, like a primary schoolboy. He

called to me as I approached. He was sorry. He wavered and repeated himself. He told me, in what seemed

to be a scripted speech, that he would never bother me or Father Michael, or anyone in the church ever

again.

“I tink you should try again,” I said.

“I can’ do it,” he said. “No.”

I laid the mangos on the culvert between us. “I brought you dis from Crosby yard.”

His bare legs looked muscular. For an old guy, that part of him still looked strong. He took the pieces of

the mangos and started eating.

“Dees nice mangos.”

“Yea, dey nice.”

The sun was setting. Against its waning brilliance the leaves of the trees were black. Pink clouds lit

the western sky.

Milo placed a hand flat on the culvert as he chewed. I could see the light of the sky caressing his

face. “An’ where dat Miss Henry girl?”

“She in deh States.”

He put his head down and sighed. His face became dark.

“Ah—it shame. She a nice girl. You not see nobody like she again.”

After a few weeks, we finally did get Milo back. Fr. Michael talked to him. That Fr. Michael was

really was the best pastor ever.

I left for the Loyola University Chicago on a scholarship about six months after that. My dad

clapped me on the back when we got the news. My mom sat down in her chair without looking at

anyone. “Not even Brooklyn,” she said, shaking her head. “Not even Brooklyn.”

I do not think anyone helped Milo after I left.

After coming back home from teaching at Blessed Sacrament High School in Chicago, I find a letter

from my mom in our mailbox. She tells me that Milo has died. He was buried like all Todos

Santians, with a big funeral procession down the main street of Marigon, in a hearst booming with

Jim Reeves music. People came from all over the island, curious to see Ratdust buried.

I finish reading and a heaviness settles in my stomach. A rat lurks somewhere.

I reread the letter from my Mom and I think about Milo. He did many good things in his life, and I

do not think that others were properly thankful to him. But the injustice Milo faced is not the hidden

rat.

I remember Todos Santos. It is a warm country, not only because of the weather, but also in the ties

shared in every village. Everyone remains fixed on each other’s business. It is terribly oppressive,

always wondered if all Americans are like them. After living in Chicago for 12 years, I have decided

that they are. America is the coldest country in the world. Even neighbors know nothing about each

other here. But the cold of my new country is not the hidden rat either.

I still think about Miss Henry. She was pretty and we enjoyed each other’s company. After

rehearsals and Masses it was always hard saying goodbye to her. I think about the life we did not

have together. But losing Miss Henry is not the hidden rat.

I read the letter one more time. I get bored and restless at the part describing Milo’s funeral, and

funerals are always important in Todos Santos.

Maybe it is my age or becoming more like an American. Or maybe I am caught up in the cares of a

teacher, husband, and father. But it makes no difference. I do not have time for things like Milo

anymore.

And so, I find my rat. Milo has died, and I do not care. I have become buried in the cold of this cold,

cold country.

I put my mom’s letter in the bottom of my nightstand drawer. I get up, take a knife from the kitchen

and head out. My wife sees me leaving and asks where I am going. I tell her I am running a small

errand.

I do not tell her I am going to the grocery store. I go to the produce section. I find the mangos, take

two, and put them in one of those transparent bags from a fixture with twist ties. I pay for them and

walk past a nail salon and a nutrition store. I stop in front of a Vietnamese restaurant.

Ignoring the stares, I sit on the curb facing the parking lot. The late afternoon sun hits my face. I pull

out the knife and take the mangos from the plastic bag. I cut up them up and eat as cars and people

pass by.

The mangos are good. Not as good as those from Crosby’s yard, but still, pretty good. A cool breeze

brushes my cheeks. I close my eyes and savor the mango’s flavor as I try, try, try to remember.

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