Big Island, Small

by Maureen St. Clair

  “What makes you think I have something against Judith?”

  “Well you answered like I asked if Margaret Thatcher was your sister.”

  “Who are you?” I ask, not recognizing him at all from the city. Although he does remind me of some of the boys on the city court who have a problem with me playing ball with them. Like I’m a threat to their capacity to score a shot. He doesn’t hear the irritation in my “who are you?” He doesn’t get that I’d rather be alone, that his sense of claim to who I am irritates me.

  “Henri Mathias Torres,” he says with a flash of his white teeth.

  “Nice to meet you Henri.” And I walk away.

  “Watch out for the bear.” He’s smiling.

  “You’re joking.”

  “It’s been tearing up people’s garbage up on the highway. The lady walking her dog back there said she spotted it last night, walking up her front lawn.”

  I turn in the direction his finger points and see a large woman wearing a pink windbreaker with black tights tossing a stick to a tiny black dog darting across the sand.

  “I told my father-in-law I would love to see a bear. I proposed we leave a plate of food out tonight. Have you ever seen a bear?” While he talks my mind flashes on how he knows Judith. How he was fast to protect her from my quick “no” to us being sisters. How he said with a notion of caring, “What you have against Judith?” has my mind on Judith and Henri drinking wine together from the two glasses and empty wine bottle I noticed when I first stepped onto the verandah.

  He leans closer to ask again if I’ve ever seen a bear and I just say “nah” and keep walking.

  “You ever seen a raccoon?” Henri asks. Still walking and talking in my direction, “They, like, miniature bears. But more vicious.” Henri lets out a whoop of a laugh. I forget about Judith and Henri drinking wine together and crack a grin. The panic I felt coming on earlier, the waves of nausea threatening, fade with the interruption of Henri. Henri turns around and walks back the way he came.

  My mind goes to the day before. Me running through the streets like a mad woman, desperate to find Judith. Me on the ground weeping like I’m four years old again and Thompson peeling the pup from my arms. When I was four, Thompson brought home a puppy, a replacement for our dog, Blacky, who was hit and killed by the community bread van. Dolma and I found Blacky making a rattling noise like rocks in an empty cup, blood lining the back of his head. The next day, Thompson carried home a black-and-white pup and plopped him into my arms. Dolma said I shrieked, “Pappy!” And Pappy became the pup’s name.

  “Thompson at the side of the house cleaning he boots watching Pappy lick your face from ears, nose, lips. Your whole body quiver with pleasure,” Dolma said. She told me he scooped that puppy out of my hands, dunked him in a bucket of rainwater and told me to go get the blue soap under the house. I skipped over the drain and fell.

  “Take your time nah,” Thompson said and then told me I was getting on too much and to go inside. Dolma said I let out a cry like someone was murdering me. Thompson threatened to take the puppy back to where he got it.

  “And that,” Dolma said, “make you stop cry. You fall asleep on the floor. When you wake you cry some more for Pappy. You obsess with Pappy. You can’t keep your hands off Pappy.” I figured out how to remove the stick that plugged the latch to the pen where Thompson kept Pappy. “You crawl in, fold Pappy in your arms and sneak down under the cocoa trees. You quiet so not to draw attention but when quiet louder than usual we come looking for you. For a while we give up on you and Pappy. And you two fall properly in love. Wherever you are there is Pappy. Once we find you reading one of my romance novels to Pappy. Book upside down and you reading in a language only Pappy understand. This make Thompson and I bust up laughing wondering what kinda child we make.”

  A month later and Pappy began to resemble a dog not a pup. That’s when Thompson decided all play was done. Pappy was ordered back into his pen and not to be removed unless he was going into the bush with Thompson. Dolma said I took a fit causing neighbours to come running. She said I threw myself down on the ground like I was throwing myself into the grave of a loved one. “You scream, ‘Pappy. Pappy. Pappy. Oh Gawd Pappy,’” Dolma said. Thompson decided he was taking Pappy to Mel’s until the dog was ready to hunt. Then Dolma said she couldn’t remember the rest of the story.

  I bend down and unlace my shoes. I step on the heel of each and flick them off. I pull off my socks and push them into my pockets. I hold a shoe in each hand, widen my stride, let the sand fold between my toes and head back to the cabin. I see the wine glasses again, this time on the counter flipped over drying on an old faded towel. The old surge of jealousy clamps down inside my stomach and as soon as I see Judith I ask about Henri. I know it’s a mistake as soon as the words drop.

  JUDITH

  SOLA OUT ON THE shore still. I think of she earlier, shifting weight through she toes, fingers rolling a piece of nylon unravelling from the old patio chair, how she look up and over the highway and then back again toward the water. I try to catch she with my eyes but she only looking everywhere but my eyes. What the hell happen yesterday? Why the fuck police cuff Sola and bring she to the station? Damn. When I see she coming up the path toward the cabin I ready to ask.

  Just as I open my mouth she throw at me, “You fucking Henri too Judith?” She walk past me into the cabin then back out again. She stand up between veranda and the steep drop going down to the beach.

  “Henri? What? Damn girl what the fuck’s your problem. Why you come here anyway? To harass me? You embarrassing yourself. You playing like you’s Papa God, like you’s Small Island aunties waiting for me to fuck up. I don’t need you watching me you know. If you want to stay you better mind your own damn business and stop studying mine.”

  And then I push she. I push she like I trying to push the words I just say into she chest but I push too hard and she lose balance. She foot slip on the side of the steep slope and a piece of dirt break off. She lose balance a second time and she sliding down the edge grabbing dirt as she fall. The red clay sliding and she slow slipping then tumbling then rolling.

  “Shit Sola,” I yell, running and calling for help. By the time Henri and Mr. Merle, Henri’s father-in-law, arrive Sola manage to plant she feet into the soil and she making she way down gripping and sliding but she in control. The three of us watch as she make it to the bottom. She get up, wipe she pants off and she gone around the red-clay cliffs.

  I run down the path and onto the beach calling she name but she too far ahead to hear and if she hear she pretend she don’t. Mr. Merle and Henri asking me what happen and I say she don’t know she so close to the edge.

  “Well she looks like she’s okay,” Henri say and walk back with Mr. Merle where they working on renovating the beach stairs.

  I finish make dinner and wait for Sola. I think of the words I yell, “Papa God,” a god that love me more than he love the aunties, my father, Sola, Drey and all other black-skin people. I experience this from young. One time a group of us watching an old-time Bible someone leave at the community centre. We under the street light. The Bible big, thick with papery thin pages and colour pictures. Keena turn page and stop where God piercing a Black man in the heart, blood spilling down he body, he face in anguish. Keena look up and see my own face screw up and say, “Why you look so frighten? You feel God spear and kill white people? You don’t know white people go to heaven and we Black people go to hell?” I fix my face to look more big than fraid. When I get home I tell Mom that Daddy going to hell and we going to heaven and I start to cry. Big tears. Mom hug me tight and say not she God. She God love everyone equally even though it may not seem that way. Another time Tyrondi tell me I don’t have to worry about lash from teacher ’cause she know God strike she down if she beat a white child. I want to tell Tyrondi I nah white, I honey. But I don’t. I just watch when teachers yell or slap or cuss the other
children but never me. I don’t tell Mom ’cause I see how she get red in the face and how she start to fight with Fabian.

  I hear Aunt Jean’s words, how I’m a disgrace to my dead mother and how I waste all the gifts and opportunities Papa God give me. I decide not to behave the way Papa God feel a white child should behave even though I nah white, I tell myself, I honey. Later the aunties tell me I just like those white ladies on TV only studying boys and sex. How I making my daddy crazy with worry. How my mother should have beat me, how she spare the rod and spoil the child.

  Why’d I say that to Sola? Did I really think she like the aunties? But why she watch me so? Why she judging? Why she nah leave me alone and let me live my own life.

  Margaret’s “yoo-hoo” at the side of the house startle me. She lift she self onto the veranda, one hand on house and one hand holding a bottle of wine. “Blueberry,” she say, while resting it on the picnic table and requesting two glasses. The night before we both drink too much. And she telling me things I don’t quite understand. Like how she and Mom close. How Aunt Rachel think Margaret in love with Mom. And how Aunt Rachel think Margaret trying to manage Mom’s life. The wine loosen Margaret’s tongue ’cause it’s like she know everything Aunt Rachel tell me and she want to set things straight.

  “Your Aunt Rachel never liked me. She thought I was bribing your mom. As if me giving Pauline the cabin was an exchange for something more. Like if I give your mom the cabin she’ll love me more than she did. Like I was your mother’s sugar daddy.” Margaret start to laugh and laugh while taking mouthfuls of wine. Her teeth, lips, tongue dark red. “Did you know I gave your mother the cabin?”

  But before I could answer she start talking again. “Why wouldn’t I give Pauline the cabin? The cabin is just sitting there empty. I don’t have kids or a brother anymore. My brother died when he was only eighteen. He died in a car accident too.” And then Margaret start to cry. When she settle she self she start talking again, “My brother helped my father build that cabin. Then he died. The cabin was left to me. I could have sold it but I didn’t want just anyone living there. I wanted someone I knew. Someone who would cherish that small space, the view, the whole mystical magical experience.” And then she start to laugh. “Your mom called it a magical mystical space. I knew your mom would appreciate the cabin especially when she went through a grieving period. It was after she spent time there recovering that I decided to gift her the place.”

  “Recovering? What are you talking about?”

  Margaret get up fast and knock over she glass of wine. She say she drink too much and she should go home.

  “What grieving period?”

  Then she start talking about she and Mom again and how close they were and then she say, “Then she left. She left me here and travelled. That was the time my brother died. I needed her. Then when she realized Small Island was becoming more home than Big Island she tried to give the cabin back. But I wouldn’t take it back. I wouldn’t do that. I don’t give someone something and then take it back. Rachel thought by giving your mom the cabin I was bribing her. I am twelve years older than your mom.” Margaret say, laughing. “Our love was more than just a friendship for a while. Then your mom left for Small Island. We wrote long beautiful letters to one another. She was a beautiful writer. We lost touch after she met your dad. She would write still though. It was me who took longer and longer in between letters, until I stopped. She wrote to tell me if I wanted to sell or give the cabin to anyone else I should because she didn’t just want it there empty. I never did anything with it. I considered it your mother’s always.”

  And now Margaret here again with another bottle of wine. I don’t mind ’cause I can’t stop thinking of Sola and I still want to know more about Mom. I don’t understand some of the things Margaret say the night before. So I ask she and she tell me about Mom coming back to the cabin after I born. How she come back a few times when I small. She say they find their friendship again. Margaret say Mom longing for more on Small Island and she feel guilty.

  “For what?” I say.

  “Seems like for everything.”

  I think Margaret come over a little drunk already ’cause she start talk about how Mom grateful she can conceive. “She never thought she would be able to carry a baby in her body after the…” Margaret’s face sink like the wine just stop feeding the story. “I’m sorry,” she say. She say she should probably go. She say she should stop drinking. She say she drinking too much. “Seeing you, Judith reminds me of your mom, reminds me how lonely I was. And am.” She promise me she’ll stop drinking like I’m someone she need to promise. I don’t say anything.

  When we reach her front porch Margaret keep talking. Now she telling me she the one who stop having anything to do with Mom. “It was just too painful,” she say. “I wanted more from your mom but she was in no position to give me more. She chose Small Island, your dad, over me. And thank God she did because look at you.”

  Inside she sit on the couch and pat the cushion for me to sit too. “I remember the time you both came out after the hurricane. I saw you drive in. Early the next morning I drove out and into the city. I didn’t want to open up old wounds so I disappeared. Just the thought of sneaking off so I wouldn’t see your mom makes me want to tear out my hair, this cabin, this whole five miles of beach. Because then your mom died. Your mom died and shortly after I got a package from her. She sent me one of her wire masks and a card. Not much on the card just, ‘Dear Margaret made this with you in my heart.’ See it’s over there on the wall?”

  I look up and there is one of Mom’s spirit women lace with colourful beads like she want to cover everything with colour. The whole mask an explosion of colour weaving and winding in every direction.

  Margaret move to the kitchen table. She sit and put she head down on she folded arms and cry. I put my hand and forehead on she round back and cry too. We stay like that till Margaret lift up and say she too old to be in one position for too long. Then she stand and shake out she legs. She grab my hands and shake out my arms. She tell me to follow she and we roll our necks and shoulders and then she have me wining up my waist like I back home in the dance hall. And now she trying to dance too and we doubling up laughing.

  “Where’s your friend?” Margaret ask.

  “She’s out there somewhere walking. She’ll be home just now.”

  “I want to meet her.”

  “You will,” I say.

  SOLA

  SHE PUSHES ME. JUDITH pushes me and I feel my body slip and slide down the cliff. I grab soil like I am grabbing someone’s hand but the dirt lets go and slowly I slide, tumbling slipping like in dream. Judith yells, “Shit.” The mountainous rocks spread across the shoreline.

  I finally find footing, push up and carefully maneuver to the rocks. I leap from boulder to rock to boulder until both feet touch sand. I walk in the opposite direction of Judith, Henri and Mr. Merle watching from above.

  The push surprised me, like she was pushing her words into my chest, “Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone.”

  If I had my bag I would leave her alone and make my way to the road and hitch back to the city. I sit on a boulder and rock back and forth, arms around legs. Another hard push on my back comes roaring into my head. He pushed me out of his house too, down the verandah stairs. He hissed at me like a cat. Telling Mikey I kept coming around. Telling Mikey to keep me home. Telling Mikey to tell me to stop begging for stuff.

  I am brought back to the cold, the sea and seagulls lapping air and shore. A wave smashes into the rock and soaks my sneakers, my pant legs, my hands and arms. I jump up and off and make my way farther down, smell the smell of that dead seal Judith told me about. Up ahead I see it, large, bloated, bigger than the dead calf up behind his house. I am up behind Mr. Robbie’s house examining the calf, his belly bit up by dogs. Same dogs that bit up Mikey’s sheep. The mother cow bellowing. Her round sad eyes b
linking. How could the owner of the cow not know his calf was dead and the mother is here crying for her kid. I want to untie the cow and lead her far from the stench of her young but then people would ask me why I was up on the old road, why was I pulling this mother cow with me. I run back down and burst through his yard a second time that day. He told me to get home. I want to tell him about the calf but he has his head down piling dirty clothes in a bucket. “Go on,” he says. “Go!” It doesn’t match his soft “Come in. Come in” of an hour earlier.

  Dogs are barking in the distance. Another whiff of the rotting seal and my hands circling above my head. A few stars pop from the fading daylight. I am surprised when the dark descends even before I turn around to head back. I make it to the boulder where I got soaked and start to run before the darkness grabs last piece of light. The tide inches up farther and farther till I am forced to get up onto the rocks and feel my way from rock to rock. I fall in between two large boulders. A moonless sky. I count ten stars. I can only see outlines of large hunched granite figures. Fuck fuck fuck. My fists pounding the sides of my legs. There is nowhere visible to cut through up to the highway. I try but trip, scrape, bump and fall too many times. I turn back, stumble to the shore, back to the semi-sheltered gaps dug into the cliffs. I sit again, arms wrapped around legs with the stench of death, the swish of water lapping shoreline, the dull wisp of a siren and the brushing of trees behind whistling winds.

  I think of the bear Henri mentioned. I find rocks to smash together to ward off uninvited guests. Head between knees swallowing clumps of air while continuing to play a clumsy rhythm of rocks knocking then splintering. I hear bamboo creaking and cracking down by the river, behind Mr. Loyd’s shop. I hear sirens approaching to put out hill fires, the hill behind his house, catching fire twice that dry season. Small Island’s bright, bold greens replaced by dull mustard browns. The community’s natural spring trickling down the hill. Villagers lining up with buckets, bottles, containers, pots. You have to pass his house to get to the natural spring. He must be certain no one’s listening when he calls.