Patsy

by Patsy (retail) (epub)

  Patsy switches off the water and stands up so abruptly that her knee joints crack. She dries herself and steps from behind the sliding door, her towel around her. She tiptoes back toward the bed, stopping short when she sees Marcus, his back turned, dressed sharply in a pair of dark blue trousers and a white shirt, his shoe-polish waves shiny beneath the overhead light by the washer and dryer. Patsy lets out a shriek, which startles him. Their eyes lock—his unamused, devoid of the apologetic look Patsy would expect one to have upon walking in on her this way. All of a sudden she feels rotund in the towel wrapped around her nakedness. She hopes her large breasts will not burst forth from their restricted zone, and that her fleshy brown thighs will not explode into view to give the wrong impression. But then again, she’s not the one intruding—he is. Patsy’s entire body flushes hot.

  “Excuse me?” she says, tightening the towel around her.

  She clears her throat, unsure what to say to the man who owns the house. Cicely had stressed never to disturb him. She pleaded with Patsy in a way that reminded Patsy of how Tru, a child with no independence, would plead with her—whether to let her play in the yards of other children or to not give her vegetables. Now when Cicely isn’t around—gone to pick up her son from violin lesson, perhaps rushing through traffic to finish dinner—the man does as he likes.

  “The hamper is down here, so . . .” he says, as if reading Patsy’s mind. But Patsy is only half listening to what he’s saying. “Why yuh neva knock?” she asks, trying hard to take the edge out her voice.

  “In my own house?” Marcus asks, his brows wrinkled to hold her question so that she can see how ridiculous it sounds to him.

  Patsy fumbles with the towel, feeling as though she’s the one in the wrong. The towel nearly falls, and in a panic she hauls it back up. Marcus doesn’t immediately turn away to give her privacy. Her discomfort seems to fill him with some sort of reptilian assurance that leaves a smug smile on his face. “I’ll finish up after dinner,” he finally says. His footsteps are light going back up the wooden steps.

  Patsy sits, stunned. What if Marcus tells Cicely that he saw her naked? Patsy cups her hands to her mouth and sits there for a long time.

  THAT NIGHT PATSY COMES UPSTAIRS. CICELY IS RUNNING BACK and forth from the sparkly kitchen with its granite island counter and stainless-steel appliances to the table that glows under the chandelier.

  “Want some help?” Patsy asks.

  “No, no. Sit,” Cicely says, waving her away, her sterling silver bracelets jingling. She looks flustered, her face red and her voice breathy like she’s been in a marathon.

  Marcus and the little boy, Shamar, are now seated at the table, Marcus at the head. He smirks at Patsy when she sits. She avoids looking at him and focuses on the little boy. Again she is stung by the hurt that Cicely didn’t even tell her when she was pregnant with the boy, who is now giving Patsy a curious stare. He’s quiet and watchful even as Patsy smiles at him. In his pale eyes she sees an ocean she cannot cross, even with her American visa.

  There are bowls of cabbage salad, smoked ham, macaroni and cheese, potato salad, and baked chicken spread out on the table like a feast. Patsy feels slighted by the fact that Cicely hasn’t used the spices Patsy brought her from Jamaica. She’s also resentful that Cicely has refused her help with any of the food preparation.

  Cicely is too busy to notice the loud silence at the dining table. She’s slicing up cucumbers, murmuring something about the chicken being too salty, apologizing in advance. Something in little Shamar’s face, a sadness that reminds Patsy of herself at that age, makes her speak.

  “So how is school?” Patsy asks the boy.

  He looks at her, astonished. As though he never expects to be acknowledged, spoken to. “Fine,” he says in a small voice. He is high yellow like Cicely, and shares her blue-green eye color as well, his hair standing up in massive curls all over his head.

  “What grade yuh in again?” Patsy asks him.

  “Fourth grade?” he says, the statement sounding like a question.

  “Ah! So, you is a big boy now!”

  The little boy smiles. But when he glances at his father, the quiet smile dies from his lips, wiped clean off his baby face. Cicely finally joins them at the table.

  “Let us bow our heads,” Marcus says.

  Patsy holds her stomach muscles as Marcus says the grace, feeling Cicely and Shamar tense with awkward fear. When Marcus is done, everyone says a somber Amen, then begins to eat in silence. Because of this tension, Patsy eats too quickly, stuffing food without tasting it. “Dis is delicious, Cicely!” she says too loud. Marcus looks up from his plate.

  “She’s not the most creative cook. All we eat is unseasoned raw meat in this house.”

  “Di chicken is di best,” Patsy says, defending her friend. Again, she feels the warmth of Marcus’s resentment creeping toward her from his side of the table. But it doesn’t hold against the secret smile Patsy catches on her friend’s face. Patsy has seen this secret smile before—in the schoolyard when Patsy stood up to the bullies who teased Cicely about having white liver after her mother’s death. Patsy didn’t know then what white liver meant until she asked Mama G. Mama G twisted up her mouth and said, “Is what di half-breed Indian girls have. It mek dem hungry fah men. Like dat girl I tell yuh to stay far from, an’ har mother—may God deal wid har soul.”

  Patsy sees this smile again on Cicely’s face. Feels validated by it—like it’s the only purpose of her being in America; the only familiar thing that renders her envy harmless. It’s easy to dismiss Marcus, easy to pretend not to see the little boy wilted in his chair under the frozen heat of his father’s glance, his neck bent over untouched food. Easy to forgive Cicely for not telling her about her family. Warmed by Cicely’s smile, Patsy hardly notices Cicely trip over herself on her way back to the kitchen, dropping the pot cover by mistake, a sharp breath escaping her in the stillness of her husband’s contempt.

  8

  TRU IS SLUMPED AT THE DINNER TABLE WITH HER BROTHERS AND Marva. Now that the terror has passed, she is left feeling exhausted—too cried out to eat or drink. The curry chicken and rice Marva cooked remains untouched in front of Tru. Even if she were hungry, she wouldn’t eat anything served to her by Marva. Marva pauses every so often to wipe her forehead, her eyes on Tru. “Ah not moving till yuh eat something,” Marva says.

  But Tru pushes the food away. In the light, Marva’s shadow looms large and threatening, filling the whole house and blocking the front door, where Tru expects her mother to walk in at any moment. But each time she turns her head to look behind her, Marva’s quiet devotion puts a strain in her neck. There’s a constant battle raging inside Tru. The same instruction from her mother would have made her eager to please—the way she is eager to please her teachers at school by knowing the answer to every question. But she chills at the thought of giving this much gratification to Marva. There is a peculiar pleasure she gets in seeing worry mask the shiny, glaring face of the woman standing over her with her hands on her hips, her big chest heaving with enough air for the both of them. The attention clamps Tru’s stomach tighter and curves her shoulders. And when Marva picks up the fork to feed her, there is profound satisfaction in shaking her head.

  “Mama, can I get har chicken since she don’t want it?” the middle boy asks.

  “No,” Marva snaps. “She g’wan eat dis food even if me have to force har.”

  “But she only wasting it, Mama,” says the older boy, his voice low. “She waste everyt’ing we give har.”

  Tru doesn’t respond. Her brothers finish their meals and clear the table, leaving Tru and Marva. Marva lifts the fork to Tru’s mouth, this time cupping her chin. “Jus’ open up,” Marva says. The softness in her voice, which is as light as her touch, makes Tru want to. She opens up, giving into the soft fingers and steady gaze watching her chew and swallow. She begins to rely on the delightful effect of seeing a slow smile make its way up Marva’s face. All of a sudden, her
hunger returns. Unexpected. More aggressive than before. There is a calmness in being fed. It soothes the hurt in the tender place she can neither see nor touch in the bottomless cavity of her chest.

  “Goaaaaall!” Roy exclaims from the living room. He’s watching the Reggae Boyz on television, his dinner plate before him. Tru hears him loudly sucking the marrow out of the chicken bones. “Marva, beg yuh some wata, nuh?” he says without turning away from the television.

  Marva suspends her feeding of Tru. She puts down Tru’s fork and hurries to the refrigerator to pour water into a glass for Roy. Tru watches her move to the living room to take Roy’s plate and hand him the glass. He doesn’t thank her. But the quiet devotion Tru experienced from Marva earlier is now transferred to her father. With her hands, Tru shoves a fistful of rice off her plate. It lands on the floor. Marva spins around and gasps when she sees all her food on the floor. “Roy!”

  Tru’s father lowers his legs from the cushion and springs from the sofa, tearing his eyes off the Reggae Boyz’ victory dance on the bright green field on the screen. He shuffles toward the table, sucking his teeth loudly, the way he does to rid meat from between his teeth. “What is it dis time?” Tru peers up at him, expecting him to strike her with his big broad hand with the snake scar she has grown afraid of. But he only lowers it to put it on her shoulder. “What is di mattah wid you?” he asks, his voice surprisingly low and tender, save for the words. “Yuh think because yuh mother in America yuh can waste food like dat? Yuh know how much children starving in Africa? Dis foolish behavior will only land you in di street.”

  “Ah want to go back home,” Tru says.

  “Dis is yuh home now. So get used to it,” Roy replies. “If you insist on wasting we food then yuh bettah ask yuh mother fah every ounce a penny she earn fi pay we back. Keeping you here not cheap.”

  “Roy, yuh can’t say dat to di child,” Marva says.

  “Then how else she g’wan understand dat we doing har a favor?” he hisses.

  Marva and Roy continue to squabble, eventually disappearing into the other room, where Tru can no longer hear them. The fervor of the Reggae Boyz on TV mocks her as she sits alone at the table, looking down at her empty plate.

  9

  PATSY HAS SPENT TWO WHOLE WEEKS INSIDE THE HOUSE, TOO afraid to venture out by herself without Cicely. This morning she stirs awake to Cicely’s touch. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Cicely says once Patsy opens her eyes. “I have something for you.” She hands Patsy a newspaper with a list of jobs that Patsy should look at. “These jobs don’t require any papers.”

  “Papers?” Patsy asks, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

  “Work visa.”

  Patsy glances at the digital clock by the bedside. It’s not even five in the morning, yet Cicely is sitting in a chair next to Patsy’s bed, already dressed, a thermos of warm water in her hand, which she drinks first thing in the morning to speed up her metabolism, and a gym bag slung over her shoulder. Her hair is combed in a high bun, pulling her skin toward her temples; her face is almost bare except the light blush and lip gloss. How long has Cicely been watching her sleep? Patsy wonders. She smells like mouthwash. It’s so strong that Patsy can almost taste it, the scent inciting a tingly sensation of betrayal—an inevitable truth that her friend, already dressed and ready for her group aerobics class at a nearby gym before she runs her many errands, has no time for her. All week she has been locked up in the house, guzzling Coca-Cola, orange juice, Hawaiian fruit punch, and gorging on potato chips, M&Ms, Oreos, gummy bears, Hershey’s Kisses, microwave popcorn, Pringles—all the American snacks she could eat; foods which would’ve been overpriced at the supermarkets back home, the type where rich people shop. She has also been eating whatever foreign meals Cicely cooks and leaves in foil paper wrapping. Foods like lasagna, chicken potpie, honey-glazed ham, turkey, and provolone cheese sandwiches. Patsy has only known cheese to come in a bright red can.

  “You have to check these out,” Cicely is saying. “In dis place people don’t jus’ eat an’ sleep.”

  Patsy rolls out of the bed and shoves her feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers. “Give me a minute.”

  Patsy feels Cicely’s eyes on her as she walks to the bathroom. Self-conscious, she turns slightly away, since there is no door—something she never would have been concerned with in the old days. When she finishes she washes her hands and splashes water on her face to wake up.

  “There’s so many,” Patsy says when she returns, squinting at the list Cicely gives her.

  “In New York yuh have to cast yuh net wide,” Cicely says. “I don’t expect you to reach out to all of them today.”

  Patsy studies the “Help Wanted” ads Cicely circled for her in red ink in the back of the paper. It makes her dizzy. It’s too soon, she thinks. And besides, whatever happened to the job agencies Cicely told her about that can help her find that dream job that will pay her lots of money? Most of the jobs Cicely shows her are menial work—cleaning lady, line cook, dishwasher, busboy, landscape maintenance, janitor, school night guard, day laborer, caretaker, dog walker.

  “Dog walker?” Patsy frowns and looks at Cicely. “Who would pay fah dat? In Jamaica, dawg a dawg.”

  Cicely stamps Patsy with a look. “Here people treat dem dawg like a member of di family. So, get wid it if yuh want quick money.”

  “Yuh have anything else?” Patsy asks, sitting up on the bed.

  “Hm. Figure model? It’s forty per hour. A curvy woman in good shape an’ flexible,” Cicely says, chuckling.

  Patsy moves to swat her with a pillow. “Seriously, Cicely. Yuh really t’ink I’d tek off my clothes like dat fah strangers?”

  “Since when yuh dat picky?” Cicely laughs.

  Patsy gives her a talking eye.

  “All right. Here is one dat ah t’ink you should take.” Cicely points to the ad that has a double asterisk. Patsy reads it: “Love children? Want a quick, easy way to make extra cash? Nannies needed. Email résumé and a cover letter to Candace.”

  She glances up at Cicely, who is smiling. But Patsy doesn’t give the smile a chance to grow. It hangs there as Patsy studies the word nanny. The only time Patsy has heard the word was at the embassy when the official mentioned it. He said his wife hired one. A Jamaican.

  “It’s how a lot of women mek money here.” Cicely goes on and on about what the job entails. “Ah know a couple people who . . .”

  Patsy listens quietly. The job that she had at the Ministry in Kingston was by far a more dignified job than cleaning houses, wiping the asses of other people’s children, walking a dog and picking up its shit. Even if she does apply and get the job as a nanny, the job title in itself might take some getting used to. That’s what she will be called here in America if she follows Cicely and reaches out to these people. A nanny. But more than the name itself is the irony—to come to a place with so much freedom, only to take care of another child.

  Cicely is still smiling. Perhaps it’s hope—hidden and selfish, the way hagglers, men with erections, and loan sharks look at you. Whatever it is, Patsy hangs on to it, feeds into it. For the smile could quickly turn to disappointment. She feels obligated to show interest—to convince Cicely that she has begun to think about her independence; that mothering other children (and her own) comes more natural to her than her yearning to be swallowed up in the world beyond Pennyfield, beyond this basement—out there where small things seem large. Where foreign accents are spoken and could tickle your ears more than the tip of a chicken feather. Where pleasure is not just something felt in private, away from scrutinizing gazes of waxed figurines. Where you are never alone long enough to feel the spell overtake you, the darkness following you like an unmoving shadow. Out there, where a woman can walk free with not even a purse dangling from her shoulders.

  WHEN THE WEEKEND ROLLS AROUND, CICELY OFFERS TO SHOW Patsy the city and take her to a job agency. It’s nice outside and the leaves are starting to change color, reminding Patsy of that lignum vitae tree in
Pennyfield where all the yellow butterflies flock to in May. In Cicely’s company, Patsy is moved to smile at everything she sees—at the sheer loveliness of warm colors and people and the names of these foreign streets. She tags along with her best friend, almost running and skipping to catch up with her. Cicely walks full speed ahead, taking long strides on the big city streets that hum with traffic and the trains underground. She rattles off street names Patsy should know in Brooklyn—Nostrand, Atlantic, Flatbush. Names Patsy is sure she will forget, since she carries nothing to write them down. On the bus, Cicely points to landmarks. “Dat’s di market ah go to. Dat’s Prospect Park. Dat’s di library.” Patsy absorbs everything in silence. Mostly, she’s happy to be in Cicely’s company, their shoulders touching lightly as they sit on the bus seat. In this moment, Brooklyn fades away and Kingston emerges, rock-solid and flat. A place where two schoolgirls dressed in blue tunics are exploring downtown, holding hands. Two girls who thought life would be filled with giggles, infinite sun, and possibilities that wouldn’t entail sacrifice.

  Cicely presses a yellow strip next to their seat on the bus and it buzzes. The bus slows down. “Dis is our stop,” Cicely says to Patsy, who is awed by the fact that Cicely didn’t have to yell, “Bus stop!” to the driver like they would have to do back home. Everything seems so easy in America, with the simple push of a button—from microwave dinners to doorbells and buzzers.

  “Where we going?” Patsy asks.

  “Manhattan,” Cicely replies.

  “Times Square?” Patsy asks, giddy, seeing bright lights and giant marquees flash across her mind’s eye.

  “Aftah we find you a job,” Cicely says. She leads Patsy like a child into one of the subway stations. In the train, Cicely points to the overhead board that lights up at each stop. “Dis train takes yuh from Brooklyn all di way to di Bronx,” she says. “See? We got on right there at Atlantic Avenue. We g’wan take dis all di way to Grand Central, Forty-second Street. Yuh can’t get lost if yuh know what direction yuh going.”