Big Island, Small

by Maureen St. Clair

  Then Dolma’s voice again, “People used to say things about you too, Sola. They used to say you went to his house. The same Mr. Robbie. People wicked you know. They like to say all kinda things. I never once believe them, ’cause I know you too smart for that. Why would you be going into the man’s house?”

  I keep my eyes on the fresh dug lines of soil. I move over them, digging the earth with the cutlass Shy brought with him when he moved to Small Island.

  “Why you turning up soil again? I went over that already,” Dolma says.

  Shy watches from the next corner, where he shakes out the red green and yellow Small Island flag and sticks it into the small wood fence he built the year before. I keep turning the cutlass into the soil. I never once look up to answer Dolma or wave hello to other gardeners calling. When the last seed is covered a cold sweat creeps up. I take off my jacket and put it back on again.

  “You okay Sola?”

  I say I am fine. I say I am supposed to meet Judith.

  Dolma gathers gardening tools while Shy bangs nails into the post.

  Again I say I am leaving. Again I say I am going to meet Judith. I walk out of the garden and onto the path leading back to the city.

  Dolma calls out, “Sola your bag!”

  But I don’t turn back. Instead I walk with a briskness that gets me to Judith’s house in less than thirty minutes, the feelings inside threatening.

  “She’s not here,” Aunt Rachel says.

  I turn back to the road and run. The steady pounding of pavement. Earth-stained shoes flying over curbs. I knock the elbows and shoulders of people strolling in the early evening sunshine. No apologies. One woman trips and falls after I pass her. She yells something but I can’t hear. Tears whipped into wind. I dash through a red light. Horns blaring. People shouting. He in my head. The stink of cabbage on his breath, the sweet taste of cream soda on mine. Whisperings. Callings from the croton plants. Mr. Robbie telling me I pretty like a rainbow. Mr. Robbie hands on thighs, school dress drying on the edge of sunlight. Coca-Cola stained dress. Sweet buns from the shop. I am running faster now down the streets of Big Island, Small Island in my head and I am shouting, shouting for Judith under my breath.

  By the time the police pull up I have slowed to a steady jog. I keep moving though; if I stop my heart will stop too. I can’t find the space between breathe in and breathe out. A siren buzzes. A muted microphone, “Stop where you are, Miss.”

  I hear the steady slap of my own shoes on pavement as I slow to a walk. I swing the corner. Again the siren, the microphone voice. The blow of breath filling spaces in between my ears. And then a man’s voice thick and low to the left, “Girlfriend you better stop.” Another police car rounding the corner. The voice telling me again, “Stop.”

  I hear Mikey calling me to come out from Mr. Robbie’s house. I look across the road and another man, an older man, standing across the road telling me to humble. To take my time. To not resist. I walk toward him; he shouts for me to stop. Both police officers are out of their cars, one telling me to put my hands over my head and stand up.

  And the voice from across the street shouts, “For fuck’s sake woman stop.”

  I glance over and put one arm up like I want to ask a question. The police officer says, “Both hands.”

  I lift the other but before both hands reach up I am on the ground. I am on my knees sobbing. The police are still telling me to lift my hands but my hands are on the ground scratching pavement. The police officers pull them behind my back. They pull me up by the elbows. I hear my name called from up the road. Judith calling me.

  But it’s not Judith. Aunt Rachel walks toward us calling my name, demanding the officers to tell her what is happening.

  JUDITH

  AUNT RACHEL AND SOLA arrive at the cabin mid-morning. Aunt Rachel gasp to see the insides of my arms like the pit of a peach. I wearing my lemon-green tank exposing arms and the part of my chest still red. Purple sweatshirt tied around my waist. Late morning. I just come home from a walk along the sea. Aunt Rachel turn my arms over with a tenderness I not used to since Mom. It’s the first time she touch me so. Aunt Rachel usually show love through soups and warm blankets, chamomile tea and lemon drops, wool socks and dark chocolate, expensive sunscreen and lead-free deodorant.

  “What happened Judith?”

  I wish I could pull a story together, a story to explain these marks on my skin, marks like tribal scars as Sola refer to them. She also say I look like I attacked by a wild animal, a cougar or bear. I like when she say “warrior marks” the most. She say I wear my warrior marks well, especially the one on my face. I do finally pull together a story and tell Aunt Rachel I boiling water to make porridge and pot fall.

  Aunt Rachel screw up she face like she in pain.

  I say it’s not that bad. I grateful I wearing pants so she can’t see my legs. “Why you here?” I ask.

  Aunt Rachel holding my arms still. “Vitamin E and aloes. I can bring some when I come in a few days. And make sure you keep those covered up from the sun.”

  Sola look off balance, one foot cross over the other and she leaning against the house. She eyes moving between me and the water below. “Can I stay for a couple days?” she ask.

  Aunt Rachel’s soft touch and Sola’s gentle plea have me forgetting how much I enjoy being by myself. Earlier contemplating when I’d tell Aunt Rachel about quitting school, when I’d contact Fabian to tell him I coming home soon. Thinking when I’d connect with Drey again

  Just before Drey leave we hug each other from inside the door while taxi outside waiting. He say he can’t wait for when I get back to Small Island. He say he promise he won’t say anything to Fabian. He kiss me and tell me to take care of myself. He make a joke and say if he could he’d make sure only cold water run from the pipes. We laugh but it’s a weak kinda laugh. He say sorry. I say “How you getting soft so just as you leaving?” That make us laugh with a little more energy.

  “Give my love to Arlene,” I say.

  “Right.”

  “I serious.”

  “Okay,” he say and give me another hug.

  The next day I pack up some things and hitch to the cabin. I leave the city behind and take the bus to the highway. I hold out my thumb like I see it done in the movies. On Small Island some people just call or wave arm for ride if bus not coming. A woman with she dog stop. Dog in the front seat and she having trouble getting him to the back. I climb into the backseat instead. She laugh and pat the dog on he head. “Sorry,” she say, “he’s a bit spoiled.” She ask me where I heading and I tell her I on my way to my aunt’s who live up along the old highway. She say she can take me as far as the turn off. I get out and the woman tell she dog to say goodbye to me. I smile while struggling with my bags and say thanks.

  It’s another thirty-minute drive from the old highway. I wait maybe ten minutes when a small red pickup truck stop. And its Margaret oui. She smiling so loud I think she mistake me for someone else. “Get in,” she say, “I’ll take you wherever you want to go.” She not the same awkward Margaret. She talkative and full of life. She tell me she go to the city every two weeks. She visit she favourite bookstore then treat she self to cappuccino and chocolate cake and then goes for she groceries. Sometimes she say she sleep at a friend’s place and return the next day.

  “What a coincidence,” she say, “meeting you here on the highway.” Then she say, “If your mom knew you were hitchhiking she would have a fit.” Margaret turn red and say sorry.

  “You knew my mom good didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How good?”

  “We were friends for a long time.”

  “Then what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Then what happened after you friends for a long time?”

  “She left for Small Island.”

  Margaret ope
n she window and let the wind blow in. It feel nice even though the cold still sharp. She roll the windows back up and turn the radio on. She ask me how long I plan to stay at the cabin. She see the size of my backpack and two other bags I carrying with food. I say I don’t know. She say if I want I can come for dinner later. I say I’m okay. I still wary of becoming too friendly, of taking too much from Margaret. I still have Aunt Rachel’s voice on the phone telling me not to get close. Not to trust she. Saying if it wasn’t for Margaret your mom would still be alive. I say I’m fine. She watch me like she want to say something but then she turn up the news on the radio. A few minutes later, “How’s your Aunt Rachel? We haven’t seen each other in years. I see her car sometimes at the cabin but she mostly stays indoors and I don’t want to bother her.”

  “Why don’t you want to bother her?”

  Margaret take a deep breath before she answer, “I don’t think your Aunt Rachel would appreciate me bothering her. I imagine she comes to the cabin for some peace and quiet, not to be disturbed by someone like me.”

  “Like you?”

  “A talker.”

  I look over and she smiling. She smiling just like Mom used to smile. Like when Mom make a joke and she think she the only one who understand. I want to say something but I don’t. Instead I think she trying to snare me in she web. She web of friendship. And I still thinking spider when she more seem like one of those lime-green crickets back home. But then Aunt Rachel telling me not to be fooled. And I wondering how this round, red-face, purple-flower-jacket woman can be responsible for Mom’s death?

  She screech to a halt and out of the bush I see a young woman dress in black tights, black jacket, hair shaved on one side carrying a cage. “Where you going Nancy?” Margaret ask through the open window.

  “Home.”

  “Get in.”

  The girl carrying a cat inside the cage. An orange cat with a white face. The cat start to meow. Margaret ask where Nancy going with she cat and Nancy say she just giving she cat a little outing.

  “You sure love cats don’t you Nance?”

  “I do with all my heart I do.”

  Margaret look at me and smile. And all I can think is Mom.

  Later that night I sit on the verandah with a quilt wrapped around me watching purple sweep across sky and moon rise up. I think of the moon Mom tell Aunt Rachel to look for. Why the fuck she make Aunt Rachel look up when Aunt Rachel driving the car? And why the fuck Aunt Rachel look up? She don’t know she driving? Aunt Rachel put the blame on Margaret and Margaret not even in the fucking car. I vex at Aunt Rachel for being so damn vague and dramatic about Margaret. And then I vex at Mom for distracting people when they trying to drive. I bang the door shut and go to bed.

  The next day Margaret find me roll up in the crook of a cliff a mile up shore, bawling. She turn around and walk back, sit on a rock farther down where I can’t see she. Not till I walk back down the shore she call out, “Yoo-hoo.” She wearing a purple cap, curly grey hair sticking out like pieces of cloud. She wave me over. She take both my hands and tell me I look just like my mother. She say she sorry for my loss; she say she know Mom from way back. She say when Mom leave Big Island their friendship never the same and they lose contact. Last time she see Mom she say when I was a baby. She voice start to tremble so she stop talk, tip she head, take my hand and we walk back to the cabin.

  Aunt Rachel and Sola arrive a week later. I surprise to see two of them together. They look like the most unlikely people to be hanging out. Sola ask if she can stay. She never ask me for anything. So I surprise. Before I say anything she turn to the water and walk down the slope. I call out, “Yes.” She lift she thumb in the air and keep walking. She hair growing back. Sola’s nutmeg eyes pop from she face with short hair. I notice this in the hospital. I want to tell she I like she new style but I tired and feel shame for the madness, hurling myself into hot water. I remember the nurse walking in and Sola moving she hand fast from my shoulder like she done something wrong.

  I watch she pass through a patch of dandelions, white high tops lifting like she trying not to step on the flowers everyone call weeds here. She wearing stonewash jeans hanging slightly over she hips, powdery blue boxers exposed. Sola lift she jeans back over she waist as if she know Aunt Rachel and I watching. She wearing an orange long-sleeve jersey with a white hoody on top. I notice the orange and baby blue look nice together.

  Two black crows floating eyelevel. Paper clouds pasted in the sky. Smell of rotting seal lower down the beach. Wood burning.

  Aunt Rachel’s voice over the waves, “Sola was in trouble yesterday. She came looking for you. As soon as I said you weren’t home she took off. I yelled after her but she just kept going like she was running from someone. By the time I got in the car to follow she had disappeared. I had no idea where or why she was running. I followed the road I saw her turn onto and kept driving the side streets. I was just about to give up when I saw two police cars blocking a side road and there she was being put in the back of a police car. I parked close and walked up. Sola looked up at me and lowered her head. The police said they were bringing her to the station and I could follow. The owner of the shop on the other side of the road told me Sola had done nothing wrong. He said, ‘Her only crime was distress.’ When I got to the station they couldn’t tell me anything except that she resisted. ‘Resisted what?’ I kept asking. They said they got a report of a woman running through the streets bumping into people and then knocking one person down. They said when they asked Sola to stop she kept running. When she slowed down to a walk she still wouldn’t stop. But no signs of alcohol or drugs.”

  “Damn them,” I say.

  Aunt Rachel say Sola didn’t talk much in the car except to ask where I was. And then she ask if Aunt Rachel could take she to the cabin. I want to ask Aunt Rachel more questions but then Margaret appear. “You never mind that,” Margaret say after Aunt Rachel try to come up with an apology for not getting in touch sooner. Then Margaret say, “You don’t have to worry about Judith either. She’s surrounded by all of us.” She spin she head round looking at bed sheets flapping in the wind, fire pits dug, open windows and doors, lawn chairs and tables. Then a car alarm go off in the distance.

  Aunt Rachel say she have a meeting and she have to leave now. She jump into she car and she gone. Margaret watch me watch Aunt Rachel drive up the driveway and she say she too have to go. I give she my hand and she spill off the verandah.

  I see Sola in the distance and I want to do the same Margaret do for me a few days ago; I want to take Sola’s hands in mine and walk she back to the cabin. But I don’t. Instead I stay where I am, look out to sea and count the seagulls flying above.

  SOLA

  AFTER JUDITH SAYS I can stay I walk the beach, zigzagging the shoreline where water touches the soles of my sneakers. On and off I feel the insides of my mouth, tongue and the back of my throat become numb while a damp chill creeps up and over my skin. I swallow back vomit and pick up my pace. The anxiousness reaches up and into my fingers and I open and close my hands to ward off thoughts of not being able to breathe, further exasperating the panic waiting to take over. I walk up to bordering tree lines and back down again to wet marmalade sand. I look for a place to pee, a spot where I will not be seen by the upstairs’ windows of the few elaborate summer homes on the hill. I find shelter at the bottom side of the cliff and crouch. It’s the middle of May and the air is unusually warm with a breeze that threatens rain.

  I slip my jeans down over hips and legs while watching the head of a heron above the grass. Steady. Still. Eyes planted deep onto the blue horizon. I squat long after my bladder empties, emptying my own thoughts, with the sea rolling in and the shore swooshing. There is the slap of a screen door and the blue heron is floating up and into the air.

  I walk back onto the sand and am about to swing back up the Bay when a sharp whistle catches my ears and then a, “Hey.” I t
urn to see a man slowly jogging toward me, the kind of jog that swings side to side. He wears a red t-shirt with thick white lettering unreadable from where I stand, green khaki shorts, curly black hair flattened on one side like he’s been wearing a hat the whole day.

  “Wait up,” he yells into the waves.

  I recognize him. I saw him earlier when I first arrived. He was on his cell phone pacing the neighbour’s lawn, speaking the kind of Spanish that could only come from the bigger small islands farther north. A singsong rhythmic Spanish that strides into one’s ears like a harmonica, fast and undulating. His arms in the air, phone trapped between shoulder and ear. Laughter pouring out his arms.

  He smiles at me as he approaches, a gap between his two front teeth. I wonder who he is, what he wants, if Judith sent him to come and get me. “I know you from somewhere. I saw you before. Yes you were the one playing ball in the city.”

  I catch his words but they are underneath the sound of a siren and the wind whistling from above.

  He repeats, “I saw you play ball with Krys and the boys. I am sure it was you.”

  I read his shirt, written in small-case lettering, “live slow.” I watch him with an air of bother, amazed how the place is so big but still people manage to bounce up in the most invisible places. I think of meeting Judith, the possibility of the two of us meeting each other. Fate.

  “You play ball like a man,” he says.

  “Yes, but I’m a woman.”

  “I can see that. So why you dressing like a man and wear your hair like a man?”

  “So women can’t wear their hair short or play basketball? So you own that too?”

  “You sound like my cousin Roberta, always finding fault with man.”

  “Please. You started the conversation.”

  “You and Judith sisters?”

  I laugh.

  “So why not? My younger brother the same colour as you and my sister the colour of peanut butter. And we all come from the same mother same father. What do you have against Judith anyways?”