Let us also be true in this history: This new man had become a myth.
His octagon house was neat—but only because it was so large and empty. There were chests in corners and rum bottles on the counter. Buckets and cans served as tables and clothing drawers. The house had appeared overnight like a spider’s web. One had the feeling that Kweku Prideux was a man who had not yet moved into his mound of a house at the edge of this beautiful earth.
It wasn’t an orphanage but it might as well have been. Eeona walked into Kweku’s house, the house her dignity would live and die in, but not really live in after all. She looked around and then she looked up.
“Dear me, there are spiders everywhere!”
“Spiders does eat mosquito. You scared?”
He was mixing her a warm rum and Coca-Cola, for he, too, had heard the song. There was no ice in the box today because there was no electricity in the house today—it came and went. He did not pay for it and did not need it.
Eeona, who was thirty-something, was still a child in some ways. Today, magic was filling in her. How could she know that magic could fill you until it overflowed and left you dry? “It is just a ceiling of webs,” she remarked now. “No spiders at all, Monsieur Prideux.” Already she enjoyed saying his surname. Wouldn’t she enjoy hearing it after her own given name? She sipped her warm drink. She knew he wasn’t a pure European man. He was not speaking like a European man. But she easily let this prejudice go, for he looked so familiar. It felt so familiar. And besides, here was a large house, a villa one might call it, and the large piece of land it sat on and the expansive sea it overlooked.
The drink seemed all molasses on her tongue. Proper Eeona had never had a rum and cola in her life. She did not go to the dances and so did not know the song the Andrews Sisters would steal. But the drink was good and she was half finished with it by the time he poured his own.
“Those who know me call me Kweku.”
“For the time being, I shall call you Monsieur Prideux,” Eeona said, for she was aware of the naming power. “I prefer it.”
“Yes. Call me that.” He said it with such an authority that Eeona knew he had taken a bit of the power somehow. He stared at her, one of his eyes drifting so slightly that she could not be sure if he was staring at her or just beyond her or directly into her.
He brought her onto the balcony, through huge hushed glass doors. The ocean opened up. The breeze was like eight hands groping gently at her buttons. She looked out at the ocean and felt warm and overcome. Perhaps she was inebriated. Perhaps she was in love. What is the difference? She was free.
Kweku Prideux took off Eeona’s clothes easily.
This was dangerous for many reasons.
They were on a balcony on a hill overlooking the ocean. There were not many hills on St. Croix, yet there they were. And though he still had on his pants and shirt, and even held his glass of rum in one hand, she was suddenly and completely naked. There was also the silver that no living person but herself and sad Mr. Barry had ever seen.
She felt her silver grow moist. She felt, with a sudden tearing, that maybe it was not her beauty all along, but maybe it was this silver that was her magic. This petrifying silver thing that Prideux was now cupping with his whole hand as though it were something he could break off from her and treasure away.
There was another house on the hill, smaller, but not far away. Muffled chattering came through the bushes while Kweku eeled into Eeona on the balcony. Those people might spy them, an unwed man and woman nasty for all to see.
There was also the ocean far below. Steel in color but moving and waiting to accept wholly whatever should fall.
His mouth was now sucking her there where she shined like a jewel. It felt to her as though he were drawing blood. She held her breath and watched her diamond hair glinting around his mouth.
The first time she had been kissed on her silver was on a ship and that man had been her father. And now she felt the remembered magic first as a withdrawal of air, a skip in the pattern of her breathing that she could not control. Then her self burst out of her and her head leaned over the ledge, her hair stumbling behind her toward the sea as she screamed, the demons or angels inside her slipping like oil down her thigh. Now he seemed to be holding her with his arms and his legs, even as he buried himself into her and calmly sipped his drink. Now all of her body was taut. All of her mind was on self-preservation.
Her back was scraping again and again on the hard narrow railing. He turned her head to the side, so he could spill rum and cola onto her shoulder and then suck it off. She saw through the bushes, Jesus Lord, the neighboring balcony. Another man and woman moving against each other like the slamming of the waves. That woman was looking at Eeona. That woman was looking like her. And that woman was grimacing, her naked back to that man’s shirted belly.
It was then that Eeona realized that she still had on her shoes. She scraped her heel into Kweku’s back and in response he released her. He did not watch her hit the sea. She did not even fall over the balcony. Instead, they crumpled onto the balcony floor. His glass shattering about her face and head.
“The bed,” she whispered, though she had not meant to whisper it. She had meant to demand it, to say it with strength. She coughed, but her voice still came out whispering something less than she knew she had been capable of. “Prideux, I want the master bedroom.” He picked her up as if she were a skeleton, revealing a thick rug of dark hair bursting from the collar of his shirt. The hair would have repelled her were it not already too late. Now he carried her to the mattress on the floor that would be theirs.
50.
ANETTE
Hear me good. I have a talent for sensing arrival but not for departure. So I don’t know what to think. My sister gone a full day and night. Leave a packed bag in the bedroom closet like she on a planned adventure but just forget the luggage. I wonder if maybe I send her away with my mind. I sure she done try that with me already. But in truth, having my own place for a bit seem like a gift, since Jacob living with his mother and she a salty piece of woman. And besides, Eeona always crazy talking about how she want she freedom. And just upping and going seem like something she would do. Like Eeona she self say Mama used to do with her episodes. Dreaming and then escaping, just so.
So I admit that I ain look for my sister at all until two days past and the stories start streaming in. First ’bout how somebody see she fling she self over waterfront and swim to St. Croix. A next that somebody see she walk into Western Cemetery, dig out a hole, and then toss she self in like a seed. Other people even talk ’bout how she gone to the old Villa by the Sea, a place Eeona always tell me been burn down long time ago. They says she flow past the Frenchies who working and the tourist them who guesting, and just jump off the villa balcony. All kinds of thing I hear. People come to my window and my door just to give me the deading stories. It come like deading is our family story.
I realize I don’t even know who Eeona’s friend them is. I ain even sure if she have friends. I go to Mr. Barry in the Hospitality Lounge, but when I say I lose my sister, this grown man just bust out in tears saying he lost she, too.
I couldn’t do a thing, I tell you. I had Ronalda to keep my mind on. Even though Ronald helping watch her every now and then, and even though he still treating me sweet like I might change my mind and be his wife again. But I also have something else. I have Jacob.
We first meet at the dance on that Friday night. On Saturday he come to my window in a dream, like the sandman in the American song. On Sunday all three of we—Jacob and me and Ronalda, walk from town all the three up and down miles to Magens Bay—the beach what shape like a heart. On the walk, I hold Ronalda for a while and Jacob carry our bags with blanket and lunch and my books. After a while, he carry her also, the bags on his back. My child, looking to the world like his child, natural in his arms. Like we done belong to him. And he crooning all the way. Singing the Irving Berlin.
Let me tell you. How young an
d happy he was when he was just a man with rich dreams. He wealthy now—money does that. Make you stingy and mean. But back then, with a disappear McKenzie daddy, he almost poor and he ain care.
As we rounding the corner of Magens Bay road, he make a dash up into Brown Estate. I keep walking, now holding Ronalda, who twisting her head to see where the sandman gone. Jacob say he coming as he slink away. When he reappear, he have a bunch of frangipani petals in he hands like they just float from the sky. He offer the bunch to Ronalda, who is a baby but can still reach out her hand to grab, and when she do, she pick just one, just one. She always been the type that ain sure if she deserving. Then my sandman open his palm over my head. “It’s raining flowers on you,” he said.
“Is so you does bringing me flowers?” I say. We keep walking, the petals slipping down to my shoulders.
“Do you know how pretty you are?” he ask. As if that is an answer.
I know I ain the pretty one, but I like what he saying. “Always bring me flowers,” I say, picking a petal from my tongue.
“I will always bring you flowers.” He take the spitty petal and put it into his mouth, like we doing obeah on each other.
I have my books at the beach because I studying for a teaching position in history, even though I know they don’t want to hire no divorcée. I readying myself anyway, because you never know. Waking up that morning with the sand-colored man on my mind, I decide I ain want to know the future. Knowing the future does ruin it. I have a gift for that, but I ain want it no more. What I want to know is the past. As far as I could see, that ain never ruin nobody yet.
While I studying, Jacob building a fort with Ronalda in the sand. He instruct her to crawl all over the fort when they finished, he cheer her on as she knocking it down. “That’s the enemy,” he bellow. “And you’re the hero!” he shout, like they at war and he the commander. Later, when we in the water hugging up, he whisper: “Another way of loving you . . .” And point he chin to Ronalda sleeping on a blanket up on the sand. And I know what he mean. That he going love my child because he love me. And I think this a man who know about love. Hold-on-to-me love.
There at the beach he pull out a jar of stewed cherries for us to eat. I hate them things but I eat one or two because is a gift he bring. When he see I ain like them, he laugh and put them away. He say, “I won’t bring them again. You will be my cherry.” And then he kiss me. And he suck on my lips in a kiss more than a kiss; it a grasping, a sexing with tongues doing the work. I know I sweet. I know I belong. I ain faking at all when I hold him back so tight.
Only after that first beach day, when Jacob leave and I had slide into the bed next to my sleeping daughter did I notice Eeona brassiere there on the cot. The cups round up like hills. It give off a eerie feeling. Like there used to be a woman lying there, only she gone away suddenly and all she leave behind on the cot was her breasts. And is then I remember again that my sister missing. I get up to go fold down the bra so it don’t be there haunting. But is when I tuck it up under the spare sheet that I see the itinerary for a trip to America. The ship stopping in Puerto Rico, then Santo Domingo, then making its way up to New York City. I ain find no ticket so I put two and two together. Eeona gone to the mainland to pursue she dreams, like Mama.
And let me tell you, that fine by me. Ever since I leave Ronald, Eeona ain giving me no peace. I need to keep something to myself. Secret. In truth, I ain even telling you everything.
51.
What Anette is not telling, because she will never tell, was what happened only a week later between her and Jacob Esau. It was night; that much is very important. The sun had set. The sandflies had swarmed and retreated. Down in the city up a small hill in Savan a young woman who had never known her father and had little memory of her mother had just nursed her own baby to sleep.
Anette sat at the head of the bed where she could lean on the windowsill and hum quietly to herself: “Mister Sandman, bring me a dream.” Her blouse was unbuttoned, but she could see the street and could see if anyone was coming. Besides, the lights in her flat were off and no one would even know there was a woman at the window unless they were right on top of her. Anette took in the breeze and thought about how she would pay the rent without Eeona’s half. She had already gone without getting her hair dyed longer than was decent. The red at the roots was beginning to show. But she could manage. It would mean she would have to spare a new outing dress. She would do her own hair dying at home. She would ask at the apothecary if she could keep Ronalda there in the back. She might even have to ask Ronnie or his mother for more help.
Now the sandman came up the street humming. It was a quiet song, but Anette knew it because it was their song. She buttoned up her shirt just as he was saying, “It’s me,” from the darkness of the street. She edged out of the bed and went to the door.
“What you here for?” she asked, with the kind of cut eye and push mouth that made it seem she knew exactly why he was there.
“For you,” he said, reaching to her head and combing a lock of hair back with his fingers. “I here for you.”
They stood in the threshold for a few moments until Anette heard a sneeze from a neighbor, and then she let Jacob in and away from prying eyes. “It’s not appropriate for you to be here,” she said, but she meant nothing by it.
“I’m not staying. I’m taking you with me.”
“But you crazy. Where we going at this time of night? Ronalda done gone sleep.”
“Is a secret.”
Anette smiled and waited.
He smiled back. “Nettie, as a good West Indian woman you should offer me something to eat or drink.”
“Well, Mister Mac, we don’t have anything to eat or drink. Plus, you quite fast and forward to come here after all of nine o’clock looking for eat and drink.”
“Let we go then.”
“You going to carry Ronalda?
“I going carry you if I have to.”
—
He carried the baby over his shoulder. She was still small and light, and not yet a burden. Anette wore a dark dress and bright lipstick. It was too late and this was too ridiculous, but she was going where he wanted her to go. The only other thing they had with them was his small cloth bag, which she held. She’d rummaged through it with propriety as soon as he passed it to her: a bedsheet, a flask with water, and nothing else.
They walked out of town in the quiet darkness.
“That’s where I was born,” she said, when they passed the road going down into Frenchtown, even though it was nothing she had ever said to anyone before.
“I didn’t know you had Frenchy blood.”
He couldn’t see her smile, but he heard her short, sharp laugh and then her slapping her own mouth for making noise. “I ain no Frenchy,” she said with a sly whisper. “It’s just where I was born. I ain been down that road once since we left.”
“Not even to visit the radio station?”
“Not a once. And now you know the family secret,” she said.
“Well, Nettie, then let me tell you something you don’t know about me.”
“I listening.”
“I can play the piano.”
“But I know that already.”
“For true? All right. Then my best color is red.”
“Is so easy you is? I know that already, too.”
“Then you know me.”
“Come again. You have me and my child here in the dark of night walking to God knows where. You best give me a proper secret before I scream out.”
Before the war, Jacob might have still continued with silly things. He might have told her that his middle name was Esau. But he didn’t. His middle name seemed like something trivial, though it was not trivial for either one of them. Instead, he told her the thing he hadn’t even yet told himself. “I been wanting you since I seen you in New Orleans.”
“Look here, mad man. I out in the middle of the night with you. My only child in your arms. Don’t go telling me that you ha
ve me mix up with some woman you meet in America.”
“No, Nettie. A fellow in the Army had your picture in his pocket. Carried it everywhere.”
Anette thought of silly Ronnie showing her picture around. Thought of both of these men looking at her face and feeling like she was something to stay alive for. It was sweet to think. But also it seemed so slack. Did Jacob fancy her because of a picture alone? But then again, didn’t she fancy him because of a picture in a yearbook and a picture in the paper? Anette and Jacob kept walking, the moon was up, but it wasn’t clear at all where they were going.
“This one time,” he said, “I touched the picture.” He stopped speaking and they stopped walking. They had arrived at a lonely beach. Anette knew that another woman would be afraid right now. This was either a major mistake or this was the man of her life—that these two things could be the same thing did not occur to her. “It was like I could feel your face,” Jacob continued. “And when I went into that restaurant ready to shoot up the place, I did it for you. I mean, I did it for myself. I even swore on my mother. But I did it for the girl who I was going to love. I knew you was Ronald’s wife. But is like you were my girl, somehow.”
They laid Ronalda down on the sheet on the sand. She squirmed a little, for the ocean was sending in a breeze. Jacob took off his jersey and covered the child. He was only in his white undershirt now and it lit him up like a glow. They sat on the sheet and he held Anette as they looked out toward the sea. They were on Lindbergh Bay, where later Americans would build a hotel for its close convenience to the new airport. But for now there was no hotel and there was only the Navy plane hangar down the road. The waves were rhythmic as a lullaby. The trees were rustling like whispers. The beach was speaking and singing.
Land of Love and Drowning: A Novel Page 17
