Land of Love and Drowning: A Novel

by Tiphanie Yanique

  There in the bed, it felt like the Earth was pounding out of her. When the baby did come, it wailed as though on fire, and its hair was red as lobster. Antoinette looked the child in the face. “Oh,” she said. “If I had known it would be you . . .” The child was red all over. Her lobsterness reminded Antoinette of a time before nannies and maids and a husband with a ship. Reminded her of Anegada. So she gave the baby a trick name.

  When Owen came in, Antoinette allowed him to take their daughter. Owen held the child, not so disappointed at her femaleness as he had thought he might be. Instead, he wondered if this one would help diffuse the dangerous love he had for the other. He thought of a name like Francesca or Liberia that might give the girl some freedom. But Antoinette spoke clearly. “I’ve named her Anette. After me.” Instead of a middle name, Antoinette had Stemme, her maiden family name, put on the baby’s birth certificate. Naming is a parent’s first sorcery.

  She gave her breast to Anette. But the red-haired baby gnawed at her mother instead of sucking. Though Antoinette dabbed her breasts with a soothing salve, her nipples still cracked and bled. So raw, they looked like the inside of a snapper fish. Antoinette, determined as ever, thrust the nipple into the child’s mouth and they cried together.

  It might be said that Anette clamped on because she knew her mother would go. She didn’t even get a chance to hold on to her father. Owen Arthur didn’t even leave Anette anything when he left. Not even a piece of land. That was what every island man knew he should leave. For in the beginning there is the water but in the end there is only the dirt. Owen left his wife and children nothing but the sea.

  12.

  EEONA

  It was I who corrected Anette’s English, for even as a child she spoke like a Frenchy. It is true that my hair was dark and thick and full of vinelike curls, but it was I who tamed her picky hair with the burning hot comb. I was a well-bred girl. I did not have to go to Puerto Rico for finishing school, as Mama had to when she married Papa.

  After Anette was born, there was an entire week where it was only Papa and I at the dining table. He passed me each dish. He conversed about his business with me. He openly expressed his troubles with the ship itself, which was aging, and with the shipping, which was tedious and lacking in decent profit. I sipped from his glass of prohibited rum. I was the mistress of Villa by the Sea those days. Papa smiled and said that I had a head for running things and that I would make a fine madame.

  Even after Mama was recovered, it was I whom Papa escorted down Main Street during holidays and holy days. Mama stayed home with baby Anette and pretended she did not care. I wore the gloves Mama made for me and I would proffer my gloved hand, as many mouths trembled and leaked saliva when they kissed it. Little girls would follow me, caressing the skirt of my frocks, hoping that touching even my clothing would grant them any bit of my beauty. I believe Mama was greatly bothered by this all.

  Mama and baby Anette joined Papa and me for the Anglican church service. Still, I stood beside Papa. He always kept a handkerchief ready to wipe away the sweaty embraces of the other parishioners who rushed to give me fellowship before the organ quieted. Papa cared for me in this and many ways. Even the altar boys shook the bells and lifted the host to the bishop’s mouth with a grace I knew was for me alone. These appeals were in vain, for I belonged only to my father.

  Baby Anette was no beauty. She burnt with fever regularly, as if she knew this was the means to smuggle Mama’s attention. Now Anette is a history teacher and studies the past, but perhaps then she knew the future. Perhaps she knew Mama would leave us. Either way, Anette became Mama’s new doll. This left Papa and me to ourselves. Only now, I was a young woman.

  After the sun set, Papa would teach me the waltz and the seven step on the balcony. Linen curtains separated the balcony from the house and also shielded the balcony from the elements. They billowed in and out with the sea breeze. “Yes, my lovely. One, two, three, four, five, and six and seven. One and two and three. Good!” I would wear Mama’s housedress and feel it was a ball gown. Papa would swing me about on his toes and then shuffle side to side. He held his hand high and stiff, clutching me like a Frenchy man clutches his old-shoe wife. After all, though we were supposedly not Frenchy, we did live in Frenchtown. We danced on the balcony overlooking the harbour, where The Homecoming lay awaiting Papa’s command. We swam in the sea, nude as the Lord made us. The ship a large shield from prying eyes. I would imagine that it was only we alone in this family. No Mama, no baby sister. I knew this imagining was vile, but I could not help myself. My mind wandered and plotted.

  “I love you, Papa.”

  “I love you, my own.”

  By breakfast it was a hushed rendezvous that we kept from Mama. I knew the stories. Miss Lady, who like many on island at the time, couldn’t swim, said she saw frightful ghosts floating in from off the ocean. Mr. Lyte, a Frenchy and so a swimmer by standard, said it was Captain Bradshaw and a mermaid mistress. Still, that Sheila Ladyinga and Hippolyte Lammartine both did agree that the woman in the apparition had hair that waved like a nighttime ocean. Papa and I, obscured by the blowing curtains of the balcony or the body of the boat, knew the special truth: Louis Moreau would not be the first man whom I kissed.

  Now Papa Owen’s ship sits buried by the Anegada shoal. My Villa by the Sea still stands, though not by that name. Now it seems that anyone can walk among our bedrooms after a paid meal. Even the balcony where Papa and I danced can now be rented for banquets. On the walls now are pictures of Frenchy men hauling boats, or photos of Charlotte Amalie before the American flag. But there is not one picture of Papa and me alone. There is no evidence of us, white bed gowns and house slippers, with the wind blowing into our sea-wet faces that were pressed cheek to cheek.

  13.

  Anette Stemme Bradshaw will grow to be a history teacher, but she never knew the miraculous truths about her own early history. By the time she is old enough to be told the story of herself, her parents will be dead.

  But when she was a baby, she was cherubic and red. Her skin was red and her hair was red and to some it seemed like an awful thing. Red skin was attractive enough. Red hair, however, might be a genetic recession. Something like albinism—which the island had only seen once in a nicely behaved but too quiet child who didn’t live past six years. Anette, however, would live. The red hair, of course, was a trait from Antoinette’s line. On a child the red hair was one thing, but on a grown Anegada woman it could be something else—something arresting, something bewitching.

  To some, Anette’s childhood red hair was not an entirely awful thing. It was a sign of her sunny disposition—for wasn’t the sun a big ball of fire? And Anette was a devoted smiler. Even as a baby she seemed to have a knack for people—as if people were her hobby. She smiled before she was one week old and even Miss Lady had to admit that it was a real smile and not gas, for the newborn had looked directly at her mother’s beaming mouth and responded.

  Baby Anette walked at ten months, which was not unusual because all our children walked before a year. But Anette also spoke at ten months. Which was almost impossible. And yet, it was true. She could walk and talk, and she had a sense of humor and a sense for people, all before she was one year old.

  But there is no legacy of any of this. Families who are determined to keep their legacy make legacy arrangements. They put their names on things that carry on after they are gone: books, buildings, boy children. Owen Arthur did not come from legacy and neither did his wife. It is true that they were each persons of great determination. But their determined lives crossed with the bulk of a nation, and that nation watered them down into something softer than they had hoped. They had had spoons of silver and a rattle made of real gold for baby Eeona. But by the time Anette arrived, the world had changed. American Prohibition was spooking the rum makers into running. Continentals were arriving with their own ships of tourists. So different from the Danes, British, and Frenchies, these new whites built homes up in the hills. B
uilt inns at the edge of the island. Built the Gulf Reef Club on the little island in the harbor. Far away from we, the people.

  Antoinette would catch hold of hurricane Anette. Grab the chunky baby and whisper “Anegada” into her ears. “Sweet lobster,” she would say. “Hidden as the horizon.” “My little Duene daughter.” Then she would release Anette and send the girl flowing.

  When Anette was just eleven months old, Antoinette took the child to the sea. It was not a beach in the town area, for that would have been too public. Beaches were social places. But Antoinette didn’t want anyone telling her she was doing the wrong thing. Virgin Islanders of the time tended to have a healthy fear of the water. With the exception of Anegadians and St. Thomas Frenchies, most of us did not even know how to swim. Even seasoned ship hands were known to drown as easily as anyone who worked on land. Owen, with his secret Frenchy heritage, had learned to swim early. But this was considered a cowardly skill for a captain. Captains were to go down with their ship, not be saved by their own stroke. Still, Owen had taught his eldest daughter by throwing her over the side of The Homecoming when she was five. “Don’t fight!” he had shouted to her as her lovely limbs chopped the water. “If you fight water, you will drown.” He said this just before he dived in beside her. Then he held her and showed her how to make the water give. Swimming, it seemed, was a seduction.

  But when Anette had learned to talk so early, it had scared people. What would we say of her actually swimming before reaching one year? But as Antoinette was born on the Anegada atoll, she was a swimmer. Then so would Anette be. Anegadians were all sea people.

  At Antoinette’s request, Mr. Hippolyte arranged for a cart and mule to take the mother and little daughter to the country and then beyond the country. They were heading to a beach where a thirty-foot drop had just been discovered. An American Navy man had swum out and then suddenly had found himself in the deep sea. The drop, which before had just been an old wives’ tale, was confirmed. We old wives, who had always known, nodded to ourselves.

  Because of the drop, it was a dangerous beach and so no one would be there. It was also a beautiful beach, where the water was as clear as rain in your palm. And whoever owned the land around the beach didn’t bother trespassers. Already some beaches on island were closed off, owned by someone, protected with a lashed chain.

  Mr. Lyte drove the mule himself. People passing called out to them, and Antoinette called back that they were going in the country to air the baby. It took mother and child and manservant a few hours to get to the country, and then to the eastern countryside, and then to the beach that didn’t yet have an official name but would later be called Coki.

  It was just them alone. Just Hippolyte and the lady and the infant. The man tied the mule and fed it. The mother took out a small shawl and nursed her child with unnecessary modesty. Then Antoinette pulled out a big piece of cloth and laid it out on the sand and she ate the soft bread and sweaty cheese she’d packed, chewing the bread to mush for the baby. They all shared the water. Mr. Lyte went back to the mule.

  With the groundsman at a decent distance, Antoinette removed the baby’s clothes. Then Antoinette stripped herself, so no wet clothes would reveal her doings. Drowning the child is what the island would declare. But Anette clung to her mother as the two walked into the sea like a myth.

  Yes, we believe in the beach. We have always believed in the beach. Beaches are places of baptisms and funerals. Of bacchanal but also of solitude. But we did not consider the sea itself, even at its best behavior, as a place for babies. And also, it was January and no right-minded Virgin Islander swam in the winter sea. But Rebekah had said that Antoinette would not mother this one, and so Antoinette understood that Anette needed to be taught everything a mother could teach and as soon as possible. The waves were not the usual Caribbean calm. They were proper waves, large and white-lashed and buoyant. The baby was paddling on her own within the hour. Under the water with her eyes open and legs and arms coming and going and her mouth in a smile. The waves embracing her completely, then releasing her to the air for breath. Anette was a natural for the sea. Like any Anegada child.

  They dried off on the sheet and then went back in and then dried off again and then went back. In between, Antoinette draped herself with the sheet and held Anette by the hand looking for sea fans. When Antoinette saw a large conch shell, she lifted it for the child.

  “You can hear Papa in the shell,” she told Anette. What they could hear was the sea itself. Little Anette pressed her head to the shell. The sound made her feel sleepy. “Good night, Papa,” she said to the shell. Antoinette nursed the baby into a nap, touching her hair and face gently. No one else touched the child this way. When Anette awoke, the two went back to the sea.

  Hippolyte watched them all along, despite the lady’s nudity. He needed to watch, because of the drop in the water and because of the isolation of the beach. And yes, Madame Bradshaw was a pretty woman. He watched from close enough so in case a current came he could catch them. But far enough so that he could not see the cleft in the clavicle or the bowl of the breast.

  Hippolyte Lammartine was a man to be trusted. He kept all the family’s secrets—until the day he told all. Little Anette was much too young to remember this day. When later Eeona would tell her, “Don’t go near the water, you’ll drown like Papa,” Anette would believe. She never knew that her mother had already taught her how to swim.

  But here is the truth. Mother and child were baptized again and again on a beach that seemed to belong to no one. Except that day when it belonged to them alone.

  14.

  EEONA

  Papa intended to give me the scholarly education of proper young ladies. Mama argued for a place in America, but only if she could chaperone and stay on in the event I gained interest from a suitable suitor. Papa insisted to her that the current finances would not allow for such an expense. There would be passage and then lodging for four, as Mama would not leave little Anette, and Anette would of course need a nanny. I, however, knew that Papa just wanted me close. Mama wanted me as far away as possible.

  Tortola was more rural than our island. It was much closer than America, closer even than Puerto Rico. Also, Mama had a cousin there who would see to my education and sieve the suitors who would come.

  I did not cry until I was on the boat and St. Thomas was just a gathering of hills in the distance. Then I gave the sea my tears. Men walked back and forth behind me. I considered jumping over, simply so one of these men might save me. I did not risk this only because it dawned on me that, relieved of the longing pain in their chests and their loins, they might be delighted to see me drown.

  I would miss wild Anette who could climb trees and manage other unladylike things. I would miss my mother’s stories. As for my father . . . there were no words for missing him.

  My French tutor was an elder female cousin who would organize a series of entretiens with any well-bred French visiting the island. Still, she could not keep away suitors of all kinds. Men filled the porch steps with fruits and flowers.

  I chose Louis Moreau after six months of choices. I had been away from Papa and Villa by the Sea all that time. Moreau was from a real French family, and so with him I would be a real madame. He was not from our islands, so he was easily manipulated. I was not supposed to sail from Tortola to Anegada with Louis. Such an adventure alone with a man was forbidden. Still, I wanted to be a woman who made my own life, found my own place, not one who must ask for it like Mama.

  Louis and I sailed to Anegada without telling a soul. It was only a day trip; we would be back by sunset. The elder cousin was old and overlooked the simplest things, such as whom I ventured out with and for how long. On the small vessel Louis and I kept to ourselves, as lovers do. Someone shouted that Anegada was nigh and I looked out in vain for the land. Louis took my hand in his and pointed my fingers. The island looked like the horizon itself.

  Tortola, where I had been staying, is mountainous, like St. Thomas.
The hills are as steep as walls. The island of Anegada, however, is not an island at all. It is a ring of coral skimming just above the water. It is scarce in trees and plentiful in sand. A submerged reef surrounds it eight miles out. This is why it is so dangerous.

  Our vessel had to dock far off at the edge of the reef. A rowboat came to meet us and take us closer to land. Still, even the rowboats were unable to negotiate the shallow coral. Dark men took me and the other women up in their arms and lifted us out to carry us to shore, so our dresses would not be wet. When my carrier held me, he trembled with care. You would have thought I was a case of china dishes.

  On the sand, I could see that the sky over Anegada was a huge dome. Everywhere I turned the firmament was there, landing at my feet.

  “Monsieur Moreau,” the people called, nodding their heads but looking only at me. Then I saw the brashness of this adventure. Though Papa, Mama, and I had sailed a number of times aboard The Homecoming, we had never sailed to Mama’s homeland. I had not fully considered that perhaps Mama would have close family still on the island and that I might be recognized. “Good afternoon,” one woman said to me as Louis and I walked. Her eyes were shining from beneath a head of hair as red as the setting sun. She seemed startled to see me. I lifted my head to show my breeding and stave off any questioning. Doing this, however, made a smile come to her face, as if she now knew exactly who I was.

  “Miss,” she said to me, “you from Anegada.”

  How could she have detected anything? I was wearing the European single petticoat, which shielded my shape. I was leading a Frenchman. She wore pants like a man and led a donkey. “You are mistaken,” I said, turning to Moreau. He raised his eyebrows and I raised mine in return.