Land of Love and Drowning

by Tiphanie Yanique

  “Cat got your tongue?” asked the woman, using an expression Anette had never heard.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said finally. “You’ve made a mistake with me.”

  That night Anette lay on the bed. Her daughters stacked there between her and Eeona. Eeona had a satin mask over her eyes. They were in the same place they had been. Just the same. Only now there was another child. Only now Eeona, protecting her beauty, wore a satin mask as she slept. Anette lay there and she thought, finally, that she had been a fool to love that man. But she knew, and hated the knowing, that she would be a fool for that man again and again.

  Anette tried not to think about the Americans in the big car and their Gull Reef Club on Water Island. Weren’t they the ones who had really tried to make a fool of her? Anette would never have imagined that a year later she would find herself over on Water Island at that very club.

  62.

  In America, Jacob went to his dentist brother and had his red tooth bleached white and his wisdom teeth removed. When he woke up from the gas, he was screaming and screaming. His brother stood by and held Jacob’s head down so he wouldn’t flail and break anything. And what Jacob was screaming was something very strange.

  “I am real! I am real!”

  And he screamed until he grew tired and calmed. His brother told him that such screaming was normal. Really, quite normal. Though it wasn’t at all.

  63.

  As a babysitter, Eeona was strict and full of old-time manners, but the girls enjoyed her enough because she let them play with her hair. Even as Ronalda was braiding neatly and Youme, just a baby, was pulling out the braids, Eeona would sit with her back straight and face set. Eeona did not have smile lines around her mouth—she was never in danger of those. But there was something around her eyes now—they were called crow’s-feet—that revealed she was no longer quite as stunning. She would never marry. That still baby was the only child of her own she’d have.

  She had not been around to watch out for Esau. But now she watched out for Youme. She felt as though it were her fault Eve Youme existed at all. Sometimes Eeona would brush Youme’s hair. Sometimes she would braid it and then she would whisper into the child’s head. A special chant for each strand as they plaited into each other. My own, she thought. My own. She never braided Ronalda’s hair.

  For the months after Jacob left, Anette had waited, though she knew better. She could tell when people were coming and she could tell Jacob was not. Still, she waited for a letter on a ship from America or a long-distance phone call from America. Any sign from America. She waited for a surprise visit or a package at her door. But since he had left, she had not heard cat nor dog of Jacob McKenzie.

  She cornered Saul in the street one morning. “He’s alive,” Saul said stupidly, “Mama’s always sending him stewed cherries.” And so Anette stopped waiting—at least outwardly. She started going out to dances. She thought, in a backward, magical way, that if she went to a dance the band would play “They Say It’s Wonderful” and then Jacob would appear. Anette left her girls braiding and unbraiding Eeona’s hair.

  On this particular night Anette did not go to a church dance; for by now, even a short time later, St. Thomas had changed. There had been a war and then rumors of another. All the men smoked cigarettes. Everyone drank rum and Coca-Cola. Every family had a relative in America. There were Virgin Islanders and Americans on island, but imagine, there were also many, many people from other Caribbean islands! The down islanders were making beds in the hotels. In the market they were selling coconut water straight out of the nut. They even owned things: businesses, houses, cars. Everything was different. The Catholic dances had always had competition with the Seventh-day Adventist game nights, the Lutheran skit series, and the Anglican bowling alley. But the fête Anette went to with hope of summoning Jacob was one of the newest types—this was something secular. She went alone.

  The dance was held in a restaurant after serving hours. The tables pushed to one side, the chairs lined up all around the walls. There were too many chairs, really. Too many excuses to sit and be shy. Anette was sitting now. Not because she was shy, but because she was tired out from dancing all night with various men who were new to the island from other islands and surely didn’t know that she was a divorcée with two daughters from two different men. Gertie was on a dinner date with Ham, her American fellow, and so there was no one to help Anette mind her manners. Anette was sitting, cooling out, and trying to feel for Jacob when a dark-skinned man came up to her. “Good evening, Anette.”

  She didn’t recognize him, but she had the grace, the Eeona brought-upsy, to be cordial. “Good evening.”

  “May I have this dance, Anette?”

  The fact that he knew her name and she didn’t know his was a problem. If she said yes, then she would be dancing with someone who knew her and whom she was supposed to know, which was something all together different from dancing with perfect strangers. And this man was quite dark-skinned, something Eeona would give her grief over if it was ever found out Anette had even danced with him. Besides, she was tired and her feet hurt. “No, thank you,” she said with a high-class smile, and turned her head so he might know he could take his leave. She was not anybody’s chambermaid. Her sister had raised her to hold a teacup as a lady should. Besides, she had a fiancé, didn’t she? He was in the States. He hadn’t even written her all these months, but still . . .

  This man leaned in closer to her, speaking to the side of her face. “Anette, you should dance with me, yes.” And there was something like a premonition in his voice. As if he were a ghost and not a man, which is, in a way, what he turned out to be. She was taken aback by his forwardness. Offended even, though his forceful voice intrigued her. I should dance with him or else what? She thought this to herself but said to him, “I believe you are being rude, sir. I do not know you.” She gave him her Eeona English for spite.

  The man didn’t draw back as he should have. He leaned forward into her face. “Anette. You remember a boy who made you a tin house once in grade school? Your sister wouldn’t let you keep it because she thought I wasn’t your kind.”

  Well, hot diggity damn. Franky. Franky Joseph, who’d made her that doll-size living room set. He’d made her a home. Of course she remembered. She pictured that silvery aluminum dining set. Resting on the very same old table that she and Eeona still ate their meals on. In the very same rented apartment that had been nice twenty years ago but was now, well, twenty years older. Of course she remembered. Hadn’t he left school early? Hadn’t he disappeared during the war? She put her hand out and he took her to the dance floor. She had not remembered him having green eyes, but there they were. Bursting out of his dark face like a promise.

  The next day, the blue-collar man with the green eyes and green Cadillac leaned over the counter at the apothecary after accepting his change and asked Anette to the movies.

  “Yes,” she said. “But my children will have to come along.”

  But what did that matter? Franky had been in love with Anette since he was a child. He knew this was his time and his chance.

  64.

  Franky Joseph was no obeah man or magician. He was simply a disciple to his love of Anette. Had been for years and years. He had been learning this love and studying this love like history. During the war, he had worked for the Coast Guard. That history made all the difference. His war had been spent in mess duty on a cutter. He hadn’t gone to Germany and he hadn’t been on the mainland. He’d been on the ocean. Now that they took colored boys for more than just cleaning and cooking, Franky was in the Coast Guard proper. Hailing foreign ships, mostly from other islands, checking their papers. He also served as the assistant to the keeper of the lighthouse up on Muhlenfeldt Point. Not many of us even had the opportunity to see that lighthouse up close. But Franky knew all the Virgin Islands, the lands and the seas in between.

  Franky had heard about the movie dan
ce over on Water Island before anyone. But he waited until the buzz. Yes, the Americans were making a movie. The Virgin Islands itself was going to be a star. Franky had only been going around with Anette for a few weeks. Their outings were chaste and nostalgic.

  He took her on a picnic with the children up at the lighthouse. A place she and Jacob had tried to visit but had nearly been killed when Gertie’s Hamilton crashed the car. Now up at the lighthouse, the wind didn’t whisper; it shrieked. The view was wide, as if they were in the center of it on a ship, except Anette felt safe. But Franky cooked all the food himself, which reminded her too much of Ronnie. Next they’d had a predawn breakfast on the beach with the children, and when the sun rose, that had reminded her too much of Jacob. This movie filming over on Water Island would be their first going without the children and without him doing the cooking. Franky needed something to make himself original for Anette. She’d never even been to Water Island; this time wouldn’t conjure images of anyone else at all.

  On the radio it said to wear bright colors. Dresses that fly when you spin. Most of the men wore their finest white linen. A few came in American-style shirts and suits. These men had lived on the mainland and knew that Continentals didn’t really understand the formality of the guayabera, so they didn’t trust the request for “island formal.” Everyone wore their best shoes—the worst kind for dancing.

  Anette, who was still working at the pharmacy but had recently begun working as a teacher’s aide in the Anglican school, was going to the dance despite her fear of boats and despite her waiting for Jacob. She was working hard at being respectable. What else could she do? Unwed and a single mother—she couldn’t be hired as a full-time teacher. She needed to keep up appearances. All over town, there was the meté of how a McKenzie man had served her up a girl child and then left her. No one could believe it—McKenzie men only had boys. Anette was likely a liar. Who would want her now?

  So Anette went to the movie filming over on Water Island at the Gull Reef Club because everyone was going and she wanted everyone to see that she was fine, just fine; and look, green-eyed Coast Guardsman Franky had offered to escort her in his dress blues uniform. And Anette, like the island, used revelry the way other people and other lands use cough syrup or the confessional. Bacchanal was the cure for all personal and social ills.

  Besides the fact that Franky was still not entirely acceptable, what with his dark skin and unlanded name, Anette was generally doing what Eeona wanted for her. She wasn’t making love to Franky. She hadn’t even let Franky kiss her.

  But it must be said that Anette was also going to the dance because she’d met Jacob at a dance and who could deny that it would be just like the sandman to row a boat across the channel to the Gull Reef Club, appearing out of the fog to reclaim Anette hard?

  But Franky Joseph had other ideas. He was wearing his dress uniform, seaman’s hat and all. Franky knew that Jacob had wooed Anette at a dance. After all, Franky had attempted the same. Their little relationship, Franky knew, was as fragile as a baby. What he wanted was to give Anette a memory that would wash out any others.

  65.

  JACOB

  May I interject here? I am a doctor . . . I have saved many women’s lives. Perhaps when I die they will name the St. Thomas hospital after me . . . I just want to give a word here. May I have a word? My mother . . . she had powers to stop and start so many things. Love, however, was not in her jurisdiction. All about the island it has been said that my mother, too, fell in love with a man she should not have. Perhaps that is the story to tell . . . my mother gave in to her love and she was never able to move anyone else’s. I tell you, she didn’t move my heart . . . which is to say . . . I loved Anette immediately and always . . . like my own flesh. Is only that . . . it is only that I needed to obey my mother . . . until I became a doctor . . . then I could be my own man. But Anette . . . she went first. Not me. I was waiting for her.

  That’s all I have to say.

  66.

  The crowd met at the waterfront. Boats had been hired to row them over to Water Island. Anette held on to Franky as the little fishing boat docked up. It was only a short ride, ten minutes, five minutes, maybe. Anette could swim, but it was the boat she didn’t like. Franky, who was a Coast Guardsman and so trained to deal with both boats and frightened people, held Anette around the waist even as the boatman took her hand. Franky could feel Anette’s quick breathing.

  The Americans had built their movie set on the island in the harbor. Everyone who lived downtown, which was almost everyone on the main island, saw the movie equipment being rowed over to the little island. It had taken two whole days. Water Island rose out of the harbor like the back of a large underwater creature. The Gull Reef Club was on the shoulder of that rock.

  There were hotels on the main island, which would have been more appropriate. There was the Grand Hotel with the austere Danish architecture. There was the Hilton, which boasted a waterfall filled with the fattest shrimp in the world. But the movie people wanted solitude along with a beach and a hotel owner who would let them have their way. The Grand Hotel was owned by locals, who the film people felt might ask too many questions. The Hilton was owned by the Hiltons and those sorts knew too much already and didn’t need to ask questions at all.

  Anette Bradshaw, who would always be a Bradshaw no matter what other name followed, wore a dress of red dupioni with a pattern of yellow flowers. It was the fabric that Jacob McKenzie had bought her. It was cloth that was supposed to take the place of an engagement ring. She hadn’t touched the fabric for the months and months Jacob had disappeared.

  But Anette didn’t want the red fabric to hang in the closet and haunt her, so she’d decided she would wear it to the filming. Or perhaps Anette knew the fabric would always be about that Jacob McKenzie, who would always be a McKenzie because his mother had made it so. And so she wore the dress, like a siren, to call out to him. She wore it like any magic.

  Eeona, with her still-fabulous hair bursting out, had declared to her younger sister that the dress of red dupioni was too risqué for the filming.

  “Stop harassing me,” said Anette. “I look like a star.” She ran her palms down the bright red fabric.

  “You look like a tart. You are the mother of two daughters.” The older sister leaned forward and hissed, “What are you signaling to society?” Eeona knew about Franky, but on that she made no comment at all.

  But it was a dress for American movies. Anette had also planned to wear her nice black heels, but Franky thought they didn’t go with the dress. With his green eyes and green Cadillac, he knew about matching. He took her to La Zapatería, the Puerto Rican store with the latest fashions, and bought her a pair of white patent-leather shoes with a thin silver strap and a tiny silver buckle. On her feet they shimmered like fish scales. Franky knew what he, in his dress blues, and Anette, in her bright red and white, would look like. They would look like a real American couple.

  Their old boatman introduced himself as Mr. Hippolyte Lammartine, or Mr. Lyte, if you like. He offered Anette a taste from his rum bottle to calm her. “Miss Bradshaw,” he called her. Anette smiled through her unease, though she didn’t remember him. She took a little sip and felt the sweet heat. “I knew your father,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Anette said, because she hadn’t known Owen Arthur Bradshaw at all. She looked down at the water and then forward at Water Island. She could swim to land if the stupid pirogue sank. Franky’s arm was around her like a lifesaving tube. Hippolyte Lammartine let the bottle be passed around to everyone as he began to row.

  The Frenchy men, who would be classified racially as white but identified themselves ethnically as Caribbean, were the most suspicious of the white movie people from America. As he rowed, Hippolyte asked the question he had been soaking to ask since he’d been offered this boat job for the night. “Why all you think they ain want to make the movie at the Grand Hotel?” Passing
the bottle from mouth to mouth, everyone nodded that it was a good question. Hippolyte, receiving the bottle and holding it tight between his knees, kept prodding. “Is a secret they have to hide, you don’t think?”

  Franky, who was a natural leader and wearing his uniform besides, was the first to offer. “Is because they want a hotel what have a beach. And this the only one have a beach, yes. Name of the beach is Honeymoon.”

  And since none of the others had ever even been to Water Island, much less the Gull Reef Club, they all nodded at this answer. Yes, a hotel on a sweetly named beach. That was a nice idea. Though it was also a strange idea. Didn’t them Continentals consider the biting of the sandflies? Or didn’t they consider how the hotel would manage its plumbing so close to sea level? Or didn’t they consider that a hotel would block other people from getting to the beach? But Franky had only considered the name of the beach, Honeymoon. And now that he had said the name out loud, he also allowed himself to think the thought: Might this evening not be the real beginning of him and Anette? Like a honeymoon?

  Hippolyte spoke up now with what he’d figured. That the movie people wanted sticks of fire as decoration. The Hilton wouldn’t allow this and it would be too dangerous downtown where the Grand Hotel presided. Franky didn’t think the fire on the beach was a good idea at all. There would be trees around for the flames to catch. Everyone else in the boat was thinking that maybe the flames would keep the sandflies from biting everything with blood. Otherwise they would have to really dance up to keep the bugs from leaving itchy welts that wouldn’t look good on camera.

  “That ain no worry,” said Mr. Lyte. “Only them Americans going get bite. Sandflies like fresh blood.”