Melissa McKenzie, Contributor

He loved sugar cane. When he bit down on a joint, he loved the heavy crunch that sounded, the sweetness that exploded in his mouth, the hasty slurping of juice that might have escaped from the corners of his lips - even the sticky mess left on his fingers. Every Friday after school he made sure he bought a $50 bag of cane from Oney at the school gate. This was a cherished routine after a week where your fingers ached from writing and your mind swirled from the long periods spent reciting your time tables or reading orally from the prescribed text for the grade. He hoped the joy of it being Friday would not make him forget anything when he was presenting what he had learnt to his grandmother.

"Next week!" his friend Leroy shouted from his position behind his father while their bike drove past him. He waved to him.

It was 3:00 p.m.; that meant Mr. Joe's bus, Starliner, would soon be screeching to the bus stop which was about five minutes away on the main road. He set off, passing marble-playing and kite-flying students along the way. He wished he could join them but he had chores to do when he got home. He could only hail those he knew and shout out promises of a game of marbles next week.

He caught the bus as it came to a sharply curved halt at the bus stop. Who was mad enough to give you a license, Mr. Joe? He climbed in and sat down at the back. He loved the spontaneous jerks that came with a back-seat ride. Thankfully, the bus was partly empty, so the conductor would not make him give up his seat to an adult. He pushed a joint of cane in his mouth and crunched happily. His day had been good so far: no floggings, no standing in the sun, no lines in his book for being a chatterbox. He took a chance and spat the cane trash through the window as the bus rolled off.

On foot, approaching his grandmother's house, he saw a car parked at the gate. Had something happened to Granny? He walked faster. The car was a white Corolla; a lanky man leaned on it, smoking a spliff. The man offered him a yellow smile, letting out a curling ribbon of smoke.

"Whappen, juvenile?"

The boy muttered a greeting in return and hastily pushed open the gate. The man had blood-red eyes and a scar that stretched from ear to mouth. He scared him. As he turned to shut the gate, a voice with a rehearsed American accent called out to him.

"Peter, is that you?"

He turned to see a woman stepping off the verandah and running towards him. She had bright red hair and an artificially brown face, and wore a halter top that showed off her lifted, cupped bosoms, too-tight pants, and - precariously high-heeled boots. Who are you? He thought.

Then he was engulfed in a musky embrace. He wanted to push her away but his curiosity had him bemused. Fingers with decorated, talon-like nails pinched his cheeks. A hand went behind his back and pushed him toward the verandah. He muttered a cursory 'good afternoon' to his grandmother, sitting on one of the verandah's new wicker chairs. He still had not said anything to the strange lady.

"How school?"

"Alright, mama."

Silence. Then

"Peter! Baby, don't you know me?"

"No."

"I'm your mother."

Peter's eyes darted to his grandmother. She gave a not-so-pleased nod and folded her arms beneath her billowy bosom. Peter looked up into his mother's face and saw that she was smiling too much.

I'm twelve, you know that? Two weeks ago was my birthday. A mother would remember that. Three years ago, that's why it isn't as straight as it should be. Papa died a year ago. No phone call from you then. How come you showing yourself now?

"He's a bit of a shy guy, aint he? He hasn't said a word to me."

His grandmother grunted. Peter looked down at his dusty shoes.

'Go and wash off. A' soon come give yuh yuh dinna.'

He went slowly to his room and dropped his school bag on the floor. The half-finished bag of cane was still in his hand. It followed his school bag. His hands were still sticky.

How would his grandmother handle this situation? His memory did not support this woman's presence. She only existed when she was mentioned in bitter conversations. He had picked up on the shame.

He heard raised voices.

'You not staying here!'

'But mama'

'Nota word from yuh! Drug mule. Yuh think I doan know? I am no fool. Now yuh is a deportee. I not bringing nuh crosses under mi roof.'

'I am your daughter'

'And Peter is yuh son. Dat stop yuh from showing him yuh back all these years?'

'Is only for a week until'

'No. Gwaan wid yuh ragamuffin man.'

Peter sat on the bed and struggled to absorb all this.

'Please, mama. I have nowhere else to go to.'

Peter did not hear his grandmother's response. She was heading for his room. She stopped in the doorway and took in his slouched figure, bowed head and interlocked fingers.

'Peter, how you feeling?'

He shrugged. There was no reprimand.

'Your mother come back.'

'A neva miss har, mama.'

'Peter, mi sorry.'

He fanned a mosquito from his face.

His grandmother returned to the verandah.

'Maybe you can look for him when you sort out yourself. Di chile cannot manage yuh stress right now.'

Peter did not want to hear any more. He went to the bathroom, closed the door behind him and leaned on it, needing the feel of something solid. He knew he was supposed to feel something - sadness, anger, even. He should have been rushing out there to confront her. She deserved it. He deserved it. But he only felt fear that her entry into his life would disrupt what was familiar to him.

He heard his grandmother in the kitchen. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes.

A car sped off, spitting gravel. She was gone.

Peter went to the kitchen, reminding himself that his grandmother had always been there for him. Without turning from the stove, his grandmother again told him to wash up.

- Melissa McKenzie