“Haitian,” he said aloud. “She’s Haitian.”
He watched her make the sign of the cross, kneel and rise several times. When they sang hymns, he picked out her voice, which rose above those of the old people, the organist, and the priest. It was a voice that wore bright colors. She then took communion, her pride replaced with humility. When the mass was over, and the priest had left, she went to the altar of candles, took dollar bills from her backpack, and put them in a box. He watched as she lit the tallest candle and knelt, her head bowed, her back curved, legs ending in sandaled feet, making a number two in profile. She rose, dipped her fingers into a ceramic fount, and made the sign of the cross, touching her forehead, above her abdomen, then both sides of her chest. She repeated an anointing of her abdomen and pelvis—something no one else did. She then took a small vessel of some kind, dipped it into the fount, capped it, and placed it in her backpack. Each action she carried out with her head lowered.
Thulani had to get out of there. He slipped out of the confessional and left the church. She would be outside within seconds. While waiting for her in the parking lot, he had made up his mind. No more following her. When she came down the church steps, he would walk up to her and offer to walk her home.
She was awfully fast, or he wasn’t as brave as he thought. She sped right past him and was halfway down the block by the time he saw her.
Thulani walked fast. His legs were longer than hers, and his stride was greater. He lost sight of her in front of him and was practically on top of her when she turned around.
“You!” she screamed. Even then her accent was thick.
He was stunned, tongue-tied. Before he could explain or apologize or ask if she was all right, she took off, the backpack bouncing against her. She never looked back.
Thulani vowed to leave her alone and to let her die in his mind. He would no longer care if she was all right, and he would stop filling in his dream girl’s face with her face. Her prayers, candles, and Chinese herbs were silly next to his vow.
Before he fell asleep that night, he faced the skirt nailed to his wall and said, “To hell with her.”
FOUR
A hot one is what the DJ on the radio promised. Hotter than Hades, damp like mop water. Thulani felt it in the early morning as he watched his birds fly off. He felt the thickness surround him when he looked down on what would be, in an hour, sheer madness. Police stationed barricades along Eastern Parkway. Vendors set up their tents and tables while revelers slowly filled the streets. Madness.
Carnival in Brooklyn—or, as the newspapers called it, the West Indian Day Parade—was nothing like carnival in Jamaica. Back in Jamaica, carnival went on for days and nights. Calypso, socca, and reggae called dancers out into the streets. People gathered for parties in every home. It was a happy time. Even Daddy stopped working long enough to throw Thulani up on his shoulders to watch the festivities.
Up on Daddy’s shoulders was a place reserved for Thulani alone. He played with Daddy’s long dreads and stuck out his tongue at Truman down below. Riding high on Daddy’s shoulders made him tall, tall like the men on stilts.
Sometimes he thought it had all been a dream. Being too little to climb trees with Truman, being chased by a neighbor’s goat, or looking up at green hills, as high and far as his eyes could see. Even Daddy, tall and soft-spoken, always smelling of black licorice, seemed a dream man.
If he had been older than three when he, Mommy, and Truman left Jamaica, he would still have his father’s ways and voice cut firmly into his memory. He envied Truman for having known Daddy and for showing off the things Daddy taught him, such as how to start up a car, change a fuse, or pound a nail square on with his hammer.
In spite of the photographs of Daddy stationed throughout their home, and all of Mommy’s recollections, Daddy remained clouded in smoke and green hills. He had been told that Daddy was “a fine carpenter” and that he built the best cabinets, tables, and coffins in St. Catherine. He had been told that Daddy was the youngest of eight sons and, like Thulani, was his mother’s favorite. He knew a great many things about his father, though none of these things brought him closer to his memory. It was only at carnival time that the image of Daddy, the feel of his hair, the licorice chew stick in his mouth, the clomp-ca-lomp of his work boots, and his singing as he worked, became clear.
When they first came to Brooklyn, Auntie Desna, who was not a relation but a woman from Mommy’s village, took them into her home on Bedford Avenue. In those early days Thulani stayed posted at the door, watching for those work boots to ca-lomp through the door. Either Mommy led him away from the door and said, “Daddy will follow,” or Truman would hit him for behaving like a baby.
That summer Auntie Desna told them about the West Indian Day Parade. She promised them a good time, saying the parade “will bring you back home.” When Thulani saw and heard the familiar things, the men on stilts, the steel drums, the reggae, the dancers in mas, he was sure Daddy would come to him, as he always had, out of the green hills. Year after year Thulani searched the crowd to see if Daddy was out there, caught in the pushing and dancing. Many a time he tore himself from his mother or from Truman to go running after some dread-locked man, only to be disappointed. The last time he ran after a stranger, Mommy grabbed him and shook him and said firmly—for she never meant to repeat herself—“I begged Daddy to come, but he wouldn’t leave. Once Daddy stuck in his safe place, he’ll not budge.”
Daddy had sent money from time to time and occasionally a card for birthdays. He had even sent Thulani toy animals that he carved from scraps of wood. But Thulani could not remember the last time he had actually spoken to his father. And that was what he wanted. To hear his father’s voice.
Thulani looked down on the madness, determined to stay above it. The two times that he felt compelled to come down were both because of her, and he would never be so compelled again. Not after she had run from him when all he wanted was to…
He wasn’t sure.
He tried to let the girl go. Stop thinking about her. But everything about her opened questions in his mind. What could he do? Nothing. Not even if she went through life thinking he was someone she had to run from.
He couldn’t blame her. He had followed her that Wednesday. He had paced his distance so he could enjoy the sway of her hips as she walked down the street. He had hidden himself in the church so he could watch her pray. When he worked up the courage to tap her and speak, she had caught him.
He thought of writing her a letter to explain. Apologize. He thought if she read his words, she could hear his voice and know that he meant her no harm. It would be a deep letter. He would compose his thoughts. Find something that would reach her. Put her at ease, if that was possible. Then he would write neatly. Stick the letter in her mailbox and walk away.
This sounded good until he realized that he did not know her name or where to begin. In his head he said,
Girl,
Dear Girl,
Dear Girl Who Was Raped,
I’m the one who helped you that night.
I’m the one who you hit.
I’m the one who followed you.
No. Not a letter. He had to talk to her. Let her look into his eyes. See that he didn’t mean to frighten her. More important, he had to see himself in her eyes and know she didn’t think the worst of him.
“Bird bwai!”
It was Shakira. In his room, at his window, trespassing on his peace.
“Thulani, don’t make me come up there.”
He sighed, feeling the weight of her on him. If she later complained of aches from the stair climbing, he wouldn’t hear the end of it from Truman. Before he could get up to answer her, she was standing in the doorway that led to the roof, her arms folded over her belly.
“What?”
“Take down my table.”
“Down where? In that?” He meant the carnival mob. “Not me.”
“I’ve been working all summer on my tings,” she whin
ed, a sure sign that she would tell Truman. “I have a friend holding my spot. They can’t hold it forever, you know.”
He was comfortable where he was. He didn’t want to face her, let alone answer.
“Ya hear me, Thulani?”
“It’s too crazy,” he said.
All summer long Shakira had sewn pillows and dolls like those from Jamaica, Trinidad, Barbados, and the Dominican Republic to sell for ten dollars apiece. She called it extra income, but Thulani knew it was busy-work while she was housebound. Even Truman did not like the idea of her fighting among the crowd, but she seemed determined to be in the midst of the parade.
Thulani would have been quicker about helping her if it weren’t for her attitude. It was the way that she proclaimed herself woman of his mother’s house that made him slow to move. It was her expectation that he should come when she called or answer every question she put to him. She was his brother’s wife, but nothing to him.
“I’ll tell Truman.”
Still no reply. As far as he was concerned, she could stand there all she wanted. Threaten. Whine. Stomp. Go into labor, for all he cared. He wasn’t going.
“Fine,” she yelled up. “Mtakit mdamnself!”
He threw a pebble that hit the TV antenna. That was all he needed—for Shakira to tell Truman how she struggled down flights of stairs with her table, then fought through the crowds.
If Truman had married Shakira to take care of things when Mommy left, it was not necessary. Mommy had taught Thulani everything. He could steam doctorfish, make oxtail stew and dumplings. He could wash clothes to perfection and take needle and thread to any mending job.
Shakira, on the other hand, was hardly a cook, although Truman ate with gusto everything she burned. She was a “neatener,” not a scrubber like Mommy. If Thulani wanted the bathroom and kitchen sparkling clean, he had to do that himself.
In spite of the fact that Shakira seemed good for only reading and crowing, Mommy said she was perfect for Truman. When it was clear that they would marry, Mommy gave Truman her emerald ring from Daddy to offer as an engagement ring. To Shakira she turned over hand-sewn baby clothes, recipes, and stories that she had shared only with Thulani.
After almost three years Thulani had no choice but to accept that Truman loved Shakira. He had long given up complaining that Shakira overstepped her boundaries or that her cooking and housekeeping were so-so. Truman took her side in every matter. It was just easier for Thulani to stay on the roof with his birds.
He found Shakira loading her wagon with dolls when he came inside. She smiled but didn’t bother to look at him. As he folded the legs of the card table, she could not let the opportunity pass and said, “You know what’s good.”
The parade was everything he had seen from the roof, except instead of being above the madness, he was surrounded by it. Sheer madness. He and Shakira were lucky to have a spot along the parkway to pitch the card table. There were twice as many vendors as last year. Stands with codfish cakes, coconut drinks, dolls, flags, and bootleg tapes lined the parade route. The streets were packed with parade-goers—dancing, milling, pushing, and buying.
Though he didn’t want to be with her in all the chaos, he could not help but marvel at his sister-in-law. Determined to sell every doll and pillow, she was hardly meek about flagging down potential buyers. While she sold, Thulani fetched mountain springwater—“not distilled, not mineral”—and plates with samples from every other stand. When Shakira was low on change, Thulani went from table to table to break twenties. When she went to the portable toilets, he watched her table. As long as there was no lull, he didn’t mind being there.
It became unbearable when after three hours only two dolls remained and passersby sped past Shakira’s table. With no buyers to cajole, Shakira turned her talk to Thulani.
“That’s a pretty cloth you have.”
He pretended not to hear.
“On your wall,” she said, begging a reaction, some telltale gesture that she could pounce on.
Heat rose up in him. She had no right to be among his things. To stick and prod him.
“Where did you get it?”
“Nowhere.”
“A cloth like that had to come from somewhere.”
She had no right.
With one sweep he knocked the dolls off the table.
“What! You crazy? Where you going? You have to help me.”
He turned his back to her and was absorbed into the moving crowd. He could hear her calling after him. He wouldn’t leave her there to struggle with the table and cart. He’d be back. He just had to step away from her at that moment. He wasn’t ready to talk about the girl. Or her skirt. Or the alley. He certainly didn’t want to hear Shakira’s spin on it. Not while the girl was in his every thought.
He needed his stride to be wide and free, but no one step was his own. He was pushed into a group of female dancers in mas, their buttocks and breasts jutting out of scanty, sequined costumes. Their flesh surrounded him. One dancer shoved him. Someone kicked him. Another dancer teased him, shimmying her breasts at him and sticking out her tongue. He broke free of them and imagined himself running through the hills of his homeland until exhaustion washed away his rage and suffocation. Then he saw a trace of green cloth. Bright, bold, like the green parrots of the Amazon. He saw it as its wearer dashed across the parade route and was swallowed in the thick of the crowd ahead.
His mind raced. Was that the girl in one of those skirts? This was his chance. He had to find her. He began to push through the crowd.
“Eh! You crazy?”
“Hey, bwai. Watch it.”
He didn’t care. He couldn’t let her get away. He knew what he wanted. Her name. He had to know her name. She took up almost every thought in his head. He needed her name to go with his thoughts. And to talk to her. And maybe smell her. To be close to her for a minute. Everything in him stood up large. His heart, his voice, his longing. He could not let her go.
Although he lost sight of her green skirt up ahead, he had to believe she was there. He would have to swim through the throng, ten-man deep, just to reach her. His heart was beating in his ear. What would he say when he caught her?
He tried to see the back of her head, but it was impossible. The crowd was too dense. The people, all dancing, pushing, milling. He couldn’t get through. He jumped up high, but the Jamaican float was passing through, its carnival priestess imploring the masses to jump up, jump up. He could not find the girl or her green skirt.
In his head he heard his mother say, “Still yourself. Just be still.” He had to trust this voice. Even if he got to the girl, he couldn’t just rush her. He would scare her. He would have to do it right. Approach her carefully. Let her see him coming, if that was possible. Let her decide if she wanted to talk to him. If she ran from him again, then and only then, would he let her go.
He made his way through a cluster of blue and yellow T-shirts. If he could only get around the next group, he would be in front of her. He couldn’t see her too well, but he caught glimpses of the bright green skirt.
He somehow had to get ahead of her.
He saw his chance and ducked under a blue wooden police barricade and ran ahead. A police officer blew his whistle at him, but it was okay. He was now in front of her. He slipped back under the barricade before the police officer came and stood at a stand of figures carved from coconut skins. She would not miss him.
The Jamaican float pushed on, and its priestess took the crowd with it. Steel drums clanged in his heart as he waited.
She was coming, surrounded by friends. They had stopped to get a better glimpse of the oncoming Trinidadian float, and he feared she would cross to the other side of the street. But she didn’t. She was headed for the table.
“Hey,” he’d say, and nod as she passed by. If she didn’t give him a rude look, he would know everything was all right and one day, if not today, he could approach her.
She was coming. He had to be in her direct path, so
he stepped out before her. As the people who surrounded the girl in the bold green skirt unpeeled themselves from her one by one, she caught his eye and smiled at him. But it wasn’t her.
FIVE
The sun peeled open his eyes as he lay in his bed. He had overslept. He had no place to go but up to the roof and free his birds.
An hour earlier he would have slipped downstairs and eaten his cereal unnoticed. As it was, he could hear Shakira telling about the comedies and splendor of carnival to Truman in an excited patois. Thulani himself no longer spoke patois, thanks to a prekindergarten teacher, a strict Jamaican woman, who advised his mother to speak only proper English, if he was to succeed in school. This start-and-stop talking of trying to speak proper English confused him. He would raise his hand in class and speak only to have his tongue cut off each and every time. It was easier to be quiet.
To enter the kitchen, Thulani stepped over Truman’s legs, which were extended outward, a deliberate obstacle. Stepping over Truman was a “little brother” toll he paid, since Truman clearly would not move. Offering them both a morning greeting was yet another toll. They reminded him at every opportunity, We are your elders, not your equals.
He got his cereal and milk and sat at the table. Between Shakira’s expanding belly and Truman’s long legs, the room was too tight. Knowing Truman was watching, he poured his cereal, then scooped a handful into his pants pocket.
“There you go, feeding those birds with my food.”
“Don’t fuss with Thulani,” Shakira defended, in a mock tone for sure. She was still fanning herself with the money she made at carnival. “I couldn’t have sold my dolls without him.”
He wouldn’t give her the benefit of a smile. If he hadn’t returned to help her pack up her table, she would be telling Truman how he had thrown a fit at her and knocked down her dolls.
Every Time a Rainbow Dies Page 3
