Land of Love and Drowning

by Tiphanie Yanique

  And then there was Anette. Standing just beyond the doorway like a spy. Listening to her sister’s hushed fables. Villa by the Sea had always been forbidden to her, even in talk. And now Eeona was just spilling it. Anette was thinking she should stop her sister. Thinking maybe that her sister was a kind of danger to her family, there whispering stories about their kingly history. Anette and Franky were trying to instill a sense of equality, especially given the seeming lack of it in America. But Anette just stood trying to hear because she wanted to know. She stood there until Eeona’s story voice was replaced by the steady breath of sleep.

  Anette approved when Eeona told the children more fantastical stories out in the open. Anette had begun to keep the TV off more often, because now she didn’t want any of the children watching the glass-and-flimsy wood box without her supervision.

  Eve Youme had just become a teenager when Eeona told the story, out in the open, of the Duene. The children were all in their regular orbits: Eve Youme at Eeona’s feet, Frank just beyond, and Ronalda running errands for her mother. Auntie Eeona had arrived, like she always did, without announcement. She would call at the door, “Inside,” and then she’d be in. Sometimes she would bring a nice thing to eat. Sometimes she just brought the stories. Eeona sometimes told of the Cowfoot Woman and of Anancy, but not today.

  “The Duene are the ones of us who protect the wild places. The women live in the ocean and the men on the land. Their feet are turned backward, so you cannot tell if they are coming or going. They are capable of slicing you to pieces with their thoughts alone.”

  Eve Youme concentrated hard on her breathing. She wanted it to match the rhythm of her aunt’s words. Ronalda came in the door and stood by, listening. Now Auntie Eeona was speaking of a male Duene who had a smooth bald body. He’d fallen in love with a female Duene with winglike hair. “The Duene were allowed to mate, you understand,” said Eeona, though the children didn’t really understand, “but love had been forbidden to them. The secret Duene lovers loved with abandon. However, this love tethered them to the bay, for their worlds met there on the beach. They made children who could swim and walk and love, but had to keep their love a secret.”

  Anette, listening above her onion chopping, sat up straighter and arched her head. Eeona sounded winded, which was not like her. “Your grandmother,” Eeona said to the children, “told me this story when I was a child.”

  But as Eeona said that, she felt and then she knew it was not true. She’d never heard that part of the story before. A bald boy Duene and a wing-haired girl Duene falling in love? It seemed Eeona had just made up the story. Just right there. Just like that. Now Eeona couldn’t remember what her mother had actually told her. Instead, something was happening to her, something like a little storm brewing in her brain. She thought she’d escaped her episodes since claiming her land and building her villa-inn. But now Eeona reached behind her own neck and released her hair of its pins. She did not do this for the children. She did it to regain her strength, for something was not right with her. Not exactly right.

  “Now,” Auntie Eeona began again, “who protects the wild things?” She asked the room, even as she moved her head in such a way to feel her own hair waving along her back.

  But the children did not answer, for a kind of spell of thinking had been cast over them, which is another thing stories can do. Youme leaned back onto her elbows, her face disappearing into a shadow. A rooster crowed at the moon from a neighboring yard. Out in the street a man called to a friend in greeting. Franky came in from keeping the lighthouse and greeted everyone, stopping to blink at his sister-in-law with her hair down like a deep well a man could jump into.

  Anette came out into the parlor to greet her husband, but then went to her sister instead and gathered the elder woman’s hair back into a bun. Eeona allowed this then looked at her sister without meeting eyes. “I shall go lie down,” Eeona announced.

  The three children had heard the story of the Duene lovers, but they interpreted it differently. And it does not matter, ultimately, what they heard or even what they knew. It is how they interpret the story that will make all the difference.

  Ronalda didn’t think protection of the wild things was needed. People needed protection. Just look at what was happening in the States. Ronalda, who was heading to college in just a few months, made up her mind to leave all this island foolishness behind.

  To Frank, the Duene were martyrs to their love and to the wilderness. They were heroes. They were like Superman, like on TV.

  To Eve Youme, the Duene were in conflict with what they were. But perhaps it was an honorable conflict. One that allowed for abandon. If so, then they were something like herself.

  And this is all that is needed for each child to become what he or she will become. But first Ronalda left. Then Mary came. Then Eeona disappeared. Finally, the Joseph family would gather on a beach, as lovers do.

  DROWN

  It may seem so simple to say that it is sea. But it is the sea.

  —DEREK WALCOTT

  82.

  Ronalda left for college in the States. There she found things to be much worse than she’d expected. When Ronalda arrived, the States was outright racist and outright sexist and outright everything that it could be, and Ronalda was an outsider. True, she’d always felt that way. But in the States feeling that way was righteous—not belonging was a way to belong. And American blacks seemed real to Ronalda. They were on TV. They were in the newspapers. They were in magazines and books and movies. And there they were. Real for all to see. The Virgin Islands barely existed at all.

  83.

  Then Mary came. Some hurricanes were numbered. Others were named. The latter had an identity, a persona. For years, the named storms were only women, which seemed fitting. They could be in love, they could be envious. Whether this hurricane was the Virgin or the Magdalene, no one knew until it was too late.

  The islands had seen storms. The houses were built for them. But the radio made it sound very serious. Why was this happening? What had we done? The cousins over in Tortola, which the storm was set to ignore, snickered: Those American Virgin Islanders were getting their due punishment for their relentless excess. After all, the dubious spoils of tourism had been flooding the USVI for years.

  Hurricanes, like all important things, happen by the generation. Youme and Frank thought they were a thing of Caribbean folklore, like pirates and mermaids, or of Caribbean myth, like Eeona’s Duene and Anancy. But because they were mythic, Eve Youme had also known that they would return. She believed in all the stories.

  As the radio directed, the family put up a map distributed by the government and drew a line from where the hurricane had started off the coast of Africa. They gridded in the latitude and longitude. This was a game that the community played collectively. We watched Mary grow, a mutant baby, as she traveled across the Atlantic. Then Mary was there, knocking on the door. Everyone was nervous and a little excited. No school! Early off from work! All the bustling about. Mervyn Manatee announcing on the radio, “Get Ready! Get Ready! Hurricane Mary coming!”

  Franky was a Coast Guardsman and so he was the type to prepare. He sent Anette out with Youme to buy batteries to keep things working, and nice things to eat in case the storm made anyone morose. Franky and his son heaved a thick sheet of wood and nailed it over the windows at the front of the house. He called over to St. John and made sure that someone would pass and check on Eeona’s inn. After he’d secured their home, he went to check on the lighthouse. The Coast Guard had relieved him of lighthouse duty until after the storm, for it would be too dangerous. All the ships in the area had been alerted. When he returned, he ordered everyone to move all the valuables up onto the highest shelves.

  But then what a sham it all seemed at the start. Mary arrived and she was just measly rain and a little blow.

  Dr. Jacob McKenzie and his wife were friendly with some Continentals and had
been invited to a hurricane party. He took his pretty wife to the party in the hills that were now called Peterborg. Once upon a time he’d ran up into these hills and plucked a fistful of flowers to rain over Anette’s hair.

  Now with his desirable wife and American friends, he looked over Magens Bay and saw the Atlantic Ocean grow very rough and then settle down a little. The Americans had been right about the storm. It was best to throw a bash and enjoy the time off from work. Jacob’s wife clinked flutes of champagne with a homemaker whose husband was in development. In Jacob’s mind the only disaster was that their Santo Domingan gardener might have to replant the roses.

  —

  Anette was a historian after all, and though she didn’t really teach Virgin Islands history—because none of the schools thought it necessary—she still listened for the local stories. Anette had heard about the long-ago tidal wave that swam the waterfront and washed up at the Anglican church. She’d been told about the ancient earthquake that had knocked down the Peterson Building. She knew about the old cholera that had taken a son from every family, like a proper plague. She even knew about the sinking of The Homecoming. That was all history. Now at their house Franky was telling a story about the one time he saved someone from drowning. In all his honorable years with the Coast Guard, this was the only time he’d saved anyone.

  Everyone said that Mary was an angry woman storm—either a jilted lover or a desperate mother. With a name like Mary, we should have known that she would be the worst ever. No one was prepared. How could we be? The hurricane had seemed a storm and then it had not. And then it was, this time for real. We’d underestimated her.

  The sepia portrait of Owen Arthur and Antoinette was off the wall and packed up. The cruise ships had just turned away and headed for Jamaica. Ronalda’s dorm was called and called but she was at a Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee meeting and didn’t get home until curfew, which was seven p.m. Phone curfew was nine. At eight forty-five she finally returned the calls and said, “But there’s nothing on the news here about the V.I. at all. It’s going to be okay.”

  Then Eeona called from St. John and said, “Listen clearly, Anette. It is not going to be okay.”

  “Then get over here, Eeona.”

  “There is no time. Anette, the entirety of Anegada is being evacuated. The atoll may go under.”

  “What does Anegada matter?”

  “It matters.”

  Perhaps we have forgotten Anegada, but Eeona had not. What she knew to be true was indeed true. What would Anegada be like without its walk-through-mountains people? What would happen to the few trees? Eeona, strangely, found herself more concerned about that land than about her own inn.

  “Eeona, just make sure you take care. Is anyone with you?”

  “Our grandparents’ graves are in Anegada. That is our history there.”

  “Oh, Eeona. A whole island can’t be taken by the sea.” As if no one had heard of Atlantis.

  Youme and Frank were sleeping with the depth of teenagers. They didn’t even notice when the electricity went out.

  84.

  The rain was fighting to come into the house. Then pieces of galvanized tin were knocking on the door. Then the wind sounded like a woman howling out her broken heart. The radio station stopped its mix of American soul and island quelbe. Frantic men and women and children started calling in and screaming that their roofs were tearing off their houses. That their children had gone out into the rain that we’d thought before was just a little drizzle. Help! We live in Tutu. We live in the new housing development. We live still! Save us!

  The call came over the radio that all emergency personnel were needed. All. Police and doctors and firemen and, of course, the Coast Guard. Report now. Immediately.

  Jacob was still in the hills of Peterborg and the folks at the hurricane party were beginning to get the hint that this wasn’t a lark after all. The host burst into the dining room and hollered, “They need the doctors!” Jacob rested his wineglass and took his wife by the elbow to their car. They lived in Wintberg, so though the drive home was treacherous, it was short. As soon as he arrived at their house, he began to pack his medical bag. Seeing his hands trembling, his wife turned to him and said that he mustn’t go. He might die. She didn’t say what her real fear was: that he might find himself dying in Anette Bradshaw’s arms.

  Besides, Jacob was afraid of the storm. Hadn’t he done enough? Fought for his country? Withstood racism? Lost his soul and lost the love of his life?

  He resisted his little wife for a little while but was grateful for her big fears. When the radio called again for doctors, he turned it off. Then Jacob and his wife lay in their bed and listened to Mary screeching. And then, so he could feel like a man, he rolled onto his wife, hoping they would make a boy child.

  —

  When the call for emergency personnel came over the radio in the Joseph house, Franky looked over at Anette. “I have to go,” he said. Franky was in the Coast Guard, but he’d never dealt with a major emergency. When he’d joined the Guard, there hadn’t even been formal training for that sort of thing. Most of his work was keeping the lighthouse, for goodness’ sake. And despite that, he’d never even seen a ship wrecked. He wasn’t a surfman or even a coxswain. He’d once saved a drowning person on Coki beach when he was off duty. That was it.

  But he was going anyway.

  Anette watched him dress. Her husband was a seaman, in a way, but the sea seemed as though it had swiveled upside down. Was coming down on top of them. They would soon drown. Anette watched how Franky put on the heavy boots and jacket that he wore when they’d all gone to the States just a month ago to see Ronalda settled. They hadn’t thought much of America then, it had rained in the morning and the afternoon and into the night without even one break for sun. Who had ever heard of such a thing, raining all day? But now it was indeed raining all day. And Anette was glad that at least one of her children was away from here. But Papa Franky wished that Ronalda was here. She was the child he most trusted to be in charge.

  “I’m going to be fine, Annie. Is a man I is, yes. You be safe. You don’t give me cause to worry.”

  Anette nodded and felt the tears behind her cheekbones. Her husband had never called her by a nickname before. It seemed too intimate for the time, as though there were something grave between them that must be given a sweetness.

  The rain was knocking hard against the back windows. In the living room Youme and Frank had gathered, unable to sleep anymore. It was one in the morning. Franky didn’t like the idea of everyone there saying good-bye to him. He wasn’t going to his death. He was going to save lives. He would be heroic. He would return.

  Anette didn’t like it either. Her firstborn child was safe but so far away. Her sister safe and closer, but not close enough. Anette wanted most to be with the ones she loved and who loved her.

  Frank hugged his father. Then Franky went to Youme and tapped her head gently as though she were a small child. Finally, he kissed Anette on the mouth, which was not something the children had ever seen them do before. Franky opened the heavy front door with a fierce push. The rain came sleeting into the living room. They all gasped and stepped back. Franky stepped forward. He slammed the door behind him. Anette looked at the closed door, still seeing her husband’s back and the storm before him.

  Then Anette wished Franky would die.

  Just a simple shocking wish. Just a desire that Franky never return. Wouldn’t everything be fine if Franky would drown? A hero’s death wouldn’t be so bad. Then wouldn’t Anette have done her duty? Stayed by him these years because he’d stayed by her? And then she would be free. And then Jacob McKenzie would arrive instead. Well. How strange to discover that Jacob was still among her best beloveds—and not even among, but above. Anette hadn’t wished anyone dead in so many years and here she was wishing it on her husband.

  Youme looked at her
mother standing at the door and knew exactly what Anette was thinking. She found her mother’s thoughts peculiar, for hadn’t she and Papa Franky just kissed? Why would Mommy think such an awful thing? That she could read her mother’s mind did not strike Youme as peculiar at all. It seemed to her something that anyone could do. Something family should do for each other.

  It struck Anette differently. She felt the intrusion in her thoughts as though someone had broken a window in the house. There was a crack and then a moment of fear. Then she turned slowly to look at Youme watching her. They stared at each other until Youme’s eyes watered and she felt she was doing something wrong. Me? Anette said in her head, and Eve Youme heard her pet name echo in her own ears. Then the child did what she would only do for her mother. She turned away.

  Besides, Anette didn’t really want Franky gone. He was a good father to all the children. A good husband to her. She would be devastated. She wouldn’t know how to be a sensible woman. How would she cook saltfish without his pepper sauce? She barely knew how to cook at all. No, no, she didn’t want Franky dead. It was just that she wanted Jacob. That was all. She just wanted Jacob to come. To take her and hold her and be her husband like he had promised. She hadn’t felt such foolishness in years. And it was foolishness. She was just scared. She was just feeling abandoned because of the storm.

  Anette focused on the door again. She stood staring at the door for a long time. Conjuring the image of Franky’s back at the threshold. Keeping him alive. Overriding her earlier heedless thoughts. Jacob is married, she now reminded herself. Not free to claim her even if she were free to be claimed. Who says he would be a good husband to her anyway? Who says they would still be in love now if she’d been his attainable wife? Leave that alone, she told herself. Franky is your man. Franky is who you need.