In the kitchen, they roasted these fat tomatoes over an open fire until the skin turned black and crackled. Seams broke; the hissing and spitting over the open flame revealed red insides. They pulled the charcoal skins off using two forks; the older woman demonstrated. Rebecca chopped onions, garlic, and scotch bonnet peppers; she tossed them together and chunkayed the mixture with hot oil. She squashed the tomatoes with vigor, sweat dripping from her face in the sweltering kitchen.
In the flurry of making the tomato choka—a meal she’d never before prepared—his mother scooped flour from a sack and into a basin, assuming Rebecca was paying attention. Next she added a pinch of baking soda and salt, sprinkling, considering, sprinkling again. She added water to a well in the middle and skillfully rolled the mixture together with her fingertips until it was a full mound in the center of the silver bowl. Draping a damp cloth over it, the old woman made the hand motions to signal it had to sit before further action was required.
Rebecca tried desperately to remember these things. She started lists in her head, but her attention was divided, and she lost track of necessary steps and ingredients. With a mortar and pestle, she ground seasoning to add to the food.
One of the workers on the farm rapped on the wooden kitchen door. He stepped inside and tipped his head to Shiva’s mother; they smiled at one another, a familiar routine. He looked inquisitively at Rebecca but didn’t ask questions. He hoisted a bag onto the table, and with a thump oranges spilled out. The man bowed before backing out through the door. Shiva’s smiling mother turned upon Rebecca once again with a scowl that made her jowls quiver. She chopped an orange in half and squeezed the juice from it, preventing the seeds from entering the jug with a closed palm. Rebecca was to finish juicing the entire bag before Shiva got home.
After a couple of hours, Rebecca watched as his mother uncovered the loya for roti. It had swelled to more than twice its size, pushing at the edges of the basin. She was pleased to see it had done what she wanted it to do. The woman separated one after another, tucking the excess pieces into balls with her fingers. She made seven smaller mounds and sprinkled flour over them before covering them to sit for a while longer. When they were ready, she pressed them flat and rolled them out with a rolling pin, spinning them one at a time over the fire. They swelled and burst, emitting steam in a puff of white cloud and a shrill whistle. His mother, Rebecca had to admit, was a master at making Indian food.
They owned enamel plates and cups—dishes that did not break, and though this was something Rebecca didn’t ponder right away, she would soon know why. Shiva had his favorites, and his mother showed her which ones to serve his meal in. The cups and plates were dented, flaked off in places to reveal a blackened skin beneath. Rebecca spooned tomato choka into one and heaped roti cut into triangles into another. She filled one cup with orange juice and another with water. His mother, done with her tutelage for the day, retired upstairs for some rest.
The eldest sister called to Rebecca from the front of the house. Rebecca covered the food to keep it hot and went to see what she wanted. But she pretended she hadn’t summoned her. Frustrated, Rebecca took the food up on a tray to Shiva. The dishes rattled on the tray. He was sitting on the long couch in the living room waiting for her. She was so focused on memorizing what her mother-in-law was doing she hadn’t realized how much time had passed and was surprised to find him bathed and dressed with his legs crossed on the sofa. She set the food on his lap and backed away.
He uncovered each plate and smiled at her. Not sure how to react or where to go, she stood off to the side, fidgeting with her clothes. He tore off a piece of roti and scooped up the tomato choka with it. After he plunged it into his mouth, the pleasure on his face faltered and his mouth puckered. He dipped his index finger into the red mush and sucked on it. His mouth puckered again. Without a word, he upended the tray from his lap, flinging everything in a fit of anger.
Wah de ass wrong wid yuh? Dis ting poison wid salt! Whey yuh lun toh cook?
Rebecca backed away from him, stammering, Meh-meh-meh geh help from yuh muddah. Meh din evan puh de salt een in de food.
He glowered at her with eyes as black as a pit of fathomless depths. You goan blame meh muddah? My muddah yuh goan blame? Eh?
The blows began. The women of the house congregated to watch. Nollie was the only one to try to stop him; she was beaten too.
—Nollie was like dat, Krys, my grandmother says. She always tryin toh take lix foh uddah people. She use toh do it foh yuh muddah and all ah dem too boh e di juss beat she and den move on toh dem when e done.
It took a few more beatings, careless mistakes, trust placed in the wrong hands, but Rebecca realized the sisters were the ones to salt his food on purpose before she took it up to him.
—Dem was wicked and wutless, my grandmother tells me, lettin im beat meh foh nutten so. Dey use toh do it even aftah we hah chilren. Meh know is cause dey tawt ah was black eh, dey tink meh mix wid African. Boh it doh mattah wah, meh nevah do dat toh meh wuss enemy.
WITH EACH PASSING YEAR, Rebecca was pregnant again.
—When ah give birt toh one, says my grandmother, meh pregnant again wid ah nex one. One on one bress and de nex one on de uddah. When me eh hah milk ah gih dem flour pap.
Pregnant or not, she toiled on the farm with cutlass and sickle, bags draped over her back. His blows were no less brutal when she was with child, perhaps worse, as though rage could drive him to rip the baby bloody from her insides. He left her after he beat her. Blood spilled from every orifice, and as he walked to his car, she prayed he wouldn’t turn back. She knew when he left it was to sink into the flesh of another woman.
Rebecca had long stopped wondering if his caresses could resume the tenderness they once had in the car that night. Or when he took her virginity on the floor of Lacey and Jamal’s years ago. She often wondered about Lacey, but since saying goodbye to them, she almost never left the house and farm lands. Was her common-law husband delicate with other women? Was he affectionate with them after he’d almost beaten her to death? She imagined his hands slipping through the silken strands of an Indian woman’s hair. He beat her because she wasn’t pure, she was sure of this. Because she couldn’t speak Hindi, because she couldn’t cook Indian food. But he didn’t beat her for working, because in the end they both knew it was the reason he didn’t kill her.
They had five children together when Rebecca found out about Avinash. His bastard son was almost a year old.
Arya, the fourth child, was only three months old when Shiva’s mother passed, never learning of her son’s lewdness. She was bedridden for a long time before that, and Rebecca was her sole caregiver even throughout her pregnancies, changing, feeding, and bathing her, sometimes only hours after giving birth. Before she died, Shiva’s mother bought a piece of land for Rebecca, ensuring her daughter-in-law’s name was the only one on the deed.
Rebecca and Shiva themselves never had a ceremony, and there was no paperwork to show they were legally married, yet she was his, living in his house, cleaning up after him, cooking his meals. Rebecca told herself that one son birthed from passion couldn’t threaten the life she’d pieced together with blood, sweat, and tears. But, and this was a thought that slithered in as quietly as a snake, what if this was a son born out of love? Men had been known to leave their wives for far less.
—We nevah geh mar-red oh anyting, Krys, my grandmother tells me, no ceremony, no nutten. Meh juss move een and dat was dat. Common-law husband and wife. E could kick meh out oh pick up and leave anytime e wahn. When ah hear bout dis uddah chile meh di fraid.
Rebecca couldn’t say anything, and so she pretended Avinash didn’t exist, even though she feared he was the one thing that could rip everything from her.
REBECCA OPENED HER EYES. Her belly churned from punches, kicks, and flips. The time for this one was coming close, and the midwife should be called soon.
—Dere was nutten like goin toh ospital een dem days, Krys, my grandmother
says. Ah mean people use toh goh, and it wasn’t like we was poh, but is bawl ah bawlin like a cow when ah hah toh push dem chilren out een de house.
Shiva was wealthy, and while many things were kept from his children and wife, some things were also given. Families with money paid poor women to wash their clothes, and Rebecca now had her own washerwoman.
—Dese oman and dem use toh come by de house beggin foh wok. Dey husband gone and leff dem wid chilren hungry. Dey gone een every rum shop toh spend dey paycheck. Fi cent toh wash up de clothes an ting an Mistah Shiva di pay foh it widout ah fuss.
Priya, the washerwoman who’d been coming to them for weeks now, whistled as she unlatched the front gate and walked into the open space on the ground floor.
Becca? Oye Misrez Rebecca, whey yuh dey? Meh come foh meh day wok.
Rebecca was still on the ground where her husband had left her. She rolled to her side and tried to get up. The pain was excruciating. Shiva must’ve broken a few bones this time. Rebecca wheezed.
Priya gyul, juss siddung dey een de front.
She tried to hold her body together, but it felt flayed, as though she was falling apart. Rebecca held the wooden railing with one hand. One step took her minutes to accomplish.
Misrez Rebecca? Everyting ahright? Yuh wahn help wid someting? Yuh eh sound so good.
Rebecca left a trail of bloody handprints along the railing as she struggled to get to the bathroom.
Misrez Becca? Priya called out again, and this time it was accompanied by tentative footsteps as she approached the staircase.
Rebecca was almost to the bathroom, but to speak she had to stop and fuel her voice with all the energy she possessed.
Priya! she hissed low and slow between teeth clenched, stop! Goan and siddung oh meh eh goh need yuh suhvices today.
Priya, a young single mother living in a hut smaller than the one Rebecca had left behind, obeyed. She sat on a bench and waited.
Rebecca pulled her body through the doorway of the bathroom. A new addition to their house, it was an enclosed room made of concrete with a drain in the middle. In a corner lay an overturned bucket. Next to it was a bar of soap on a piece of stone. She grimaced as she turned on the water, the smallest movement inciting pain. Water shot out of the tap hard, fast, and cold. The stream numbed her skin. Blood swirled in marbled patterns until the water ran clear over the rough concrete.
In their bedroom, she didn’t glance in the mirror. Steeling herself this way had always worked for her in the past. Downstairs Priya looked at her aghast. At the sharp intake of Priya’s breath and the widening of her eyes, Rebecca looked away, not wanting to see anymore of her reaction.
Upstairs hah de hampah yuh coul find all de clodes whey it normahly is. Dungstairs—
Misrez Becca, wah happen? Oh Gawd— Priya cut in.
By her reaction alone Rebecca knew she could never understand. All Rebecca needed was for Priya to ignore what she’d seen and continue with her work. Any other woman or man in the marketplace or nearby villages would know better than to draw attention to what were considered private matters between husband and wife. Domestic abuse was not something that existed in Trinidad during this time, and even later, when it was given a name so it could be reported, it took decades before it was taken seriously.
Priya put her hand on Rebecca’s shoulder. It was a gesture so genuine and warm, it almost crushed Rebecca. Despite the pain she knew would shoot through her body, she yanked herself away.
Priya! Yuh muss lun when toh min yuh business and when toh wok. Eiddah goan staht de clodes upstairs oh yuh coul find wok someplace else.
Stung, Priya did not know the language and etiquette of abuse, and she stumbled away toward the stairs. Rebecca called to her, And doh fohget de fahm tings downstairs and de kitchen towels een de back.
Now faced with the task of cooking dinner, she had to whip together roti because her husband was not a man for rice. If she chose the easy path of boiling rice, she knew, he would fling the enamel plate and cup to the floor and beat her more. Her children would watch from corners, frightened. She kneaded and punched the roti, violent actions that jerked her body. But she did it to spare her children. Her belly, back, and sides ached from her husband’s blows. She sat on a nearby bench and waited for the worst of the searing pain to pass.
In the kitchen, she peeled potatoes, sifted flour, roasted tomatoes. Her children saw the marks on their mother; though still too young to understand, they helped her as much as they could. Panicked hands worked against a ticking clock.
Contractions started. The pain was familiar, and she realized she’d been having them all day. Beneath the throbbing injuries, the contractions had been mild. Now they were more intense. She grabbed onto the nearby kitchen table and doubled over. Rebecca held on to her oldest child. Goan geh de midwife now! There was a patter of footsteps. All signs pointed to her giving birth to a boy—pointed belly, carrying high, eating sour, and radiant skin. The midwife fed her these clues, vehemently stating that she was having a boy. No one disagreed with these women; they were elders in the community and had been practicing midwifery their entire lives.
Rebecca felt the urge to begin pushing. Grunting, she squatted in the kitchen and started to push, but something was wrong. The midwife didn’t come for at least an hour, for she had to walk miles to get to Rebecca. When she got there, she banished the children from the room. They were to come only when called for.
Labor progressed well into the night, after Shiva had returned home, poked his head into the room, a look of disdain upon his face, and left. Only after baby and placenta had exited her body, after the intensity of birth began to subside, did Rebecca sink into the silence surrounding them. She knew. The midwife had cut the umbilical cord and wrapped the baby in a piece of cloth, but she remained out of view between Rebecca’s legs. She and Rebecca knew one another intimately, for she had delivered all of the Singh children thus far. The midwife walked to Rebecca’s side and placed the newborn in her arms, tears falling and soaking into the cloth. The baby was blue. She was stillborn. She was the first of four.
—By di time ah geh toh de tird stillborn chile, Krys, my grandmother confesses, meh haht kyant take it no moh. Meh trow two een ah bucket and de lass one ah gih toh dem chilren to trow whey dung de hill.
LOOK
REBECCA WAS ROASTING EGGPLANT on the stove. Sixteen-year-old Arya sat at the table helping her.
Ruuuuuuuby.
Their hearts dropped. They didn’t even know he was home; he shouldn’t have arrived for another couple of hours. Arya urged her mother to run, to get out of the way and hide.
Shiva walked into the kitchen and without a word raised his fist. Rebecca dropped everything in her hands and wrapped her fingers around his neck. It transpired so fast, they all seemed startled by her movements. That was, until words filled the space around them.
Hit meh again and ah will keel yuh, Rebecca said.
She squeezed his throat and didn’t let go. His eyes bulged out of his head. His tongue flopped around outside his mouth. He choked. When she finally released him, he fell to his knees and gasped for air. Shiva overturned the tables in the kitchen and threw the eggplant on the floor before leaving.
Mother and daugher looked at one another and an understanding passed between them.
—So help meh Gawd, Krystal, says my grandmother, ah wuddah keel im dat day.
CHEATED
FROM MY GRANDMOTHER’S KITCHEN to my mother’s and back again, we keep cooking together, recreating the oldest meals created on our islands by our various ancestors, from cassava dumplings soaked in spicy curried crab to piles of roti served with dollops of saltfish mixed with lemon juice, onions, and scallions. And all the while, as smoke tendrils rise up all around us, they speak.
As my grandfather withers away in a corner of their shared apartment in Jersey City, unable to walk without help, unable to feed himself, bathe, dress, Arya’s and Rebecca’s lives dance before us round one table o
r another. My mother’s memories lend understanding to recollections I harbored throughout my own childhood. They tell me stories they never shared with one another. And so, solid memories begin to crack and separate, to reveal the meanings and anguish I couldn’t before access.
I’m whisked back to a time when the phone constantly rang. I was ten years old, sitting on a stool in our kitchen in Trinidad. I answered it while twisting the cord around my wrist and forearm. Hello? Silence. Helloooooo. A whoosh of breath followed by a female voice. Hi, dis is Krystal? Is Misrez Khan. Ah di cahl before toh talk toh yuh faddah. E helpin meh wid ah case dahlin, e hwome? I detected insincerity in her voice, but that dissipated when my father took the call, and I was now free to go back to whatever I was doing.
The calls continued for months. Mrs. Khan phoned our house numerous times every week. In the beginning, when my mother picked up, Mrs. Khan would hang up.
Aye Arya gyul, ah din tell yuh bout dis case we appen ovah? my father said. My mother shook her curly head as she cut my sister’s stewed chicken to pieces and urged her to eat.
Well wah appen, he said while devouring his own plate of dinner, is dis oman Misrez Khan entah dis business deal wid so and so. Dey tell she toh meet dem at ah certain location. When she find someting funny bout de exchange, she call de police sta—
Secrets We Kept Page 23
