Verdene turns her attention back inside the kitchen. She switches off the faucet, realizing water has overflowed, spilling to the floor. The dishes are piled in the sink from the breakfast she made Margot this morning—one pot full of her lopsided boiled dumplings and the other with chopped-up onions, tomatoes, and saltfish. Just an hour ago Verdene sang along to Ken Boothe, feeling hopeful, unaware of this mood that has befallen her. Unaware of the ambush of memory that awaited her. The mess in the kitchen repulses her. Verdene was never a tidy cook, or a cook at all. Everything is arranged in the cupboards the way her mother left it: plates stacked on top of each other, glasses and cups separated—the fancier ones with designs for visitors Verdene never has, and the ordinary, plain ones for everyday use. Since courting Margot, Verdene has been trying to cook more often, feeling domesticated for the first time at the age of forty. Before, when she lived in London, she would heat things up in microwaves or venture to a nearby restaurant for takeout. Such habits were possible in London, where there were restaurants everywhere. Indian, Chinese, Turkish, Caribbean, Pakistani.
Cooking is becoming a private joy Verdene works hard to maintain, delving into her mother’s old recipes inside the kitchen drawers among the utensils. They were mostly cake recipes. For other food, Verdene draws from memory—those evenings when she used to watch her mother cook, throwing spices and sugar and flour inside pots without measuring. Ella only knew how something turned out by tasting it. Verdene has adopted this method. As she experiments, she finds herself tasting more and measuring less. The process softens something inside her, makes her hum tunes to little songs as she chops and stirs. One would never have known how much Verdene once resented her mother for doing the exact same thing for her father when he was alive and came home with his dirtied boots and soiled clothes from building the railway.
“Why can’t he ever cook his own food or set di table?” Verdene would ask Ella, while observing her father recline on his favorite chair with the newspaper, smoking his cigarettes and taking swigs of white rum. He sought refuge in the clouds of smoke that surrounded him and the liquor that warmed his blood. Ella was mostly dismissive of Verdene’s questions, fanning her away with, “When yuh get to this stage you’ll know why.” Verdene never knew what that meant. In rebellion (she thinks), she had never been able to give of herself this way in relationships, fearing she would have to be some man’s maid, or his personal servant. As abusive as Verdene’s father was, Ella worshipped the ground he walked on.
In her first marriage, Verdene failed miserably. Not because she didn’t love the man—a nice devout Catholic from Guyana her aunt handpicked for her—but because she could never pretend to be that kind of a woman. But here she is, in her mother’s kitchen, finally understanding what her mother meant.
When Verdene reenters the bedroom, Margot is already dressed, ready to go.
“We have to talk,” Verdene says, taking a deep, labored breath. Margot sits on the bed, her hands clasped. Verdene notices that the food remains uneaten. She also notices that Margot has been crying. Her eyes are red and the flesh around them is raw.
“What yuh want to talk about?” Margot asks. When she turns her face to the side, light catches it and Verdene is taken aback by her beauty. She walks over and sits next to the younger woman. She takes Margot’s hand into hers and holds it. She lifts it to her lips, then presses it to her cheeks. Margot takes it away.
“Maybe you’re right,” she says.
Verdene lets her hand drop to her side. “Right about what?”
“That I’m not ready.”
Margot sits frozen like a statue, her head held straight. The only hint that she is breathing is the slow rise and fall of her chest. Two buttons are open in the front of her blouse. Verdene catches a glimpse of the soft flesh underneath. Margot turns to look at her and repeats, “I’m not ready,” as though to convince herself.
Verdene takes Margot’s hand—in the same way she did the night before the discovery of the first dead dog. “We should try again,” she says. “But I’ll leave it up to you . . .” She takes a deep breath.
Margot visibly relaxes, as though she was expecting another response. Verdene feels an overwhelming urge to hold her, but she doesn’t. They sit like this, both staring straight ahead, their hands in their laps. The words leave Verdene’s mouth, floating above them in the bedroom, finally settling with the rise and fall of their pregnant sighs like a sheet flung over a bed.
“I only knew men,” Margot whispers, still staring straight ahead. “I always had feelings for you.” Margot is shaking her head as though she has gotten lost and is too overwhelmed with directions leading her to streets with no names. “But I’m not . . . I don’t know if I . . .”
Verdene nods, but she says nothing. She focuses on the nails in the wooden floorboards, their round black heads appearing like dots. Margot rests her head on Verdene’s shoulder. Her gesture seems to signal that they have stepped into an intimate circle and are joined together in this uncertainty. Breathing in deeply, Margot says, “I want you to teach me how to swim.”
5
IT’S A COOL AND DAMP MORNING—THE WAY IT USUALLY IS BEFORE the sun makes its appearance, sucking all possibilities dry. Margot had gotten dressed at Verdene’s house, entertaining the idea of them as a couple. It’s not as though this has never occurred to her before—this seed that slipped into the cavity of her chest, settling itself inside her for the last few weeks. Something triggered its growth. Perhaps it was the way Verdene held her the night before, confirming for Margot that they fit together.
Margot begins to walk with clarity through the thinning fog, cradling this idea like a newborn baby. Her mind races ahead to the possibility of leaving River Bank for a nice beachfront villa in the quiet, gated community of Lagoons—a place far from River Bank where Margot could give freely of herself, comforted by the cool indifference of wealthy expats from Europe and America. It would be like living in another country. Ever since Reginald Senior hosted a party years ago at a lavish villa in that neighborhood for a few of his friends and invited her, she has always wanted to live there. Margot was astonished by how the wealthy in Jamaica live; how for them, the island is really paradise—a woman who offers herself without guile, her back arched in the hills and mountains, belly toward the sun. For even in this drought her rivers run long and deep; her beaches, wide and tempting.
River Bank residents tend to bypass domestic positions in an area like Lagoons, going instead for the resorts. They are like ants, all of them, Margot thinks—latching on to the same bread as everyone else. Well, let them keep nibbling away. As far as Margot is concerned, she and Verdene will be a lot better off in a remote place without the neck strain from looking over their shoulders. Margot has it all planned out. Her promotion as general manager is in the works already. She is certain that she will get it; certain of Alphonso’s feelings about her. She could use that money to live like a queen in her own country for once. Key-lime curtains and sweating glasses of lemonade in the sunroom. Grocery lists of imported goods and planting trees to complement the landscape.
As Margot moves through the expanse of her fantasy—padding lightly on the marble tiles of her dream house—she bumps into something solid on the ground. She looks down into the gutted carcass of a John-crow surrounded by flies, the rotting smell rising into Margot’s open mouth. Margot pinches her nose and takes three steps backward. It has to be three—one for the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Grandma Merle would have told her to throw salt behind her too, to ward off bad luck.
“Holy Jesus!”
And just as she says this, three John-crows appear. They circle low, casting dark shadows in the face of the new sun. Their black wings are like sharp edges that seem capable of slitting trees in half. Margot feels the hair rise on the back of her neck when the John-crows descend. She watches in horror as they sink their beaks into the carcass—one that could have been a sibling, a spouse, a mother, a child. Margot will never forget this
image—the sight of the crows feasting on their own, their Kumina dance celebrating death.
Back in the shack, she takes her time wiping the tips of her shoes with a wet cloth soaked with bleach. She’ll be late to work today. She strips naked and puts her work clothes in a pan of water. She decides to take a shower, to scrub away any bad omen with pimento leaves. Never mind the flies and heat outside. She lathers herself with soap, grateful for the good water pressure. She never bathes outside this late in the morning after the fog lifts. But today she has no choice. She also does not feel like going back to Verdene’s house this time of day, since the washers take that path to the river and may see her.
The water feels good in the heat. Without thinking, she tilts her head back to let it run through her hair, then remembers too late that she had just gotten it creamed. She makes a mental note to schedule another hair appointment. It has to be later today, since she cannot go to the hotel looking like a crazed woman. Margot busies herself with lathering.
“Look like is you g’wan drain di entire island of di likkle wata we ’ave lef’!”
Everything inside Margot halts at the sound of her mother’s voice.
“Yuh nuh see dat we in a drought?” Delores asks. “Wah wrong wid yuh? Yuh look like a jackass, scrubbing like dat wid wata beating pon yuh head top.”
“What yuh doing here?” Margot asks, shutting off the shower. “Ah thought you were at di market.” She clumsily reaches for her towel to cover herself.
“Is suh yuh carry on when yuh t’ink nobody is here?” Delores asks. “Yuh run up di wata rate?”
“I was washing off.”
“Yuh didn’t ’ave di decency fi do dat earlier?”
“I wanted to change my clothes. I was on my way to work when I—” Margot fans away the rest of her words. She doesn’t feel like going into details with Delores about the John-crow. Delores sucks her teeth. Margot thought her mother would leave her alone, but Delores just stands there as though waiting for more explanation.
“What else yuh want?” Margot asks.
Delores shakes her head. “Sometimes ah wondah ’bout you. If me neva come back here, you might ah been in dat wata all day. Shouldn’t you be at work? Dat hotel yuh work at giving yuh di illusion dat we ’ave money fi dash weh? If yuh lose dat job, God help we! Washing off, my foot! Which sane person wash off inna broad daylight outside? Is want yuh want Likkle Richie an’ any other Peeping Tom fi see yuh?”
“Would it make a difference?” Margot asks.
“Where did I go wrong?”
“Let me pass. I have to get to work. You said so yuhself.”
Delores doesn’t move. She regards Margot closely, like she used to do when Margot was a child—when she gave her the kind of baths that were meant to cleanse her of evil.
“What is it?” Margot asks. Her voice cracks under the weight of the memory.
“Yuh t’ink ah got di sense of a gnat?”
Margot chuckles lightly, though her knees buckle. “I don’t have no time fah dis.”
“You got time fah other t’ings. T’ink ah don’t notice dat yuh don’t sleep here no more? You is a sneak, an’ God g’wan strike yuh dung.”
Margot throws her head back and laughs out loud. “I am thirty years old. Ah can sleep anywhere ah please. An’ besides, yuh soun’ like ole Miss Gracie wid har drunk, crazy self.” She is able to walk past Delores into the house. She doesn’t let on that God was the first thing she thought about this morning when she stumbled upon death in her path.
“At di end ah di day, yuh can’t seh ah neva try wid yuh,” Delores says.
Margot is glad that she’s not facing Delores; glad that she can focus on dressing herself, careful not to rip her stocking. The proof of her innocence—since she is always on trial—is in her calm, her ability to seem unaffected by anything Delores says. She tries hard in this moment not to seek comfort in the fantasy she had earlier of moving away with Verdene—a thought that skipped like a carefree child, shifting things around, making room. But try as she might, Margot cannot stop it from emerging. Neither can she protect it from Delores. Her best and safest bet is to kill it.
Margot watches Alphonso talking to the administrative staff in his office—the higher-ups who run his hotel resort when he’s not around. Alphonso is pacing as he gives orders, looking like a boy balancing a crown on his head while walking a tight rope. Through the tilted louver windows with curtains that separate the front desk from the conference room, she can hear and see a few things—Dwight, the branch manager, clutching his pen in his tight fist as Alphonso paces before him; Simon, the activities coordinator, who is in charge of all the in-house entertainment at the hotel; Boris, the head of hotel security and a former police sergeant; Camille, Dwight’s assistant, who struggles to write down every sentence coming out of the four gentlemen’s mouths during the meeting; and Blacka, the accountant and Alphonso’s right-hand man, looking like a pharaoh sitting with his arms folded and chest puffed, silently observing.
“Yuh t’ink I’m running a farm here? Yuh t’ink is chump-change people paying to stay at my resort?” Alphonso barks. “You are all incompetent!”
Dwight sits forward, dropping his pen. “Is who yuh t’ink yuh talking to dat way? If it wasn’t fah all of us in here, this hotel wouldn’t be open! Yuh father never intended fah you to take ovah . . . It was yuh brother. If Joseph never died in that car accident yuh wouldn’t be no god dat you is now! He knew yuh was a disgrace! So don’t you come in here now, telling us you’re dissatisfied. We’re not the fault why di hotel losing money!”
Alphonso pounces at Dwight and grabs him by the collar. Boris and Simon jump up to pull them apart. When he’s free, Dwight fixes his tie and adjusts the collar of his pin-striped shirt as Alphonso calms himself. The other men, excluding Blacka, give Alphonso a look that reminds Margot of the way the other hotel employees look at her, when they whisper within earshot, “Who does that Margot think she is? She act like she is some big s’maddy. Yuh see di way she walk around here like she own di place?”
But Margot is somebody. She knows, for example, that she can do a better job than Dwight, who is a buffoon. Because of him the hotel isn’t doing well. His fancy degree, expensive suits, and luxury cars don’t hide the fact that he’s incompetent. What makes Dwight favorable is the fact that he’s Alphonso’s second cousin and went to private school with him at Ridley College in Canada. Margot knows deep down that no hotel would’ve hired Dwight had it not been for his Wellington family name—Dwight, who shows up late, flashing his watch and telling others to be on time; Dwight, who overlooks complaints and any details having to do with the comfort of the guests; Dwight, who leaves the majority of the work to his assistant, Camille—who in Margot’s opinion wastes her time every evening sitting on his lap. Poor girl chose the wrong Wellington to screw.
Margot returns to her seat at the front desk with Kensington. She can barely concentrate on checking people into the hotel.
“What yuh t’ink dey saying?” Kensington asks her. She’s whispering.
“It’s none of our business,” Margot snaps.
“You an’ him not friend?” Kensington asks.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Margot whips around to face a brazened Kensington. The girl shrugs. “You know . . . him laugh up, laugh up wid yuh sometimes. So I thought oonuh was friends.”
The girl looks down at the surface of the desk in front of her, drawing heart-shaped patterns with her finger. She’s rail-thin with a height on her, always fidgeting with the waistband of her uniform skirt, which is too wide, though it hangs well above her knees. Had it not been for her high color, Kensington wouldn’t be considered beautiful. Or even be considered for the job. The girl was hired as a part-time secretary last summer after graduating from high school, but ended up staying longer. Now she thinks she has a right to make assessments about Margot and Alphonso’s relationship.
“Just continue to do yuh work, Kensington,” Margot says, in the a
uthoritative voice she uses when wielding her seniority.
“How do you do it?” Kensington’s tiny voice pierces the uncomfortable silence that follows Margot’s order.
“How do I do what?” Margot asks.
Behind Kensington’s head the palm trees blow wavelike in a breeze that brings the smell of the sea inside the open lobby. Margot is grateful for this breeze, for it cools her boiling blood as she watches Kensington stringing her words together.
“People are talking. Russ, Gretta, an’ all ah dem.”
Margot cuts her off before she can list every one of the lower staff—the maids, the cooks, the groundsmen—people who begrudge her because she sends Kensington to buy her patty and cocoa-bread at lunchtime from Stitch so that she doesn’t have to pass by them and get into their idle gossip about management.
“Do me a favor, Kensington?” Margot says, her voice as bittersweet as molasses.
“What’s that?” the girl asks, looking at Margot with hopeful eyes that incense Margot even more. She resists the urge to slap the girl. Instead, Margot issues a warning. Or more like a sound piece of advice. “If yuh want to stay here for a long time, then mind yuh own business,” she says.
With that Margot cuts her eyes and turns to the window behind them. Alphonso is unpredictable, so she imagines the executive office watching him closely like a ticking bomb. Suddenly the door flies open and Alphonso marches out.
“Gimme that manila folder over there!” he demands, pointing to the hidden file cabinet where there are over a hundred manila folders—all of which are going to be entered into a secure computer system to keep records of the hotel finances and guest information. Murphy is bringing the computers in tomorrow. All five Gateway computers are being shipped from America. Kensington springs up to find the folder Alphonso is referring to. She hesitates when she sees that all of them are identical. Asking Alphonso to clarify would reveal her incompetence.
Here Comes the Sun Page 7
