Here Comes the Sun

by Nicole Dennis-Benn

  Verdene clutches the blue ceramic mug in front of her on the table. She had poured some rum in her tea, hoping it would make her go to sleep quicker. She used to see her mother do the same on those nights after she had been beaten badly and needed something stronger than medicine to numb the pain, which Verdene suspected, even then, wasn’t just physical.

  So here she is, unable to close her eyes as she suffers from a different pain, its impact just as powerful as a kick in the belly or a clenched fist to the chin. Margot is avoiding her. She notices the shadows from the trees outside that dance in the breeze; they’re faint like the dreaded dawning of intuition. Earlier she had taken a bath to freshen up. Just in case. In the mirror Verdene studied herself naked, regarding the love handles she had comfortably acquired around her hips and belly. For the first time in a long while, she frowned at them, conscious of the softness of her shape. Who is she? What has she become? She grabbed the fat around her hips and held it, disgust rising in her throat, settling on her tongue.

  Tonight she cooked a nice meal and set the table. The candle is still resting in the center of the table like a mockery of her efforts. In the silence of waiting, Verdene sighs deeply, hoping the rush of air into her lungs and the rum warming her blood will steady her. Clear her head. In front of her, the plate of rice rises like a snow-covered mountain, its peak threatening to touch the ceiling when she looks up. The steam has cooled, but the sight of the starchy white grains promises to assuage her. She takes a spoonful with the serving spoon. One, then two, then three spoonfuls, until she loses count. She eats the plate of plantains too. And the plate of codfish fritters. Every time she swallows she feels nothing. Nothing at all. When she’s emptied the plates she jumps up from the table, accidentally knocking her chair over and bumping into things on her way to the bathroom. It’s here that she finds her reprieve, the calm that settles over her like a damp towel pressed against her forehead in the heat as the smell of stomach acid rises. Stays. She remains kneeling on the floor, too weak to move. Too tired to feel bad about what she just did.

  Finally, Verdene presses her palms on the cold concrete and pushes herself up. As she stands, her vision is invaded by black polka dots. She balances herself by holding on to the sink, then the doorframe, then eventually to the walls as she makes her way down the dark corridor toward the kitchen. She moves closer to the table and clutches the mug that holds her tea mixed with rum. She lifts it to her mouth and drinks. When she’s done, she reaches for the bottle of rum and drinks from that. She squints and grimaces as the liquid burns her throat. She slams the bottle down on the table. But how could Margot not call? How could she not call? Had she been religious, this would’ve been a prayer, a litany of pleas and questions.

  Verdene tilts her head back and laughs at the notion of Jesus listening to her harp over a woman. Haven’t I learned my lesson? Verdene has always been the one to push women away with her aggressive need for them to fulfill her, to pour their souls into the gaping hole inside her—a cavity with no bottom; she chased them and backed them into corners with her yearnings, her dependency on them to make her feel whole—the way Aunt Gertrude said Jesus is supposed to. On bended knees, a seventeen-year-old Verdene had bowed her head as Aunt Gertrude’s priest anointed her. Aunt Gertrude had told him about the incident with Akua at the university. The priest placed his holy hand on Verdene’s head, his grasp like a skullcap as he prayed away Verdene’s sin. The same priest married her and her husband four years later. A firm squeeze on Verdene’s right shoulder during her wedding reception was the priest’s way of saying he approved of her salvation—that God had intervened and healed her. Made her whole. Those laughs she and her husband shared, the discussions that ebbed and flowed well into the nights, the comfortable silence that breathed with them after dinner when they each settled into their own readings, sailing into disparate worlds. But a woman has other needs too. The need to be connected to something greater—a cause, a passion. Unlike the other women, who offered an escape from the lies Verdene told herself and the people whose opinions once mattered, Margot offers countenance. But then there’s that pain she senses in Margot—the kind of pain that makes other pains seem minute, insignificant in comparison. Even when Margot was a girl, Verdene sensed this pain. Saw it in her eyes. It was stifling enough to choke her if she wasn’t careful to look away.

  Verdene makes her way to bed. She haphazardly pulls the sheet back. This much she’s able to do, though her limbs feel heavy like they do in dreams in which she’s trying to execute some kind of a critical task, like tying a shoelace. In bed Verdene closes her eyes and sinks farther underneath the sheets, not wanting to believe it possible that Margot could have someone else. The crickets sound like they’re inside the house, trapped under the wooden floors, or in the corners, behind furniture. Everywhere. A sliver of moonlight slips through the window. If karma is real—a payback, perhaps, for walking out on her husband one foggy Sunday morning, a year before her mother’s death, leaving nothing but a letter confessing her extramarital affairs with women and her need for a divorce—Verdene knows deep down that she has already lost.

  14

  MARGOT SITS INSIDE RUPERT’S BOX LUNCH AND VARIETY RESTAURANT, waiting. She glances at her watch and then again at the round clock on the wall that overlooks the small square tables. On top of the tables are a salt-and-pepper rack, a bottle of ketchup, and hot pepper. Flies pitch from one empty table to the other as though playing musical chairs. The restaurant might not remind the tourists who accidentally stumble into it of the nicer restaurants along the hotel chain in Montego Bay or even the ones they’re used to at home, but it suits the habits of the natives: the way the cook prepares the food without worrying about using too much spice; the way the tables are close together because privacy isn’t as important as hunger; the way the dining area is resistant to light, because all you really need is two senses while you eat—smell and taste. Margot has been coming to Rupert’s for years—Rupert serves the best oxtail in Montego Bay. The old toothless man is like a grandfather to Margot, always asking how she is, and giving her extra servings of gravy on her plate.

  Just as Margot is about to put a forkful of gravy rice in her mouth, the girl appears at the doorway, leggy and self-confident. She parts the beaded curtains and pauses to look around the dark restaurant as if Margot isn’t the only customer in the place. The girl runs her hands down her dress to smooth the hem that only reaches mid-thigh. Margot doesn’t greet her until she’s standing directly across from her, smelling like camphor balls and something sweet.

  “Hello, Margot.”

  “It’s ‘boss lady.’”

  “Right. Boss lady.”

  “You’re late. Have a seat.”

  The girl pulls out a chair.

  Margot watches her get comfortable in her seat. She fixes the pink flower in her hair that matches her dress, under which smooth, velvety dark skin beckons more attention. Margot licks the gravy off her lips. “How yuh doing?” Margot asks.

  “Good, good, cyan complain.”

  “Glad to hear.”

  “Suh yuh request to see me?”

  “You were highly recommended by Bobbett. She said you get the most loyal customers, because, of all di girls, you’re di only one willing to try anything. Is that true?”

  “Yes.” The girl smiles sweetly, revealing a gap in her front teeth.

  “What name do you go by out here again?”

  “Dey call me Sweetness, but since we go way back, yuh can call me whateva yuh want.”

  “I’ll call you Sweetness, then. And not a word to anyone about our conversation. Understand?”

  The girl nods.

  “Now, Sweetness, if you want to work for me, yuh have to show me what yuh can do. Prove to me why you’re the number one girl out here. Ah can’t let any an’ anybody into my camp.”

  “How yuh want me to prove it to you?”

  “I have an assignment for you. Yuh first.”

  “So I’m hired
?”

  “If you do what I ask.”

  “What is dat?”

  “I want you to seduce a woman.”

  “What?”

  “Just for a night. I want you to seduce her. I’ll pay you double what yuh making now.”

  The girl laughs. “Dis is a joke?” she asks.

  Margot glances at the clock over the girl’s head. She has to be back at work in half an hour. “Can you do it or not?”

  “Me nuh go dat way.”

  “For two hundred dollars. U.S., not Jamaican.”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Is just one time. Yuh don’t have to think ’bout it aftah yuh do it.”

  “Why yuh want me to do this?”

  “If yuh g’wan work fah me, then don’t ask questions.”

  “Okay, how ’bout t’ree hundred?”

  “Don’t bargain wid me either. Take it or leave it.”

  “Who is di ’ooman?”

  “Is that a yes?”

  The girl pauses. She pushes herself away from the table. “Yuh t’ink I need yuh dirty money dat badly? What mek yuh t’ink I’d do such a t’ing? Yuh treating me like me is some kinda hungry mongrel who’d sniff rump fi food. What kinda person yuh t’ink I am?”

  “There’re not many girls like you out here. From what I hear, you is di kinkiest of dem all. Like dat story ’bout di two college students on spring break. The couple who yuh mek—”

  “How yuh know ’bout dat?”

  “Ah do my research before ah do interviews.”

  “Suh yuh t’ink if yuh sweet-talk or blackmail me, ah g’wan jus’ agree fi yuh flimsy offer? Me is not no fool, boss lady.”

  “I know. You’re a very smart girl.”

  “Suh now yuh acknowledge me as smart? Yuh g’wan like yuh neva know me before.”

  “Look, I’m not asking you to go to bed wid the woman. I just want you to tease a likkle an’ see if she responds.”

  “Yuh trying to frame har?”

  “What me tell yuh ’bout the questions?”

  “She has something yuh want?”

  “You’re obviously not understanding me.”

  “Wid all due respec’, why yuh don’t ask some nasty woman like yuhself to do it?”

  “Because I think you’d be better at it, wid all di nastiness you’ve done. Remember you’re doing a job. It’s not a reflection of who you are as a person. I’m sure yuh screw men and, according to those rumors, women too.”

  “It was only di one time.”

  “But yuh go home to yuh boyfriend.”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Then to whoever yuh go home to.”

  “I live alone.”

  “Point is, you’re good at what you do because you’re able to separate yuhself from it. What I’m offering you is better than what you’re used to. After this, you’ll work for me and never have to want fah anyt’ing again.”

  “When yuh want me do di t’ing?”

  “As soon as tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes. Yuh have plans?”

  “No. It’s jus’ . . .”

  “One night. Is all I’m asking.”

  “If my mother know, she’d kill me.”

  Margot rolls her eyes at this. She glances at the clock again. Fifteen minutes left.

  “Ah hope is not anyone from Rivah Bank. Suppose dey know me an’ my family?”

  “She doesn’t.”

  “But you do.”

  “Why would I tell anyone? You’re working for me. This is between us. Understood?”

  “Suppose di woman tell people?”

  “She won’t.”

  “Suppose she want to sleep wid me fah more than a night?”

  “Then do it. Your pay would double. No, triple.”

  “What?”

  “Yuh heard me.”

  “It’s asking too much of me.”

  “Tell me something. How many times yuh come across six hundred dollars from yuh nightly strolls? Six hundred dollars. Tell me if something is wrong wid earning six hundred easy dollars.”

  The girl shakes her head. “God wrong wid it.”

  “So that’s the new thing now? Hookers who clutch dem pearls an’ dem Bible ah talk ’bout God? When since yuh tun Miss Gracie? Any other night yuh willing to bend ovah, skin up, an’ get dung pon all fours, an’ now yuh ah talk ’bout God? Yuh even go as far as have a threesome.”

  “I jus’ did the man.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “I’m not dat way.”

  “If that’s the case, then I’ll take my offer elsewhere.” Margot gets up from the table. “Thanks for your time.” She walks out the door, leaving the girl sitting there at the table.

  “Wait!”

  Margot slows. When she turns, she’s face-to-face with the girl, who is standing a good three inches taller than Margot in heels, her eyes brimming with determination and something else Margot tries to pinpoint.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “All right. Tonight at Lux Bar and Grill.” Margot eyeballs the girl’s outfit. “I’ll have something nicer for you to wear.” Margot walks quickly toward the exit and the girl catches up with her again, holding on to her elbow. “Margot! Ah mean, boss lady?”

  “Yes?”

  “Me is not like dat. Not because me agree mean dat me go dat way.” Her eyes are burning into Margot, their radius expanding, pleading, a blue streak of terror inside each iris. “Me is not like dat a’tall.”

  “Nothing wrong if you are,” Margot says, meeting the girl’s frightened stare, identifying what exactly she sees beyond the dread. “The more versatile, the bettah.” And with that, she walks away.

  15

  “WHEN WILL THIS DROUGHT END?” THANDI ASKS CHARLES, her head tilted to the strips of white clouds in the sky. The sun hangs low to the water, searing the sand on the beach, and bearing down on Thandi and Charles until they must slow down, unable to carry such weight.

  “Dunno,” Charles says, wiping perspiration off his face with his hand. “It bettah be sooner than lata. The soil is bad fah di produce dis year. Ah saw couple farmers crying in di field wah day ovah dem yam, sweet potatoes, dasheen, an’ corn. Even the passion fruit decay pon di vines before time.”

  Charles hasn’t said anything about seeing her naked in Miss Ruby’s shack, so neither has Thandi. She knows, in a remote corner of her mind, that he hasn’t forgotten. Small talk about the drought relieves them of the intimate pressure. So she plays along, pretending that it never happened. Though that damp warmth that courses through her body lingers as long as the drought. They are walking along the beach barefoot toward the castle. Up close Thandi can see where the rooms might be. Once they’re inside it, they exhale from escaping the sun. As soon as he catches his breath, Charles surprises Thandi by twirling her around in the empty space like they’re a couple dancing to slow music. The area is spacious, with massive cylindrical columns. “Maybe it’s going to be a dance hall,” Charles says in a whisper, as though anyone might be around to hear. Their voices echo. “Men will dance in their tuxedos wid their women like this—” He dips Thandi, holding her back so that she won’t fall. Thandi squeals and giggles in his arms. She lifts one leg up like the ladies do in movies. For a second they stare at each other, Thandi unsure if he’ll kiss her and Charles looking like he’s deciding whether it’s the right time. They pull away as if simultaneously arriving at a consensus to wait at least until the sun sets. Charles’s eyes drift to an empty pool. It’s carved out like someone took a big ice-cream scoop to it. Around them are tools the construction workers use—wheelbarrows and pipes and planks. Outside there are several bulldozers parked. Thandi inhales the smell of cement as they stand inside the empty place. She imagines that she’s in the mouth of a whale, looking up into the roof of its mouth—the crisscrossing of the bone structure and teeth—feeling small. Insignificant. She follows Charles to another area where she can see the sun slowly disappearing, its death ma
rch across the sky finally coming to an end. It’s here that they settle. Charles spreads his towel for her to sit. He sits facing her.

  “When do you think they’ll be done?” she asks.

  “By Christmas, maybe. Definitely by high season. More tourists come then.”

  “How long ago did they start?”

  Charles shrugs his shoulders. “’Bout March, thereabout.”

  Where Thandi lives—the part farthest from the fork along the Y-shaped river—there is no construction activity going on. There’s also no indication that what happened to Little Bay will happen to River Bank too. After all, River Bank is scrunched under the nose of a hill and the river overflows when it rains. It’s not exactly a tourist attraction like Martha Brae, Black River, or Rio Bueno. Also, the beach won’t be ideal for amateur swimmers, since one can easily drown if not aware of Pregnant Heidi’s wrath.

  “They been coming around, giving out papers,” he says.

  She’s sitting Indian-style with her hands on her knees, her uniform skirt falling between them, and her head turned. She fixes her eyes on the arches above her head.

  “Papers?” she asks.

  Charles shrugs again. “I guess for the bulldozing noise. Mama can’t get rest wid all di banging and drilling.”

  “We don’t hear that from where we are,” Thandi says, feeling panic for the first time. She thinks back to the workmen she has noticed whenever she’s over by Miss Ruby and Charles’s side of the river, which is closer to the sea and fishing boats. It never occurred to her that the men were building so close. They always seemed so far. “Do you ever think they’ll kick us out?” she hears herself ask.

  “That won’t work,” Charles says, his voice laced with something that makes Thandi suspect he has given it thought. “That wouldn’t happen. We’ll burn dem out first. What right do dey have fi kick people outta dem own place? Me tired of di government an’ how dem mek we country open to foreigners wid money. Wah ’bout di people? If dey evah try fi get rid ah we, me will show dem who dem dealing wid.”

  He focuses on her. “Yuh not hot?” He asks. “Why yuh wear dat long sweatah every day?”