by Fiona Zedde
Her father poked his head in. "Want to come eat with us?"
Sinclair rubbed her eyes and sat up. "Sure. Give me two minutes."
For a moment, she watched the spot from where Victor just disappeared. Then shook her head. As she fumbled in her suitcase for clothes, barely paying attention to her actions, delicate tendrils of memory began to unfurl in her mind. Twenty years ago, she had loved this man, worshipped him, and thought him the sun that revolved around her mother's earth.
She remembered now that he had been more crippled by Beverly's death than even she was, often staring down at his daughter as if he had no idea who she was, at times leaving her in the middle of a conversation about a torn button or a hemmed skirt. His eyes were so sad. Her grandmother's arrival four months later was a welcome distraction for them both. Mavis-a woman who before that had always sent cards on birthdays and holidays, who visited every Christmas and seemed so exotic with her foreign accent, flowing dresses, and sandalwood-scented hugs-fell into their lives like healing rain.
When Gram suggested taking Sinclair to America with her, her father only nodded as if he had been expecting it. He asked her how she would feel about living with her grandmother in America. Sinclair, mesmerized by Mavis's smell and distracted from her own pain by the woman's complete devotion to her, said yes, she would like that very much. At the airport Victor took her hand and squeezed it, warning her to dress well for the cold weather in her new city.
Sinclair reluctantly pulled herself from the past and shuffled to the bathroom where she washed her face and teeth. Light from the sun-filled kitchen assaulted her eyes as she walked in. Saturday morning reggae oldies played from a tiny radio on the windowsill, competing with the frantic singing of the birds outside the window. Everyone was already seated at the small kitchen table with full plates and cups in front of them. An empty chair waited for her next to Xavier.
"Good morning," Sinclair said, her voice still low from sleep.
"Callalloo, saltfish, and dumpling," her father said, gesturing to her plate. "I hope you still eat Jamaican food."
"Why would I stop?" She smiled as she sat down. "Gram raised me on it."
"Your hair looks nice like that," Nikki said shyly. Sinclair realized that she'd left her hair in its usual nighttime plaits the same moment that she noticed that her father's young wife wore her hair in a similar style.
"Thank you. Yours looks nice, too."
With her hair in fat, sectioned plaits and the tiny gold hoops in her ears, Nikki looked even younger than she had the day before. She blushed at Sinclair's compliment and broke open her dumpling.
Sinclair eyed her plate with its two fat, round breakfast dumplings and the respectably sized heap of callalloo with bits of salt-cured codfish. She hadn't tried to eat this much in a long time. But she would now. The smell of her breakfastfreshly risen fried dough and the earthy spiced scent of greens-reminded Sinclair sharply of her grandmother.
"Did you cook?" she asked Nikki, breaking open the crisp, tongue-melting dough with its soft and steaming insides.
"No, Victor did." She smiled over at her husband.
Xavier smacked happily at his meal, his cheeks bulging like a chipmunk's. Under the table, his bare feet swung blissfully back and forth to the music from the radio.
"It's very good," Sinclair said after she swallowed her own mouthful. Almost as good as her grandmother's.
"Good. You'll get the chance to practice your cooking, too, while you're here." He winked.
"Hmm. I'm not sure if you want that." Her mouth quirked up around her food. "But I'll give it a try."
"You can't cook?" Nikki asked, eyes wide with surprise.
Victor chuckled. "She left us and became a modern American woman."
"What do you know about modern American women aside from the stuff they show on foreign television?" she said, pointing her food-heavy fork at her father. "All that stuff is made up, you know."
Nikki paused her chewing. "Even Cops?"
"Especially Cops."
"But you still can't cook?"
Sinclair chuckled ruefully at her father's question. "I don't cook. My boyfriend used to do all the cooking when we were together."
"And when he didn't cook, what did you do?"
"I'd get some takeout, frozen food, or just eat out."
"What did I tell you?" her father laughed, touching Nikki's arm. "A modern woman. Just as efficient as one of her frozen foods."
"I think I resent that."
"Don't take offense, daughter. We're people from different times, different cultures, and I'm just having a bit of fun." He pushed his chair away from the table. "I enjoy reading about Americans on the Web and in the papers, but unlike many of my countrymen, I don't envy you the lifestyle."
"Can you make American popcorn?" Xavier looked up from his nearly empty plate.
Sinclair nodded. "If I have the right corn, I can."
"Tomorrow?"
"OK. Tomorrow."
Despite protests from both Nikki and her father, Sinclair washed the breakfast dishes and pots, before disappearing into the bathroom to shower and wash her hair. Later, with her wet hair fluffed out to dry, she wandered out into the backyard and found her father watering the plants. The house was conspicuously empty.
"Where is everybody?"
"Nikki and Xavier went up the street for some groceries. They'll be back in an hour or two." He swept the spray of water along the length of a tall banana tree. "You lonely already?"
"Not while I have you here to keep me company."
"She's a sweet talker, just like her mother," he said to the air above his head, laughing.
Sinclair grinned and thought for the second time in as many days that this man was nothing like she'd expected. Her childhood memories of him were few, limited only to the ones that had resurfaced earlier that day and mental snapshots of him smiling down at her from a great height, his voice telling her not to forget him as she waited for a plane to take her off to America with her grandmother.
After her mother died, it was hard to see him and not think of her, and of her absence that was a constant flinching pain. Sinclair cried when Gram took her away. She didn't remember if it was with relief or sadness. The distance between her and her father made things better, so did Gram's unwavering love. Before she knew it, a year went by in America, then two, then twenty. When the reason for not seeing him faded it just seemed natural to stay away.
"Give me a hand tying back this sorrel tree," her father said, "then we can go on the verandah for a beer."
"All right."
The backyard was easily as large as the house, lined with thick green grass, banana trees loaded down with fruit, gungu pea trees with their delicate branches and leaves dotted by small purple flowers, plus at least a half a dozen other types of trees that Sinclair knew nothing about. The sorrel tree was short, the tallest branch barely reached her father's six-foot height, but its branches spread wide, spilling over and beyond the waist-high fence that separated the jungle of fruit and bean trees from the rest of the grassy backyard. Heartshaped burgundy fruit dusted with fuzz hung from its drooping branches.
"What do I do?"
"It's easy. Just hold the branches back while I tie them up with string."
Easy. Right. Forty-five minutes later Sinclair was covered in the tiny white bugs that she didn't realize lived in the sorrel tree and her skirt was dirty from where she had crouched on its hem in the mud. Her bare arms itched.
"You're a cruel man," she said to her father as she disappeared into the house to take another shower.
"Do you still want that beer?" he asked.
"You better still be offering it."
She closed the door on his laughter.
Chapter 7
victor walked out to the verandah with two beers in his hand. He closed the door behind him and approached Sinclair.
"Is Guinness all right?"
"Yes, thank you."
He offered his daught
er a sweating bottle of the dark beer and sat down in the rocker next to hers. With a low sigh of contentment he arranged his long legs in front of him, cradling the beer in his cupped hands.
"Do you have a good life in America?" he asked, staring out into the sun-baked front yard,
"It's all right. Things have been a little hard since Gram died five years ago." She took a long sip of her beer, wincing at its bitterness. This was the first time she'd admitted to anyone that she'd been more than a little affected by her grandmother's death. "How about you? How is married life treating you the second time around?"
"Things are good. Nikki is a good woman. I feel like I'm finally doing things right this time."
Sinclair looked at him with a question in her eyes. As she opened her mouth to ask it, a pale blue jeep Wrangler pulled up to the gate. Its doors and roof had been taken off, leaving the driver and passenger unprotected from the midmorning sun.
"Hey, Mr. Daniels!" the woman behind the wheel called out. Her hair was in long, loose dreadlocks that tumbled around her face and shoulders like black lace. Another woman, older with her hair plaited around her head and strung with cowry shells, hefted two well-wrapped packages from the back of the jeep and walked toward the house. When the driver noticed Sinclair sitting on the other side of her father, she waved.
"Why doesn't that girl come into the yard instead of shouting out my name to the whole neighborhood?" Victor asked no one in particular.
The woman with the packages shrugged. "Young people." Her smile teased Sinclair's father but he wasn't biting.
"Nikki's not home. She's on Market Street." He took the heavier package from the older woman, then gave her an envelope. "But she told me to give you this with her thanks."
"Tell her I'll stop by on the weekend to see her and the baby."
Sinclair watched their byplay with curiosity. This woman was beautiful, with short but well-shaped legs and a tight backside covered in mid-length khaki shorts. Sinclair looked away wincing with sudden guilt. This woman was the same age her mother would have been.
"That baby is four years old now, Della," Victor said.
"So what? He's her only one. Until you give her another one, Xavier will stay the baby."
Victor opened the front door for Della and waved her ahead of him. They disappeared into the house. In the meantime, the woman in the jeep made herself comfortable behind the wheel. She dangled one bare foot outside the vehicle's door as she lay back in the seat that was reclined as far back as it could go. Sunlight poured over the subtle hills and valleys of her body like honey. The slim-fitting white tank top and cutoff shorts gave Sinclair an excellent view of all that beautiful dark skin. She gawked shamelessly, even tilted her head to get a better view.
If she'd been someone else, maybe like Regina, she would have walked up to the stranger in the jeep and struck up a conversation, found out if she was into women. Her sleek, athletic look screamed "dyke" but Sinclair wasn't one to risk embarrassment on an assumption. Sinclair looked away from the woman as her father came back out of the house.
"Della, this is my daughter, Sinclair. She's visiting me from America for a few weeks."
"Hello," Sinclair said.
"Mercy! I thought that was Lydia sitting right there." So she was rude enough to never speak to Lydia? Whoever that was.
"Good to meet you, child." She looked at Sinclair again as she shook her hand. "Sinclair? Does that mean you're Bev Sinclair's daughter?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Don't ma'am me, young lady." She squeezed Sinclair's fingers gently. "Well, I'll be .... I knew your mother a long time ago. Used to even babysit for her. I can see that the resemblance to Lydia is only superficial. You have your mother's mouth and eyes." She made as if to touch Sinclair's hair but the younger woman moved back.
"Sorry."
Sinclair's smile put even more distance between them. "That's OK."
Della dropped her hand. "Well, I'll just head out. Hunter and I have a few more things to do before it gets dark. Good to see you again, Victor. Take care, Sinclair."
Sinclair nodded in response and watched the older woman walk away and climb back into the jeep. The woman behind the wheel waved at Sinclair again before driving off.
She turned to her father. "Who was that?"
"One of your mother's old friends." He made an impatient gesture. "A potmaker."
Sinclair smiled. "A potmaker?"
"That's what she does. Make pots. And other things, too. Nikki spends at least half her paychecks on her clay." He waved at the neat arrangement of potted plants ringing the verandah then to the yard where all manner of sculpture sat among the shrubbery and flowers. Nikki certainly had an eye for arranging.
"Nikki must like her work, or her, a lot."
"They get along." Her father made a noise that could have been anything. But Sinclair could see the emotion for what it was. Jealousy. He was jealous of his wife's friendship with Della. She looked at her father in surprise but didn't press the issue.
They spent the rest of the afternoon talking, discussing the books they'd both read and other things they had in common despite the twenty years they'd spent apart. When Nikki and Xavier came back the discussion continued over homemade popcorn and checkers, lasting until dinnertime and beyond. After Nikki and the boy went to bed, Sinclair and her father went back to the verandah and beers. Their laughter rang out in the warm air until the sun blushed the Blue Mountains a soft pink. Only then did their drooping eyes force them indoors for sleep.
In the morning, Nikki and Xavier lured Sinclair out with the promise of showing her the sea. They took Victor's motorcycle. Nikki crushed her fire hair underneath a black motorcycle helmet, then put a smaller one on Xavier's head. Earlier she had urged Sinclair to leave her hair plaited so now the thick mass had no trouble fitting under the helmet Nikki offered.
"Hold on tight to me, Xavie." Nikki's soft voice fluted gently into the late morning air.
"I remember, Mama." He hopped up and down with excitement at the thought of riding the noisy bike.
Nikki and Sinclair got on the bike first, then they squeezed Xavier between them. He giggled when Sinclair's fingers floated over his ribs before settling firmly around Nikki's waist. And off they went.
Nikki was a competent and cautious driver, honking the horn as they rounded narrow curves in the road to let other, larger vehicles know they were coming. The wind stung Sinclair's eyes, making them squint and water. At first, the speed and vulnerability of it frightened her, but she remembered her childhood when she'd been where Xavier was now, safe between two people who loved her. Then she relaxed, enjoying the push and pull against her body as the bike slowed down for traffic then sped up again.
Their journey ended on the beach, a quiet area of white sand and lulling waves with only a few other people wandering its length. Nikki parked in a grove of tall coconut trees and took off her shoes before unstrapping a small bag from the back of the bike. Sinclair and Xavier hopped off the motorcycle and waited for her.
"This is my quiet place. Not many people know about it." She slung the bag over her shoulder and took Xavier's hand. When the boy offered his other hand to Sinclair, she smiled down at him.
"It's beautiful here," she said.
"Yes, it is."
The women walked toward the water with Xavier strung between them like a twinkling Christmas light.
"Ah! Bird!" Xavier broke away from them to chase a flock of tiny seabirds.
"Careful," Nikki called after him, but did not follow. Sinclair watched her young stepmother, smiling at Nikki's ridiculously young age.
"How old are you, Nikki?"
"Twenty-two. "
She was too busy watching her son to see Sinclair's expression. When she turned back to her stepdaughter, Sinclair cleared her throat. "Do we have to be back at a particular time?"
"Not really." Nikki looked at the little Timex on her wrist. "We have almost the whole day to play."
"Great."
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They pulled bathing suits from the bag that Nikki carried and quickly changed in one of the tiny huts that lined the beach before all three of them ran into the warm lapping water. Sinclair sank into the wet embrace with a laugh while Nikki and Xavier circled her, splashing each other and laughing at their own childish antics. The sun was hot on their faces.
It wasn't long before Sinclair, who wasn't at all used to exercise, stumbled out of the water with her limbs heavy with exhaustion. She collapsed on the blanket, breathing in the light scent of sunscreen from her own body and the intoxicating salt of the sea. A sigh and an unwelcome thought disturbed her contentment. Sinclair rolled over onto her belly and cradled her face in sun-warmed arms. She wished the sun could burn it all away-the pain, the humiliation, that clawing part of her that still wanted Regina back. Sinclair dozed in the sun, only stirring when Xavier poked her with his toe.
"Mama says come back to the water."
She squinted up at him. "Why?"
"Because-" he looked behind him. "Mama! Why?"
"Because she doesn't want to spend her time on this beautiful place spread out on the sand like a beached whale," Nikki called back.
A whale? That's one thing Sinclair had never been compared to before. Had Nikki ever seen a whale? Then she realized that this was the longest sentence her stepmother had ever spoken to her.
She sat up. "If I were a more physically substantial person, I'd take offence at that."
"I'm sure they have skinny whales out in the sea somewhere," Nikki laughed back.
It served her right when Sinclair took a flying leap into the water and doused her in a gigantic tidal wave that left her choking on water and her own laughter. Sinclair's young stepmother was as much of a child as Xavier, with her high infectious laughter and sweet playfulness. Sinclair could see how she could make a lover feel young again, or very old.
Hours later, they rode back to the house in silence with the grit of sand on their tongues and in the intimate crevices of their skin. Nikki hummed as she drove and Xavier leaned into her, his ear pressed against her back. Sinclair could admit to being happy and being, at least for a little while, free of any thoughts or feelings related to the recent past of the city. Nikki and Xavier's unexpected friendship, like the sun, had burned them away.
