Big Island, Small

by Maureen St. Clair

  Judith almost got kicked out of school. The rumour spread like dominoes slapped down one after the other. She said she was sure someone else saw them leave the Bay, someone gliding through early morning mist, like the Umbrella Man, she says. “Drey say the Umbrella Man used to thief small children, suck out their breath till they dead. The Umbrella Man never got old, Drey say.” Judith tells me this in a whisper like she’s telling me something I don’t know. I know plenty about obeah, I tell her.

  Judith shares the story so casually, like she did nothing wrong, as if almost getting kicked out of school is a joke. As if making love while still in school is a normal way to behave. I know she wants me to ask questions but I am irritated by her casualness. I am not going to give her the satisfaction of laughing when she laughs. It’s a wonder she can even tell the story with such lightness. People from the big world can get away with such nonsense but then I remember Judith is from the same small world I am from.

  The breeze gathers behind our backs. The short sleeves are not enough to protect us from the chill. I listen while staring into the cracked concrete. Blurred, fading faces still signalling to me. I stand up, say I am tired. Judith says she has enough money for two tacos and two chai teas. I say I am going home, I have to get up early, I’ll call her tomorrow.

  “Why you getting up early?”

  “To pack.”

  “I thought you leaving next week.”

  “So.”

  “Well don’t you think we should spend as much time as we can before you leave for school?”

  My insides go all wobbly because I want to spend every moment with her. I want with such fierceness to never leave her side. These feelings cause a rush of adrenaline that feels suffocating and alive. Feels like I want to vomit and sing at the same time. “Judith I’m not leaving the country for good. The university is two hours from here.”

  She laughs but I recognize sadness from the lines bending not twirling into her cheeks, and then the slow deliberate steps as she walks away. The next morning Judith texts wanting to know when she can meet Dolma and Shy, as if she’s come up with a plan overnight, a plan that will tether us together after I leave.

  JUDITH

  FINALLY SOLA TELL ME to come over. So I do. I walk with photos in a bag around my wrist, photos of the island to show Dolma. Sola laugh, “So you think Dolma forgets what Small Island looks like?” Regardless I keep them close to my side.

  Sola say I want the photos close in case Dolma don’t believe me, don’t believe I too from Small Island. To my surprise, Dolma take to me right away, just as Sola predict. Sola say whenever she or Shy bring anyone home darker than light Dolma chase them with questions, “How long you been on Big Island?” or “Where your family from?” “Who’s your favourite cricket team?” She say Dolma surprise to hear these friends don’t know cricket; shocked to find out most them been on Big Island longer than the Irish neighbours living next door.

  When Sola and I first step onto the elevator, she convince the smell from the apartment will bother me. She tell me Dolma insist on keeping windows shut even when frying food. It’s the fry fish that bother she the most, she say. I figure that’s why she wear so much incense oil. I tell her I’d rather smell fry food than too much perfume. Sola step in front of me and walk out the elevator.

  Dolma’s head push out the apartment door as soon as she hear us coming. “So where you was? You never say anything about staying out all day, Sola,” she say.

  “Dolma this is Judith. Judith Dolma.”

  Dolma doesn’t hear Sola. She hand fly up to she hair flattening the sides. “Judith? You never tell me about Judith.” Dolma sweep my body with she eyes. She start with my feet and slowly make she way up. My head give she pause. I think I hear a faint suck of teeth when she eyes land on my hair.

  “Mom,” Sola say.

  Dolma turn to Sola. “What? Oh come in. Come in. Welcome Judith,” she say still glaring like I a crossword waiting to be sorted.

  Sola’s living room: red chili pepper lights over draped windows. Holiday cards strung from shelf to shelf. Pictures of Haile Selassie the Emperor of Ethiopia, African lions, fists of Black power, outlines of African maps and Queens. The Ethiopian flag on one side, Small Island on the next. Red, green, gold cloth pin to the wall. Indigenous masks and tokens scatter throughout the room. And wove between Africa, Jesus. Pictures of a white man holding a lamb in arms, another picture of a Black man on a cross with blood spilling from nails and thorns. Proverbs laced in flowers: “The LORD is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear?” Collage in between, small statues of dogs, cats, horses, white boys and girls with balloons in hands. And just when you think colours enough, neon pink and green flowers poke their heads from the kitchen corner.

  I sit on the couch, photos still by my side. Dolma watch me. She keep looking at my dreads. She eyes take in my t-shirt for the first time and she face turn confusion, “Eh, eh, you wearing our shirt. Where you get that from? You visit Small Island on holiday?”

  But before I answer she say, “You want to taste some mauby?”

  “Yes please,” I say a little too fast, a little too eager. Sola later say Dolma love the politeness falling from my mouth, love I the first white person she know who like mauby. When I ask for a second glass Sola convince the photos are a waste of time. Sola also predict Dolma will forgive me my hair.

  Sola never mention to Dolma I from Small Island. “Sola I can’t believe you never tell me about Judith oui! Who’s your folks? What part of the island you from?”

  But before I have a chance to respond, Dolma talking again, “What happened to you Sola? Why you keep Judith a secret? And yes I can see now that you is mixed. Look at that nose. A real African nose. And now I see the hair. You is Rasta? Shy used to have dreads too you know. But he had to cut them when he start looking for work. At first I think you one of those folks who like to sit in the sun but I see now that’s your natural colour!”

  Sola wait for me to say something. But instead I sit on the couch, a darker shade of fair honey. Silent.

  “Come on child, tell me where your people from,” Dolma sing.

  “Well my mom’s from here and Dad’s from the north part of the island, Top Village.”

  “Eh eh! What d’hell is this? I have people from there too you know. What’s your father’s name?”

  “Johns.”

  “So why you so white? Sorry but you’se not black that’s for sure. Is your daddy red skin? He coolie? Mixed?”

  “Nah he black like you. Same colour,” I say.

  The look on she face, from sunshine to storm, “I ain’t black child, I more brown than black. Sola’s the black one of the family.” Dolma’s eyes roll and this time for certain I hear the suck of teeth, slow and deliberate. “Never mind that. You real come out fair oui! Your daddy’s genes weak girl!” Dolma’s belly shakes with delight.

  “And what happened to your face,” she say, looking at the bird-nest scar on my left cheek.

  “Oh that’s another story,” I say, not wanting to talk about car accidents.

  I watch Sola. She agitated. She grab two Hershey kisses from the bowl on the table and head to the door. “We are going to be late. Let’s go,” she says.

  “Why we don’t catch the late show and hang with your mom longer,” I say.

  “And she talk like we too!” Dolma say. “Sola you don’t see Judith still carry she language. Interesting, ’cause I can hear Big Island too. You have both oui! A beautiful mix of Small and Big Island tumbling out your mouth. Sola lose she language long. She vexed she have to leave Small Island you know, but she take no time to adopt Big Island ways. Me, I can move between both. When I at work my Big Island tongue nice and proper just like the nuns teach me but when I step back into the apartment I strictly local.”

  “Me too,” I hear myself say. ’Cause it’s true. I can move in and out. But eve
r since Mom die I stay in one place, Small Island, and I not bow down to the teachers. Speaking Standard English got me thinking Mom too much. And so I erase that. Now that I am back I can hear the blend.

  Sola shift from one foot to the next. She tap she fingers against the wall like she been waiting to leave for a long time. “Well you can stay if you want but I’m out of here,” Sola say, reaching for the door.

  Dolma assure me I can stay. There’s a part of me want to stay, share photos, hope for more questions, but Sola leaving and I following ’cause I not missing anymore time with Sola before she leave for school.

  “Nice meeting you, Ms. Dolma. Hope to see you soon,” I say.

  “You come by any time. We is family. There not many of us here on the east coast of Big Island. Any time you feel to visit, you call. I know Shy love to meet you. He from the neighbouring islands. He run a Small Island shop. Did Sola tell you? Did you tell Judith, Sola? You can buy anything you missing from home. And not far from the shop is a Small Island restaurant, the Lion’s Den. Doesn’t look like Sola tell you much.”

  That’s when the door shut behind Sola and I leave with Dolma telling me not to worry, “Sola the moody one of the family. She get it from she father.”

  On the way to the theatre Sola decide she not seeing movie again.

  “How you mean?” I say.

  “What do you mean how you mean?”

  “Why you do that Sola?”

  “Do what?” She answer with the same scratchy tone.

  “Make fun.”

  “I’m not making fun.”

  “Sola just ’cause you work hard to maintain the Queen’s English you don’t have to put that shit on me. On us.”

  “On us? Who is us? You and Dolma best friends now? You’re family now?”

  A few blocks pass before I cut the silence. “What happen Sola? Ever since we walk into your house you vex.”

  “Well you’re damn irritating. ‘Thank you Ms. Dolma. I love mauby Ms. Dolma. Yes my daddy’s people come from the Village Ms. Dolma. I love fishcakes Ms. Dolma.’ My ass you love fishcakes. You told me the other day fish cakes make you sick!”

  “I want your mom to like me. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Well she’s going to like you regardless Judith. You are white and she likes white folks.”

  I feel my shoulders collapse as we walk in the direction of the theatre. The night air cool. The wind tripping leaves to the ground.

  SOLA

  A HAIRLINE SPLIT BEGINS to grow between Judith and me. The delicate crack with intricate patterns, indiscernible yet breathing. I wish I could delete Drey, wish Dolma left the mauby in the fridge, wish Judith was black not white, wish the visit between Dolma and Judith would stop playing in my head. Judith and her stack of photos tight by her side, like a baby sister. Dolma with her head out the door as we arrive. The look on her face when she first notices Judith. How she quickly sweeps her hands over her hair while passing tongue over teeth. Then she sees Judith’s dreads. Concern of her own appearance turns to confusion at the wild loose locks gathering on Judith’s head. Later Dolma describes Judith’s hair like branches gathering in a heap after a storm.

  My irritation with Judith starts on the elevator when she comments on the way I smell. “It’s too much Sola. It’s not cream you rubbing your skin with you know.”

  I want to wipe the island dialect clean from her mouth, tell her to mind her own damn business. Instead I pretend air not words came from her lips. I would rather smell like an incense stick burning than the stink of Shy’s tobacco and Dolma’s fried fish. I am weary of the apartment for other reasons too. Airless and cramped. Unlike the spaciousness of Aunt Rachel’s place, fawn-coloured wood floors throughout the house. White walls with singular large paintings — primary colours flowing into powdery blue skies, bright yellow fields, solitary figures clothed in reds, blues and greens. A large hibiscus plant in one corner, a sandstone figure dancing in the next. A cream couch and two cream chairs on the periphery. And in the middle, empty space.

  Unlike my own home, where clutter meets more clutter on walls and floor. It wouldn’t be so cramped if Dolma didn’t save every souvenir bought or given to her over the years; this combined with Christmas decorations still up even though it is mid-August. Judith telling me later, “Aunt Rachel’s feels like a cold winter day compared to a warm market morning at your place.”

  Whatever.

  The look on Dolma’s face when Judith calls her black. A highlight of the visit. Dolma prides herself on being more brown than black. She never fails to remind those in doubt that black looks like me not her. I leap up from the edge of my heels and tell Judith we are going to be late for the movie. Judith hesitates, says we can catch the later show. Dolma doesn’t care whether I leave, stay or sit on the table sucking my toes.

  I don’t know why but that afternoon Judith’s tongue bothers me more than ever. And then there’s hypocrite Dolma praising Judith for the way she speaks. And Dolma as proper as can be when she leaves the house. Dolma is right though, they both can easily swim between dialect and standard. I chide Judith regardless while we walk to the theatre as she talks nonsense about Queen’s English and my disdain for my own local tongue. By that point I want to be alone. I want to walk alone. I don’t want the burden of Judith’s fallen mood. Besides people are watching. Always someone watching us. Judith, fair skin with hair wild and free or wrapped in bright African cloth, and then me, hair tight and orderly, skin black like coal, clothes plain.

  I leave Judith in front of the movie theatre. Tell her I am feeling sick. Tell her I am going to go back home and sleep it off. I am vexed for having to say anything at all. Vexed I have to make up an excuse. I am accustomed to being alone even when I am with others. And now, with Judith I feel I have to account for myself.

  She doesn’t say much. “All right,” she says, and walks through the theatre doors. I trip stepping off the curb, turn to get a look at what I almost fell down for and see nothing, nothing to curse at, nothing to blame. I walk on with images of my nine-year-old self stumbling, falling and then being gently pulled up by the flight attendant with the red-beaded coral comb pinned to the side of her head. Blue eyeliner. Smooth, powdered skin that turns wrinkly and rough below her jaw line. Golden hair cut strait and twirling around shoulders. I love how she calls me sweetie, honey, love.

  I pray once Dolma sees me she’ll send me back onto the plane with the attendant still holding my hand. I believe once Dolma realizes I am the same child, with the same scowl, the same colour black, the same as when she left me with Thompson, she’ll send me back. But then there she is, Dolma on the other side of immigration calling my name with her arms flailing and her mouth smiling. “There she is Shy, there’s my Sola.”

  The Small Island Dolma I remember rarely smiled unless there was a Mr. in the yard, then she laughed at every joke or sentence falling from the Mr.’s mouth. It didn’t have to be the same Mr., just a Mr. who had money. When Dolma laughed her face changed, dimples lit the side of her face. Eyes lost in all that smile. These fleeting images disappear leaving instead memories of Dolma by the pipe, alone with her hands in a bucket of soapy water scrubbing clothes with no Mr. to be seen. I figure Shy is the Mr. this time and the image just as fleeting as before. But she looks sincere, in good cheer, arms waving above head and the bright upward swerve of her mouth. She grabs and holds me. Seems like we stand there longer than the whole plane ride. I try to squeeze out of her arms but surrender instead.

  I’m reminded of this feeling of surrender a few weeks later, when I get lost in a massive field of corn. I slip into the field when Dolma is paying for baskets of berries she sees by the side of the highway. I’ve never seen such large stretches of land, fields upon fields of corn dipping rippling and rising like the sea. I imagine swimming not walking the intricate paths of that corn maze. I get lost immediately. I turn back imagining the open
ing a few corners away. A tightness in my chest like the time Thompson heaved me into the ocean shouting, “Hold your breath. Kick your legs.” Two red-cheeked, hazel-eyed kids licking sticks of chocolate turn the corner. And then the father just behind them. He must see the fright because he tells me not to worry, that they’ve walked the maze a zillion times, that they’ll show me the way out.

  Then Dolma running toward me, “Sola! How you could just walk off like that?” She slaps me then holds me. I surrender to an unfamiliar embrace and then to the sting of a familiar cuff.

  At the airport Shy sticks out his hand as soon as Dolma releases me. He holds my hand in both his like he is cupping a small bird. His hands go to his heart. I sit in the backseat and watch the massive buildings float by like cruise ships standing upright. The sky lit by stars and city lights. Shy stays true to his name and doesn’t open his mouth once until he tells Dolma to take her time because she is talking too much and that I must be tired from the trip.

  Dolma ignores him. “So how’s everybody home? How’s Ma doing? What about Mikey? Did he go back to school? And what about your sister? You ever see your sister? I don’t call she anymore because Gloria pretend she make that child from she own womb. Don’t get me wrong I real happy for your sister but would be nice if she’d call once in a while.”

  Dolma had a child before me. She was fourteen when she made Azuka. Dolma’s elder sister, Gloria, swept baby Azuka away like she was carrying off a stray puppy. That’s what I heard Dolma say once to Ma Tay.