—I love this country. You people have got it so good and don’t even know it. But you got a shit for brains Prime Minister, how come you people voted for him again?
—You want to stop using “you people”?
—Sorry, babykins, you know what I mean.
—No I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t vote for him.
—But—
—Stop the “you people” like I’m the rep for all the people of Jamaica.
—Sheesh, it’s just an expression.
—Then express yourself better.
—Damn, what got your panties in a bunch this morning?
—You know us people, every day is that day of the month.
—I quit. I’m going to work.
You, girl in the mirror. You, girl, Kim Clarke, admit that it was easier to do it when you made yourself mad at him. But what did you do, stupid bitch? You never get mad, you never give him reason to even think about going away and leaving you behind. You never become the difficult bitch, that’s the white woman’s territory.
—Well, hopefully you’re in a better mood when I get back.
—Hopefully you stop chatting shit when you get back.
Sometimes I think he likes me feisty. I don’t know. A woman supposed to know when to shut up and make a man think he won. I don’t even know what that means. I used to think I knew what American men want. When he takes you out for Kentucky Fried Chicken it a “date.” But if he only comes around every now and then for sex then he’s “seeing” me. Or I’m “sleeping” with him. Crazy business, if he is only coming around for sex the last thing I want him to do is sleep with me. Can you make a man love you harder?
The company is pulling out after thirty years in Jamaica, he says on the “date” last week. Alcorp mining finally get their bauxite belly full and now packing up to go. Chuck says it’s because of this bauxite levy, which is just step-one towards nationalization, which is in itself step-one towards communism. I said you Yankees are afraid of communism the way old country women are afraid of rolling calf. What’s that? he said. The boogieman I said. He laughed that loud laugh.
—Gotta get out before this becomes the capital of Cuba.
I laughed that loud laugh.
—I might know something you don’t, Kim.
—No, you might have heard some things I haven’t heard. Not the same thing.
—Damn, that mouth on you—
—You don’t complain when you’re inside it.
—Babykins, you’re one sexy bitch, you know that?
Do men marry their sexy bitches? I need to take him someplace where he’d have to introduce me, just so that I can hear what he calls me, see where I stand. Right, like I really want to know that. Kim Clarke, your life is nothing more than a series of plan B’s. I must be glad that I have a man who likes to rub my feet. A big man, a tall man, a mountain. Six feet four? Must be at least that. Grey eyes, lip so thin that it looks like somebody just cut a slit open. His hair is curly, now that he’s growing it out. Big chest and arms, he used to work with his hands before he started to work and eat at a desk. Brown hair on his head, but red above his penis and sprouting from his balls. Sometimes you have to just stop and look at it.
—What are you doing?
—Not doing a thing.
—If you keep staring at it like that, it will shrink away from you.
—I just waiting for it to burst into flames.
—Black men don’t have pubic hair?
—How would I know?
—Dunno. I mean, you’re a modern woman, right?
—Modern woman meaning slut?
—No, modern woman meaning you’ve been going to Mantana’s for months. And having fun.
—How you know what kind of fun I’ve been happening?
—I was scoping out the scene in Mantana’s long before you took a look at me, Kim. Seriously though, you’ve never slept with a black man? Not even with a Jamaican?
Mind, do a check of what situations this man calls me babykins and what situations this man calls me Kim. This is important, Kim Clarke. Men marry their babykins. Yes they do. Maybe I should be glad the man hasn’t called me sexy bitch in a while. When last? Can’t remember. Think harder. No, I can’t remember. I need him to move from I love you, but only enough for a tearful goodbye to I love you so much let’s get married right now, right here, so that you fly back to Arkansas as Mrs. Chuck. Isn’t Arkansas one of the places that hate black people? If I can get him to marry me, can I get him to move to New York, or Boston? Not Miami, I want to see snow. Yesterday I stuck my hand in the freezer for as long as maybe four minutes to feel what winter must feel like, and almost stick my head in as well. I grabbed a clump of frost and squeezed until the cold started to burn and the ache reached all the way to my head. I rolled the clump into a ball and threw it at the window. The ball stuck for a second then dropped and I cried.
—Baby, I never leave anything up to chance.
I wonder if that means me. He wasn’t about to risk me leaving and never coming back to Mantana’s, even though I was there every night. Looking. Or if it means that he has already bought tickets or the company has given him tickets back to America. Tickets. Ticket. They gave him only one to come here, why should they give him two to leave? Charles, Charles, we can’t be giving extra tickets to every man who falls in love with the local wildlife, what do you think this is, South Pacific? Oh stop thinking, Kim Clarke, believe you me, you’re going to drive yourself crazy. Back in church youth group they used to say that worry is sinful meditation because you are choosing not to trust God. I used to think that if nothing else, the one thing I knew in high school was that at least I was going to heaven and not all those nasty girls who let boys feel them up because they said their titties were growing fast and the boys said we don’t believe you. Had to move all the way to Montego Bay to make sure I never ran into any of those bitches again (no that’s not why, stop lying, like it matters now). At least I didn’t have no fucking child making my titties drag down to my kneecaps, Jesus Christ I used to hate those bitches.
Should I pack? Do it . . . Kim, yes, Kim Clarke. Do it, I dare you. Pack your suitcase, that same purple one you took with you to Montego Bay. Pack it now. I really should buy a new suitcase for America. I wonder if he will want to take the towels. I only bought them last week. Fuck the towels, we should leave everything behind and don’t look back. Don’t go turning into Lot’s wife, Kim Clarke.
Do it light, do it through the night. This deejay not letting Andy Gibb go. I want to hear “You Should Be Dancing” right now. That’s what I want to hear. Baby let’s go dancing, I will say once he comes through the door. We’ll go dancing, not at Mantana’s, maybe Club8, and when we get him drunk I will say, Baby I know you didn’t ask me yet, but I started packing to save us both the trouble. What you Americans call it? Pro-active. See, I was being pro-active because you men always wait until it’s near too late to do anything, including propose. No, I won’t say propose. No man wants to feel tricked into a marriage. And when he ifs and buts I’ll take out his cock and show him that I learned exactly what I was supposed to learn when he put on the reel of The Opening of Misty Beethoven.
—I dunno, I didn’t expect Jamaican women to be like black American women.
—You weren’t expecting us to be black too?
—No silly, I didn’t expect you to be so sexually conservative. I swear, growing up in Arkansas you get the wrong idea.
—Why do you always use plural when you talk about me?
—Maybe I have a thing for black women.
—Uh-huh. I must be the black woman delegate.
—I hear Mick Jagger does too.
—You hear me talking to you?
—But I have all that jazz, right, babe?
—What you talking ’bout?
Come to think of it the only other man to put his mouth anywhere near my pussy was a white man. And American too. And, no I can’t think about that. Something scared t
he gulls away. How long have they been gone? Didn’t even realize I was thinking out loud. They wouldn’t be gone unless . . . better check the living room.
—Oh, hi hon.
—Uh. Oh, Chuck.
He answers with a wide grin.
—I didn’t know you were here. I didn’t even hear you come in.
—Yeah? Sounded like you had company in there. Was taking my shoes off to come in and join—
—I’m alone.
—Oh really? Talking to yourself like some crazy chick?
—Thinking out loud.
—Oooh. About me?
—Can’t believe you came in the house and I didn’t hear you.
—It’s my house, baby, I don’t have to make a scene just because I entered it.
No that didn’t sting, brush it off, Kim Clarke.
—I was about to cook dinner.
—Love how Jamaicans say cook dinner instead of make dinner.
—What’s the difference?
—Well, you could just boil some mac and cheese, and there, you’ve made dinner.
—You want mac and cheese?
—What? No, baby. I want whatever you’re cooking. What is it that you’re cooking?
—I can’t believe you just came in like that.
—It’s bothering you? Rest assured, darling, nobody is going to come all the way down here to assault you. What’s for dinner?
—Ackee.
—Lordy.
—With corned pork this time.
—What’s corned pork?
—Like thick pieces of bacon.
—I love me some bacon. Well, you go back to that, and I’ll go back to this Star newspaper I was reading. I swear this shit is a riot, not at all the bummer that’s the Daily News.
I hope he doesn’t start telling me what’s in the paper. Getting harder and harder every day to dodge him telling me the news. It sweet him so to tell it back to me, more than it sweet him to read it in the first place. Last Tuesday I saw him coming to me in the kitchen and said I already read the paper, thinking that would shut him up, but the whole thing backfired. As soon as he heard that, the man wanted to discuss things. I really can’t stand the news. Most times I don’t even want to know what day it is. I swear the second I hear of something, or if I realize I’m about to hear something, my heart just starts to pound and I want to do nothing more than run to my bedroom, cover my face with a pillow and scream. Even in the market all I need is one higgler saying, Then you no hear ’bout Miss so and so? and I start walking away without stopping. Without buying a single thing. I don’t want to hear nothing. I don’t want no fucking news. Ignorance is bliss. I know him, he’s going to walk through that door—get the oil hot, get it hot, Kim Clarke, so hot that as he steps in just drop the onion and the skellion and the PSSSSSSHHHHH will drown out what he says. I’ll say whaaaaat? And he’ll say it again, and I’ll say whaaaaaat? and drip some water so that the oil pops loud and scares him and he’ll forget the subject, maybe. I wish the gulls were still here because then he would rush outside to drive them away and I could ask one of those dumb questions like do they have gulls in America? One of those questions that make white men just love to smile, nod a little and answer. Do they have bicycles in your country? Do they ride on the highway? Do you watch The Munsters in America? Do you watch Wonder Woman? How tall is the Statue of Liberty? Do you have a dual carriageway?
Take a deep breath, Kim Clarke. Cool runnings. You’re happy.
—Funny thing in the Star today, he says, walking in.
—Honey, you sure you don’t want to change out of your good clothes?
—You’re my mother now?
He smiles.
—Is you scare away the gulls?
—They were bothering you again?
—Not any more than usual. What kind of gulls you have in Arkansas?
—The same gulls I told you about three days ago.
—Oh. My brain is like a sieve. As soon as information go in I strain it right back out.
—Sounds more like a rectum than a sieve.
—But what a way you bright though, eh?
—Love it when you curse me in Jamaican.
—Ha ha. Well, if any of this oil splash on you I going tell you that you get what you was bloodcloth looking for.
—More.
—Pass the onion and skellion.
—Where?
—That basket on the cupboard by the door beside you . . . watch your step, I just shine the floor . . . slippery.
—I’m a nimble guy.
—Uh-huh.
—Man, you chop that thing really fast. Does every Jamaican woman know how to cook?
—Yes. Well, all the women who not worthless. So no, no Jamaican woman in Montego Bay can cook.
—You trying to get me to stop going to Mantana’s?
—Ha.
—Hey, babykins, I gotta tell you something.
—Honey, I can’t deal with anything in that newspaper right now. That Star is nothing but shame and scandal and white girl on page three showing her titties. What you steal from work today?
—I didn’t steal. A jar, just a jar, but it’s a green one, like emerald, I guess.
—You should buy me an emerald.
—Kim.
—I mean, I was born in November and that’s actually topaz, but you’re the one that started with emerald and—
—What the fuck, Kim.
—I don’t want to hear no shit about nothing in the r’asscloth Star, Chuck.
—What? I wasn’t talking about the Star. I was talking about Alcorp.
—What about Alcorp?
—We got a memo today. The company is winding down operations at a faster timetable than was originally anticipated—I mean, projected.
—You want to translate that memo?
—We’re flying out next week.
—Oh. Oh shit. Is good thing.
—It’s kinda fucked-up, really.
—No. Is a good thing the garage already cleaned out! So much stuff to do! But what the hell, right, as you would say? What can’t pack just get left, eh?
—We means the company, Kim.
—Of course no ackee in America so you better eat this up when me finish.
—We meaning the staff and crew.
—I better make it extra good since it’s the last supper, haha, sorry Jesus, me borrowing that one.
—I gotta pack.
—Pack, yes, to think, you’re going to think is funny, I was looking at that ugly purple grip just a while ago.
—My stuff, all this shit from the office, I don’t really have a place for any of it.
—I wonder if I should pack jeans. I really was thinking what if I should pack jeans. I mean, I know I’m not going to pack towels and rags because that is just ghetto people behaviour. But jeans? I mean, you know how much I love the Halston, or rather how much you love how I wear the Halston.
—So much stuff to leave behind.
—But to pack a towel, what kinda butu business is that? Is not like we flying to Mocho. It’s like packing a toothbrush. I want to brush my teeth fresh in America. I know that sounds stupid.
—Oh Lord, Kim.
—And toothpaste. You Americans get gel toothpaste, in the big family pack that had a pump cap.
—I didn’t think it would come down to this.
—Will I have time to do my hair? To Rahtid, the deejay playing Andy Gibb again? The song just reach number one or something? You just call in and request it?
—Kim.
—Fine, no hairdo then, well, if I look like a madwoman on the plane is your fault. You better speak up for me.
—Okay, okay, Kim.
—Before customs cart me off.
—Kim.
—Jesus Christ, you sure know how to spring something on a woman. At least nobody going say we eloped.
—What we—
—Bedsheets, pack or leave?
—Huh?
—I swear, man
, don’t serve no damn use.
—They’re not going to—
—We leave all the white ones, except the Egyptian cotton. That one we’re taking, you hear me? Come to think of it, you better make me pack your belongings because you men don’t know how to pack either.
—It’s all your Manley’s fault. He’s fucking up everything with this . . . with this . . .
—I think you should pack all your gabardine pants, but none of the Kariba suits, don’t want nobody in America thinking their son turn into socialist.
—And now—
—And that blue shirt for when we go dancing. Is there a Studio 54 in Arkansas?
—Not going to Arkansas. Never going back to Arkansas.
—Oh. Okay. Well, wherever then. Ha, I was just about to say, wherever as long as I am with you until I remembered that I heard that same damn line in a movie last week. Or maybe it was on Dallas. You think it was Dallas? Pamela Barnes would say some shit like that.
—Fucking hell, it’s like a troops pullout. I said to Jackman, it’s Montego Bay, not Saigon, motherfucker.
—Should I tell the jewellery store? You know, I didn’t really resign, I just stopped working.
—They actually chartered a jet.
—Fuck them, no fuck ’em, as you would say. I mean, I didn’t even quit, I just stopped, remember? You thought it was so funny—
A Brief History of Seven Killings Page 31
