But Marie Pinta stands firmly next to Thandi. “I said to take it off.”
Thandi’s arms remain at her sides, her eyes trained on Marie Pinta’s mouth. “Are you deaf?”
Thandi tugs at the base of her sweatshirt, aware of her classmates blinking rapidly as though gearing up for something to happen. Though fear pulls at her nerves, her body erupting in tremors she hopes aren’t visible to their eyes, she lets her hands fall back to her sides. “I can’t,” she says, her whisper like a shout in the hushed hall. By this time the other classes have filed out of the hall, leaving only Thandi’s class. They are being held back because of her. She knows that she’s in deep trouble. She has never been singled out after devotion for not adhering to the uniform rules. Delores and Margot make sure that Thandi looks her best each day. They make sure that she doesn’t look like she lives in a shack, worlds away from her classmates.
Marie Pinta glares at Thandi and then writes something down in her notepad. “I’m assigning you a demerit. Go to the principal’s office. Now.” Marie Pinta points directly at the door as though direction is needed. The other girls are giggling, cupping their hands to their mouths. Thandi’s face grows warm. Marie Pinta whips around to face them. “Shut up!” There is a level of terror in Marie Pinta’s voice that Thandi doesn’t understand. She appears distraught, her small body shaking under the martial uniform the prefects wear—double-breasted blazers and pencil skirts.
Thandi gathers her belongings and walks out the door.
“Braeeeeeeee! Hee-haw, he-hawwwww.” The sound starts as a single whisper, then builds into a low resonating force that pushes Thandi out the door faster. She almost runs to get away from the sound. She wishes she could unhear it, or, best, stand up to it. Tell her classmates that she’s not a donkey. That her being from a rural area does not mean she should be associated with farm animals. But her inability to do this only fuels her anger.
3
MARGOT TAKES COMFORT IN HEARING THE CRUNCH OF HER feet on the dirt road, the chirping of birds from the crosshatch of branches, and the buzzing of wasps around the poinciana trees. There’s a silence that seems to hold its breath at the sound of the gravel. Not unlike her coworkers, who seem to cease breathing and stop what they are doing when they see her approaching at work. And certainly not unlike Delores, whose whole body seems to halt at the sound of Margot’s voice. All her life her presence has brought about pauses and silences louder than the white-hot sun and screaming crickets at the height of dusk. Even the sky, an arch of blue, seems to veer away from her with its distance.
It’s strange how people always sense her. Before she approaches them, they look up and over their shoulders. It’s as though she brings a change of weather in her dove-gray suit amid the languorous ease of a dry, hot day. Her gait and hotel uniform seem to reprimand the locals for their displays of idleness. Perhaps she serves as a reminder of their lost livelihoods as farmers and fishermen. Walking down River Bank Road, the heels of her pumps worn by dirt, Margot attracts the looks of men holed up inside Frenchies for a heavy breakfast of boiled yam, banana, ackee, and saltfish before going off to their various handyman jobs in Montego Bay. She also draws the attention of women carrying buckets of water on their heads, their mouths curved with malice and necks stiff with resentment. There are some howdies and nods, but mostly stares. Some of the men holler, “’Ey, beautiful.” But Margot has never slept with any of the men in River Bank. Though in her line of work she fucks anyone who can afford it, being with a man from her area is beneath her. Their fantasies alone have colored their lenses, easing their tension around her just a little. With her they become as unquestioning and generous as children, even protective, her high, swaying backside and firm calves making them forget why they were annoyed that she—whom their women describe as Miss High an’ Mighty—barely says hello to them and refuses to take their job applications with their crab-toe request for menial work at the hotel. She knows that mothers watch to see if she stops to open a palm full of sweeties for their children. And when she doesn’t, they suck their teeth loud enough for her to hear them say, “What a selfish ’ooman. Mean like star apple tree. Not even pickney ’im mek nyam outta ’im hand. No wondah why she barren.” Margot doesn’t have woman friends. She likes to think that maybe it’s for her own sake and theirs. In the beauty parlor some of them greet Margot with reserved shyness, but in their hot heads under the hair dryers she can tell they have already marked her as a threat.
By the time she gets to the square, she has seen enough dropped gazes and begins a purposeful stride to the taxi stand. There too, breaths are drawn, as though the drivers are looking to see who she’ll pick to carry her to the palace today. Mostly, they like to give her their information so that she can recommend their services to tourists who need rides. Some might even use the drive as an opportunity to pick her brain about job prospects as a kitchen boy, chef, server, housekeeper, maintenance man, concierge—anything that can get them through the door of the hotels, beating out the crowd of applicants. But Margot always goes with Maxi—if not for his indifference to working in the hotel, then for his ability to see her as just Margot. She never feels obligated to do him any favors. His smile eases the tension that has stiffened her back.
“How yuh doin’ today, baby girl?” Maxi says, starting his ignition. Buju Banton’s “Wanna Be Loved” plays on the car radio as Maxi backs out into the street. Margot fiddles with the pair of black, green, and gold boxing gloves on the rearview mirror.
“Been bettah. Dis heat is no joke. Can’t wait to get some ice when I reach work.”
“Yuh looking good. Look like is you producing all di heat.” Maxi manually rolls down his side of the window with the knob and puts one hand out to catch the wind; the other one steers the car.
“Don’t tell dat to yuh neighbors. Dem already ’ave me up fah wearing this uniform.”
Maxi sucks his teeth. “Mek dem g’weh. Is jealous dem jealous.”
“Can’t wait to leave dis godforsaken place.”
“Is it dat bad? We live by di sea. How much people can say dat? Give t’anks.”
“Maxi, shut up wid yuh blessings nonsense. This is no paradise. At least, not for us.”
“Yuh t’ink I don’t know? Trus’ me, I an’ I see di struggles of di people every day. Dem look at people like you an’ see where dem job went. Yuh can’t blame dem. But yuh also can’t say yuh not thankful fah what Jah give we.”
“So River Bank is what God give we?” A bitter chuckle escapes Margot. “Stolen land?”
“Correction. We are di stolen people. Dis is our temporary land. Jah wouldn’t give us what ’im didn’t intend fah us to ’ave. Him soon move we again to a bettah place. Maybe back to Africa.”
“Nonsense. We build our own destiny. Didn’t nobody tell you? You once asked me what my dream was.”
“Yuh say yuh want yuh sistah to mek it.”
“An’ I want to be in control of my own destiny.”
“So let’s start wid me, then. How about we get married?”
Margot smiles. “Stop romp wid me, Maxi.” She opens the window on her side to catch the breeze. She almost closes her eyes as she tilts her head back. Finally, there’s an exhale of transient whispers that brushes against her face.
“How come some man nuh own yuh yet?” Maxi asks.
Margot turns in time to catch his sliding gaze. “’Cause I don’t want to be owned,” she says.
“Yuh nuh want children?”
“No. River Bank full wid pickney already. Why would I want to add to the pile?”
“Lots ah woman me know want pickney. Jesus Christ, as soon as me pop off, another one say she pregnant.”
“So now yuh believe in Jesus?”
Maxi sucks his teeth and shakes his head. “I an’ I believe in one God.”
“You should believe in condoms too.”
“Yuh getting fresh. Anyway, ah was trying to say dat every warm-blooded woman me know want children.”
“How yuh know dat is what dem want?” Margot asks. “Maybe is not by choice.”
“Fi tek care ah dem when dem get old an’ senile. Yuh don’t want to end up old an’ lonely wid no children.”
“I will manage,” she says, thinking about Verdene and the time they have been spending together. Just the other night they were in Verdene’s living room and Margot noticed Verdene’s slippers dangling off her feet when she rested her legs on the arm of the sofa. She imagined seeing those slippers parked next to hers on a welcome mat. Margot blinks away this memory in the beam of sunlight that spills onto the windshield when they exit the groves that flank the sides of the road.
“I nevah met a woman who like be by herself,” Maxi is saying, almost to himself. “Yuh need a man.”
“How yuh know what I need?”
“Yuh seem like a decent woman. I an’ I still cyan wrap my head ’round how yuh still single. Dat’s all.”
“Ah jus’ haven’t found di right person,” she says, thoughts of Verdene lingering like a faint smell of sun-ripe fruit.
It never feels wrong when she’s with Verdene. But late at night when the whole world seems to pause around them, leaning in like the shadows of the mango trees and the moon against the window to observe two women spooning—one adrift in sleep and the other wide awake, her breathing rapid—paranoia keeps Margot up at night. Most times it moves her out of the bed and to the sofa in Verdene’s living room. Two weeks ago it chased her from the house. She would listen to sounds outside—the chirping of crickets, the penetrating hiss of cicadas, the howling of a dog. The blackness of the unknown so stifling that Margot takes gulps of air every five seconds. Only when she’s with Verdene does she experience such panic. Every night now she smells a faint scent of burning. It disappears when she jumps up to sniff out where it’s coming from. It stays with her and she remembers the news that broke months before. It was not the main headline. Margot read it in the small section of the Star next the Dear Pastor column. Two women were burned inside their house when they were caught in bed together. Such murders aren’t taken seriously, often shrugged off as crimes of passion committed by enraged lovers—more than likely of the same sex—who were wronged. No one mourned the loss of the women’s lives, but instead rejoiced in the good judgments of karma. For what can women who refuse the loving of men expect? Verdene responded to Margot’s nerves by pulling her close, as though she was prepared to throw her body over Margot’s if she must, to protect her.
The taxi pulls up to the high iron gates of the hotel. Alan, the security guard, comes out of his little hut to open up for them. “Mawnin’, mawnin’.”
Once Maxi drives into the compound, the lobby is visible through the glass exterior. Already the concierges are busy pushing luggage on carts through the marbled interior, which boasts high ceilings and large chandeliers that glower above the champagne-colored lounge and the front desk. Gone is the rustic quality that Reginald Senior upheld until his death—a natural ambience created by vibrant colors, palm trees, and artwork by Jamaican artists. Under Alphonso’s direction, tourists now have to leave the lobby and drive half a mile to be reminded where they are. Alphonso has also loaned a few abstract paintings—geometric shapes and swirling colors—from his personal collection to the lobby. The gift shop, manned by a young woman named Portia, is right across from the check-in desk and only sells picturesque views of the island; entry to the two main restaurants—Italian and French—are diagonal from one another. Margot gives Maxi a crisp bill and gets out of the car.
“If yuh evah wake up an’ need a man, yuh know who to call.” He winks at her.
“I won’t ever need you, Maxi,” she says, waving him goodbye and walking away with her fluid stride that emphasizes everything she knows his imagination has already seen.
“Not even on a rainy night?” he asks, driving off slowly.
Margot laughs, holding her stomach and stumbling merrily to the entrance of the hotel. “We in a drought, so keep wishing.”
“See, if me mek yuh laugh dem way, then imagine what else me can do.”
“Aw, lord, Maxi, yuh nuh easy. I will see you lata.” She blows him a kiss.
Once Margot is on the property, the hush returns. She walks toward the front desk, holding her head as high as possible. The security guards, groundsmen, and concierges are not immune to her magic; but the housekeepers and other administrative staff, mostly women, are. Visitors seem to single her out to ask for directions or recommendations. She can also hold conversations with tourists longer than any other front desk clerks, who tend to be overly polite and too eager to smile, as though apologetic for their lack of knowledge. She’s the best front desk clerk at Palm Star Resort. It’s the only job that she has ever known. But soon this will change.
“Morning, Pearl,” Margot says to one of the housekeepers who happens to be signing in. The older woman draws her lips together. The two younger housekeepers—Pearl’s oldest daughter and youngest niece, respectively—nod at Margot, then look away as though embarrassed about something. Margot has an inkling that Garfield told everyone what he saw—Margot getting fucked by Alphonso in the conference room. Though this is old news—it’s one of those pieces of gossip that could easily be a myth, given how smoothly Margot plays it off. Had it not been for the mysterious occurrence of Garfield’s death shortly after—serves him right—then perhaps it would have been completely forgotten. Margot carries on with her business, greeting the lower staff whenever she has to assign them to clean vacant rooms. She makes direct eye contact that forces them to look away, ashamed for their filthy imaginations. She also dares them to retort with information they have bottled up and kept for when she writes them up. But this never happens. They keep the damning secrets among themselves. Occasionally these might slip out to new employees in the middle of spreading linen, folding towels, washing pillowcases, or emptying trash—tales of Margot’s bare backside making their rounds among shoulder-jerking, tear-eyed laughter that is an amalgamation of envy and disgust—boisterous, as though the brutes think that they’re alone and unobserved at work. But whenever she’s around, the laughter drains like the last bit of water from a bottle.
“What oonuh laughing at?” Margot had asked Pearl’s daughter and niece one day. They gasped when Margot appeared from a corner by the large ceramic vase where she had been watching them. Their heads immediately bowed. “A joke.”
“What kind of joke sweet oonuh so?”
“Ahm . . . we was talkin’ ’bout somebody we know.”
“What did they do?”
The young housekeepers glanced at each other, damp-faced and shining under Margot’s glare. When they couldn’t answer, Margot knew. And because she slips easily and stealthily into occupied rooms at night and emerges looking as she did when she entered, a spy—be it a lone housekeeper catching up on the day’s cleaning tasks or Neville, the room service attendant, knocking on people’s doors with food—would think she was coming from a serious business meeting. Whereas they might speculate freely about her affair with Alphonso, her late evening deeds float under their noses. Besides the one or two run-ins on the property that she has had with staff that work late shifts, no one, as far as she knows, suspects anything.
Thandi makes her way to the nearest restroom by the upper school and locks herself inside one of the stalls. It’s where she eats her lunch, enduring the pungent smell of urine and womanly excretions. She takes out a pencil from her bag and draws on the whitewashed wall like she draws in the dust on furniture at home, or in mud after it rains. She pauses when she hears voices.
“Are you serious?”
“I’m dead serious. It happened aftah devotion yesterday morning.”
“I missed it!”
“You’re always late for school, that’s why.”
“What was she thinking?”
“I asked myself the same question.”
“It’s like she lives in her own world.”
“She’s just cuckoo.”
“You notice how she’s been looking more and more like Casper the Ghost?”
The girls’ giggles follow them outside. After they leave, Thandi stays inside the stall. She stands back to look at her drawing, then scribbles all over it, turning it into a shapeless form—the eye of a hurricane spinning relentlessly out of control. Thandi adjusts the pin on her skirt where the button has fallen off (they have been falling off her blouses too, the meager threads giving way to the defiance of her newly fattened breasts) and exits the stall. She cuts across the lawn, making her way to the Vocational Block, where Brother Smith’s office is located. It’s another one of the modern buildings painted bright yellow. Brother Smith is gathering materials for class, his brown robe nearly swallowing his thin frame. When he sees Thandi, he closes the Jamaica Gleaner and puts it on his desk. “Damn politicians. This country has gone to the dogs. Did you know that we owe the World Bank billions of dollars?” Thandi shifts from one leg to the next, her backpack weighing heavily on her shoulders. Brother Smith must sense that something is wrong when he doesn’t get at least a Really, sir? or You don’t say.
“You don’t look well,” he says. “Come in and sit down.”
Thandi does as he says, closing the door behind her, then removing a few cardboard collages off a chair by Brother Smith’s desk, which is neat despite the disarray of his office. There are prints of paintings everywhere, some he had been meaning to hang on the already crowded walls. Van Gogh, Picasso, da Vinci, Botticelli. Artists he has discussed in Thandi’s art class, assigning extensive readings about their life and work. Artists whose works Brother Smith says he has seen in Europe. Thandi wishes she could go to Europe too. To exist in those places, especially those paintings of the English countryside with wide-open fields, greener than the greenest grass in River Bank, and with flowers in the softest shades of lavender and yellow. Those images don’t look at all like sunny days in River Bank, where weeds grow to your knees in the brown fields, itching around the ankles; and black boys hang from trees, foraging for ripe mangoes, their dangling, ashy, sore-ridden legs attracting as much flies as the rotten fruits.
Here Comes the Sun Page 4
