Sunday morning Mr. Persad went down to the gas station to begin the day’s work. As usual, first thing after opening the door and pulling up the venetian blind, he picked up and looked at the front page of the newspaper. This day’s paper, he quickly realized from its headlines, contained long-awaited important news. He removed his glasses, wiped them, and put them on again. He then flipped anxiously to the appropriate page. Suddenly he stood up. There it was. He fingered and read one single line over and over. When he could believe his eyes, he folded the paper neatly and held it against his chest. Then, as calmly as he might, he swung the minute hand of the WE WILL REOPEN AT cardboard clock on the door of the office to twenty past the hour. He locked the door and went quickly back to his house. Dolly in the kitchen, surprised by his return, asked, “What happen?”
By way of telling her to wait, he said only, “Just now,” and carried on through the house.
The boy was awake, but it being a Sunday morning, he lay idly in his bed. Mr. Persad knocked on his door, calling him out to the kitchen.
Dolly stood close to her son as he hesitantly opened the paper to the results of the national exam. Mr. Persad sat and watched. Dolly crowded over his shoulder as he ran a forefinger swiftly down the columns of names. It took him a while to figure out how the paper had ordered the results: name of the area in which the exam had been sat, then by gender, and then alphabetically by surname. South, southwest. Canadian Friends Presbyterian. Boys. And there it was—unbelievably—St. George. There was only one St. George, and it was his name printed right there in the country’s national newspaper. And, even more unbelievably, next to his name was that of the school of his first choice. He turned and wrapped his arms around his mother’s waist. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed his forehead once.
Mr. Persad said, “So you passed, boy. Good. Very good.” He looked at his watch. It was almost twenty past the hour. He got up and turned to go down the back stairs, to return to the gas station.
Dolly said rather loudly, “Ehem …”
Mr. Persad turned as if his name had been said.
“Well, he pass. Is true. But is you … is you what …”
She wasn’t able to say exactly what it was Mr. Persad had done. The boy understood her intention, though, and went over to Mr. Persad. He put both hands on his stepfather’s shoulders and pressed his body awkwardly against him. As he patted the child’s back, Mr. Persad, as if responding to an uttered appreciation, said, “You welcome, boy. You did very good, son, very good. You must be proud of yourself, you hear? You have a future ahead of you.”
The boy pored over page after page of children’s names. His voice trembling and deep with excitement, he called out to his mother, “Ma, Look. Sangha. Look it here. Mrs. Sangha daughter pass, too. She pass for the convent.”
Days later he said to his mother, “Mammy, you see Mrs. Sangha yet?”
“Mrs. Sangha? Why I would see she? What you mean?”
“I mean since our names make the paper.”
Dolly knew what her son was thinking. She replied tersely, “No. Where I will see she?”
“Well, we could go and see them. Everybody telling us congratulations, so I was thinking we should go and tell them congratulations, too.”
“Who is everybody? Mrs. Sangha come to tell us congratulations?”
He sulked. It was true, he knew, but he hadn’t thought about it that way. It hadn’t occurred to him that Mrs. Sangha might have brought or sent a message of congratulations to him or to his mother. When, after weeks had passed, there was still no acknowledgment from Ashton Street that he and the girl he still considered to be the best friend he ever had were now to be in high school at the same time, he felt the sting in his face like a slap on his cheek, that old bitterness again. This time, however, he was deeply grateful his mother hadn’t gone to see them when he wanted her to.