No doubt dat fence goh electrocute yuh, my father says as he maneuvers the car over the bumpy road and rolls to a stop in front of a wooden house.
Who lives here? my sister queries.
I answer her because my mother is already out of the car, looking for the owner of the lopsided house.
Is Grampa nephew, Sachin.
His house is the first people see before reaching my grandfather’s. Memories of Radica, Raj, and me scooting across the yard flash before me. I see the bed in the dilapidated room where the whole family slept. We played hide-and-seek, tag, scooch, anything we dreamed up, a friendship forged despite the rivalry pulled taut between our families.
I open the car door and hesitate before stepping out. The ground is muddy; the grass is wet; my sandals will be soiled, ruined. Sachin, Mitra’s boy and my grandfather’s nephew, is in ratty farm clothes, his boots caked with manure. He wields a cutlass in one hand and a rope in the other.
Aye, Arya gyul, dah is you? he asks, pushing his head forward to peer at her. Aye gyul yuh diffrant, rheal diffrant, and he eyes us all in the same way everyone else does, like tourists who’ve traipsed into unknown territory. A swarm of flies buzz around him.
Krystal? Lil Krystal? he says, then hesitates, wipes his hands on his pants, and extends them. I pull him into a hug. Memories between us and our families have never been pleasant, but I look at this place that has fallen to despair, where loneliness and death are draped so casually all around, and I feel a need to connect with him. I want him to hug us all, for him to know that though years have made us strangers, we still remain family.
Dah eh no lil Krystal again, yuh know. Dah is big Krystal now, my mother jumps in and we all laugh. Sachin is as gruff as I’ve remembered, a smile never crossing his soured face. His son remained to help him, his wife is gone, his daughter has eloped.
We come toh see de house an ting.
He looks toward my grandparents’ old house and says roughly, Yuh kyant go dey. Watch nah, de cah hah toh stay right hyah. Yuh goh dey and yuh eh sure toh come out.
My mother and I turn to the house for the first time. We stumble toward it, mud squelching between our toes. The further we walk, the more the earth yields until my steps are exaggerated as I pull my feet from its suction. We’ve come to an impasse. I push forward, but she holds me back. The trees around the house grow slanted as though reaching to claim it as their own. Vines trellis the windows and doors, sealing each entryway. The kitchen has caved in, and the whole structure of the house leans heavily to that side. Still, I want to venture forward, but my mother again pulls me back. Yuh kyant goh dey, she whispers and points with her chin to the trees. I squint and try to see what she’s pointed to. Along the top of the calabash tree is a canopy of snakes. Tails dangle from the trees like wispy branches, unblinking eyes a glassy onyx between the viridian brush, scales glittering like jewels in the rays of sunlight that penetrate the leaves. On the tree trunks, iguanas stare with beady eyes. I search no more, wanting to discover nothing new.
We clutch each other, not a word uttered between us. Chickens skitter and peck at our feet; emaciated cows, goats, and donkeys amble around us. The path that dips into the valley, leading to the chicken coops and fields, is overgrown. No one has set foot here in years. We turn around and walk away. My mother slips her arm around my waist, and we incline our heads at the temples as we saunter back to the car.
Ma, I start, yuh tink yuh could evah move back to Trinidad?
Nevah.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To all the women like my great-grandmother, grandmother, and mother, and to the women before them, your sacrifices have not been in vain. Without your strength and conviction, I shudder to think where we would be today.
To my mentors at New Jersey City University—Edvige Guinta, Ethan Bumas, Joshua Fausty—this book started there. Because of you, I had the courage to continue. You helped me create and foster the space in which to start. This was the most important lesson of all: foundation.
My deepest thanks to the ReCollective, our beautiful writing community that started at NJCU and grew after. And a few special words to my dear friend Kathy Potter, the glue of our group, who is no longer with us. I finished, my friend. I did it for us all. May we be rigorous in our collection of memories.
My friends who were generous enough to donate their time to reading this book in its many stages: without you, Angel Lemuel Eduardo, Amy Kandathil, and Renee Clemente, there could be no shape. Together, we sculpted. But especially you, Angel. Without your steadfast friendship, sharp mind, constant questioning, I would be unmoored. I find respite and harmony in our long, meandering conversations. May that never change.
My short time at Hunter College blessed me with a writing partnership that propelled me in the years after. We did good, Cecilia Donohue and Jessie Male. Our teachers there made sure we were armed and ready. Thank you, Kathryn Harrison, Louise DeSalvo, Alexandra Styron, and Roxana Robinson.
To my oldest friends in this country—Robert Queenan, Joseph and John Gancia—you unflinchingly showed up to things you didn’t even understand. I’m honored to have you as my friends. You first knew me as a girl and supported me through it all as we’ve always done for one another. May our international food nights stretch well into our old age as our self-proclaimed family grows.
My sister: my first ears, my first editor, my first everything. There are not enough words in this world to describe how much you mean to me. You are the audience everyone hopes for, the editor everyone dreams of, and the person I grudgingly share with your husband. We are connected in ways no one will ever understand.
Sylvie Greenberg, you are the special agent who entered my life swiftly and with purpose. It was exactly what I needed at the time, and you seemed to understand that better than anyone. May we look to the future together.
From my heart to yours, Alane Mason, you are one of the most brilliant people I’ve had the pleasure of working with. Wading through this book again and again was never as painful as when I did it by myself; in fact, it was exciting. From being tangled in titles to chiseling out the perfect word, your patience and care with what has been a book-in-progress for ten years has shown me just how lucky I am to have worked with you. To touch other books in the ways you’ve done this one is only a sliver of who you are as a human being.
Whether it was over the flicker of candlelight in a windy backyard, a yawning reading hall, or special Tudor house in New Jersey, we’ve gathered to tell our stories, and as one who was invited to share, I want to warm the hearts of Edvige Giunta, Annie Lanzilotto, and Rosette Caportorto for drawing me in, along with the others who have been blessed to be a part of this clan.
My beautiful partner, my husband, Pawel Grzech, I love you. Thank you for creating a beautiful family with me.
And to all women, may your stories always be told.
With the exception of the author’s name, all of the names of people who
appear in Secrets We Kept have been changed. Certain biographical details
and other identifying characteristics also have been altered.
Copyright © 2018 by Krystal A. Sital
All rights reserved
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