“Ah can tek time off jus’ fah you,” he says.
“Yuh jus’ got yuh job six months ago. Yuh bettah work to keep it.”
She fans him off playfully and he blows her a kiss.
“Jamaican men t’ink dem is God’s gift to women,” Claudette says to Patsy, shaking her head and smiling, marking off something in a notebook she uses to keep track of pickup and deliveries. “I’d guh wid a woman before me date another Jamaican man. Dem is crosses.” Before Patsy can say anything to that, Claudette asks, “Do you have a ride fah dat barrel?”
Patsy’s face flushes hot. She has waited seconds too long to respond to what seems like a perfectly normal question, her eyes fastened on Claudette’s wide mouth.
“Uh—uhm—no. I was going to take a taxi.”
“Where yuh live?”
“Albany an’ Church.”
“Oh! Not too far. Why would you spend eight dollahs just to go down di road? Ah can lend you a hand trolley if yuh promise me you’ll be back wid it.”
Patsy smiles. “You don’t have to do all dat,” she says to Claudette. “Really . . .” But Claudette is undeterred by Patsy’s mild protest, carefully wheeling the large red trolley around the counter. “There’s a few more ah dese in di back, so it’s not an inconvenience at all.” She is gentle and attentive as if no one else is in the store besides the two of them.
“Thank you,” Patsy says when she’s done.
“No problem,” Claudette replies.
Patsy waits for her change, not knowing how to politely remind Claudette that she hasn’t given it back to her, and wanting to remain in this warm exchange between them.
“I’m losing my mind,” Claudette says after a while, hitting her forehead with her open palm. “Ah forgot to give you back yuh change.” She reopens the cash register.
“No worries,” Patsy tells her. She catches a flash of Claudette’s tongue as she licks her thumb to count the money. Patsy looks away as if she’s witnessed a private act. She gives a nervous laugh, unsure how to behave in the face of such kindness and patience. “Dese people g’wan kill me.” Her voice is light, playful, to camouflage her discomfort. Already she hears the searing sound of air drawn sharply between the molars of the screwed-faced Jamaicans in the line behind her. “Hurry up, man!” The sucking of teeth only gets louder. “Yuh nuh see seh people ’ave places fi go an’ t’ings fi do? Cho, man!”
Their hands touch briefly when Claudette gives Patsy her change. Patsy fumbles with putting it inside her purse. She doesn’t bother to count it. When did she become the type of person who doesn’t think about numbers? Claudette puts an empty barrel on the trolley and Patsy pushes it outside, maneuvering between the queue of visibly annoyed people inside the store, who are glaring at her with their arms folded across their chests.
“Walk good an’ come back soon!” Claudette calls after her.
Patsy lives to hear those words.
37
ROY’S GRAND ENTRANCE THAT EVENING LIGHTENS THE MOOD inside the house as if light has been switched on after a long power outage. With a loud, booming voice he announces his presence—something that hasn’t happened in a long time. “Evening, evening!” His jubilant tone is followed by Marva’s probing questions. “Where yuh been all night? While yuh out dere gallivanting in di streets, me deh here min’ing yuh children!”
“Jus’ ease off me, woman. Me not even step foot good through di door yet. ’Low me, mek me show yuh where ah been.”
Tru has taught herself not to listen to or get involved in Marva and Roy’s quarrels, so she stays inside her room and listens to music on her headphones. But something is different in the quarreling tone tonight between Roy and Marva. There’s laughter in her father’s voice when he says, “I got somet’ing nice fah you an’ di twins.” Tru overhears Marva’s sharp gasp followed by a, “Lawd Jesus, Roy! How yuh afford all ah dat?”
Marva’s outburst moves Tru to the door. She peers out of her bedroom through the beaded curtain that partitions the living room from the hallway. Her father is standing in the living room, looking resplendent in his decorated sergeant’s uniform and black peaked cap—a stark difference from the man who was slumped at the table drinking liquor a week ago. He’s holding a bassinet that can fit two babies. The bassinet still has the flashy Courts furniture store tag on it. At his feet are big bags marked Little Lees. “Look, look inside them!” he tells Marva. Like a child on Christmas morning, Marva digs inside one of the bags, and when she sees what’s inside, she drops it and covers her mouth with both hands.
“Is wha ’appen to you?” Roy asks, smiling.
“Roy—”
“An’ there’s lots more where dat came from. Dis is jus’ a taste of what g’wan happen when me get promoted to inspector!”
“Did you?” Marva asks. “Dem finally promote you?”
“Not yet, but it g’wan happen soon. Operation Kingfish will do it.”
“Operation who?”
“Our superintendent jus’ tell us ’bout Operation Kingfish. Is di biggest crime unit evah.”
“Dey took you off di narcotics team?”
“Yuh nuh hear one t’ing me say, woman? Kingfish is di biggest crime-busting team in di whole country! Even di FBI an’ CIA involve. It g’wan be big. Dese criminals who t’ink dem badder than we g’wan get a taste ah dem own medicine. Hear me? It’s di right case dat will show Sergeant Beckford as a force to contend wid.” He’s gloating as he says this. “Right now me want you to feel like a queen. Open up di gift dem nuh,” he coaxes. When she hesitates, shy all of a sudden, he says, “All right, let me.” He pulls out gift after gift—baby clothes and toys and Pampers. So many baby things that it looks to Tru like he raided the store. Marva stands next to him, gasping at each gift he pulls out. “But jeezum! Wha’ wrong wid dis man, eh?” She asks this of no one in particular, her voice filled with affection and laughter.
“If yuh g’wan have twins we haffi prepare, nuh true?” Roy winks at her. “You say ah neva do anyt’ing fah you.” He brings her close, and she doesn’t resist him as she often does. She allows herself to be teased and pinched playfully. She rubs her belly like someone who has just eaten a big meal and is now very satisfied, her eyes shrouded. It softens her plump face. They stop their teasing when they notice Tru.
Roy smiles uneasily. “Wh’appen, Champ? Here, ah have somet’ing fah you too.” He picks up one of the bags and hands it to her.
Tru takes the bag and looks inside. She pulls out a World Cup jersey with all the countries’ flags on it, which sits on top of a shoe box. Inside the box is a brand-new pair of Puma sneakers with spikes. It’s her turn to gasp and cup her mouth with a hand.
“Only she one yuh have gifts for? Yuh act like she’s yuh only child. We have a son here dat neva get one penny from yuh.” Marva gestures toward Kenny, who is standing just a few steps behind Tru. Tru lowers the bag.
“Marva, why yuh g’wan be like dat?” Roy asks, frowning. “It was di likkle girl birthday last week.”
“Likkle girl?” Marva laughs. “Which part di girl deh? Tell me! All me see is a boy, a young man, a—”
“Marva—” Roy holds up his hand—the one with the scar—and Marva backs down.
“Here,” Tru says to her father, looking down. “Take it back. She’s right. I—I don’t need it.”
Truth is, she had seen these shoes on display at the mall. Had been saving up money so that she could buy them.
“It’s a special gift for you,” Her father says with a wink. “Yuh t’ink me did forget about yuh birthday, don’t?” he asks her.
Tru says nothing. She knew he had forgotten her birthday a few weeks ago and is now overcompensating. She’s too embarrassed to admit that now, as she meets his apologetic gaze. Marva sucks her teeth loudly, the sharp sound deflating the mood. “An’ what about yuh son? Where is fi him gift? His birthday was last month.”
“Jesus Christ, woman!” Roy digs deeply inside his pocket, crumples a few bills, and fl
ings them in Kenny’s direction like rocks. “Here, tek dis! Tek everyt’ing! Dat’s five hundred dollahs right dere. Guh buy some backbone wid it.” Then to Marva he says, “Yuh happy now?” Kenny doesn’t move from the shadows to take the money. Tru swallows, unable to look at Kenny.
“Roy, is where yuh get all dis money from?” Marva asks.
“Don’t worry ’bout dat,” he replies.
“Jus’ be honest. Dey don’t pay sergeants dis much.”
“Well, if yuh mus’ know, ah throw partner an’ got my draw.”
“Partner? How many times ah tell yuh not to pool yuh money wid those crooks Johnny and Raymond?”
“Cool it, Marva. I’m in good standing wid all ah dem. Today was a good day.”
“Nothing good ever come out ah gambling.”
“Is not gambling, Marva.”
“What yuh call placing bets ’pon horses then throwing yuh money? I know what a partner is, Roy. Gambling ’pon horses is not it. You is no bettah than those ghetto youth yuh complain ’bout all di time, who bet ’pon cockfight t’inking it g’wan solve dem woes.”
Roy sucks his teeth. “Did I evah mek yuh starve?”
“Dat’s not di point, Roy.”
“If you so concern where di money coming from, then gimme back di gift dem. I try to tell yuh dat di money is mine when ah win it.”
“How much yuh had to put in?”
He doesn’t answer. He takes off his hat and rubs one hand over his closely shaved head.
“Roy?”
“A couple hundred U.S.”
“Have mercy!”
“What yuh mean have mercy? I won, didn’t I?” He turns to Tru. “Is wha’ do har? She nuh see most ah di money right here? Di rest went to all di bills. Who yuh t’ink pay those?”
Marva puts her hands on her head. “Is not about winning,” she says through her teeth. “Yuh don’t get it! What if yuh evah lose? Dat coulda been money down di drain!”
“Yuh evah see me lose? Listen to how yuh talk. Everyt’ing is about what coulda happen. Yuh soun’ like one ah dem negative people who can’t celebrate nuttin’ good. No mattah what ah do, to you it’s still short of murder.”
“Dis is murder, Roy. Dis is we life savings, bills, di children tuition, an’ everyt’ing if yuh don’t pull out now—” She shakes her head. A streak of malice flashes in her eyes. “An’ what kinda man you is, gambling an’ taking money dat don’t belongst to you? You should be ashamed, shoving it in yuh pocket like you is a damn gigolo!”
He steps back. A dark shadow falls across his face, transforming it into something cruel. But just as quickly it disappears, remnants of it settling into the dark pits of his pupils. “Ah done arguing. What is done is done. Ah tek care of what needed to be taken care of. Wid me own money. Yuh either accept di gift dem or ah tek dem back to di store.”
“Tek dem back. Every single one ah dem.”
After a long pause, he puts his hat back on and grabs up the bags. “Fine.”
Tru’s eyes move in a swift arc from Roy to Marva.
“Ah taking all di gifts an’ giving dem to someone who deserve dem.”
“Someone like who?” Marva asks, her voice low, cautious, as though skirting along a dangerous edge.
“Nuttin’ yuh don’t already know,” Roy replies.
She comes close and lifts her face to his in a beautiful pose as if she’s about to kiss him. It’s not hard for Tru to picture them in the privacy of their room, crouched in positions of love—his rough hands closed around her, his face to her breasts, her moans accompanying the fierce shake of her head. She reaches for him, a tremor passing from her hand to his face, the loud slap bursting like fireworks inside the dim space. Her passion breaks with every hit of her fists against his chest as though begging him for something, perhaps a reaction—something that would assuage the rage deep inside her. Remorse flits across his face and finally he pulls her to him and holds her. She fights him off. Between clenched teeth, she cries, “You’s nuttin’ but a worthless piece ah shit parading in a man’s uniform. You is a lowdown dirty dawg!” Marva spits. “How yuh g’wan do dat to me again? How yuh g’wan have another pickney on di way same time? Yuh is a terrible man! You!”
He turns his back to her and picks up each bag. Tru holds on to her gift, afraid he might take it back too. Something cold runs through her veins as she watches her father empty the living room of its light. Kenny peels himself away from the shadows and walks over to his mother, his long, skinny frame almost invisible next to her big, heaving one. “G’long!” Marva shouts to Roy’s back. Then she murmurs at the sound of Roy’s car engine revving up. “See if I care ’bout who yuh have out dere. She can have you, an’ all di long-mouth pickney dem fi feed, ’cause me done!”
“Is okay, Mama,” Kenny says, holding his mother, a darkness shading his face. He appears years older all of a sudden, something fierce creeping into his attitude. No longer is he a boy submitting to his mother’s rage and his father’s condescension, but a man standing next to his mother, holding her up.
“Oh, God. . . . how! How can a man be suh coldhearted?” Marva cries.
“He doesn’t mean it,” Kenny says quietly.
But Marva only shakes her head. She stares down at the tiles as if she sees something vile slithering across them. She looks so vulnerable standing there in her floral dress. Her lifeless eyes scan the room. “What a man live by g’wan kill him,” she says. “Mark my word.”
Kenny takes her to her bedroom as she continues to murmur to herself. The bedroom door closes and Marva’s cries are subdued into hollow whimpers. Tru gazes around the living room, the quiet unnerving. She stands in the same place she’s been standing since the exchange between her father and Marva. She strokes the sneakers—the rubber soles, the sturdy spikes, the asymmetrical green laces—knowing they will never give her the comfort she needs.
38
THE LARGE CYLINDRICAL BARREL NOW STANDS FIRMLY IN ONE corner of her room, a checkpoint, a mooring, a visual that reminds Patsy that she did, in fact, make a decision to buy one. She never enters or leaves the room without looking at the barrel. Even when she’s standing next to the barrel, it always feels to her as though she’s looking up at it.
Still, she has nothing to put inside it, so she waits, going to work each day, then coming back home. She closes her eyes to erase the image of the homeless woman, and of Barrington leaping in front of the train, and of the dark waiting thing just above her left shoulder, unmoved.
She finally gets the chance to bring the trolley back to Claudette the following week . Last thing she wants is for Claudette to think that she stole it. Little Jamaica is packed as usual. Patsy makes it just before closing; she is the last one in line. When she gets to the front, Claudette says, “Finally!” She gives Patsy a welcoming smile as Patsy rolls the trolley toward her. “So, you waited forty-five minutes in line jus’ to drop off dis degeh-degeh trolley?” Claudette asks jokingly.
Patsy laughs. “Pretty much.”
She wants to say to Claudette that seeing her breaks the monotony of loneliness. How her voice, like molasses, soothes her with a simple greeting. Never, not since Barrington looked at her with his tender, for giving gaze, has anyone in this country made her feel seen. Really seen beyond her role as caretaker, soother, mother.
“Ah don’t mind . . .” Claudette is saying. “Good company is good company. Time fly quicker dat way.”
Patsy quietly agrees.
“Is there anyt’ing else dat I can do for you?” Claudette asks.
The other Patsy—the one who would have abruptly turned and walk away, expecting to be swallowed inside a cave of doom—must have kept walking. For this Patsy stays and acts on her instincts. “How is it fate if yuh have control ovah it?”
“Do you want to go out somewhere? Maybe get food or somet’ing to drink?”
Claudette smiles. “Sure. Ah have to lock up first, though, if yuh don’t mind waiting.”
Patsy suppresses a s
igh of relief. “No problem a’tall.”
When Claudette is ready, they walk several blocks toward Avenue K and East Flatbush to a restaurant named Sammuel’s Den. Claudette swears by the food and says it’s owned by a cousin of hers. It literally looks like a lion’s den, with lions in various states of repose painted on the green walls. A framed picture of a smiling President Barak Obama is mounted on the wall near the door. A yellow, green, and red Rastafarian flag hangs by the hostess stand. There’s no one inside the restaurant besides the two cooks dressed in all white, sipping water around one of the back tables. Patsy and Claudette find a table and sit. A young Rasta man with a full beard and locs neatly twisted in a bun comes out to greet them from the kitchen. He looks like he could be Claudette’s brother, but she introduces him as Sammuel, her baby cousin.
“Ah knew him since him was dis big,” she says, lowering herself so that her palm almost touches the floor. It’s hard for Patsy to imagine Sammuel, who is well over six feet tall and built like one of those American football players, as a tiny baby crawling on the ground.
“Ah g’wan mek sure seh oonuh well taken care of,” Sammuel says, smiling, before he disappears into the kitchen. Soon after he’s out of earshot, Patsy asks, “Did he play ball?”
“Yes! He was a linebacker at Hofstra before him hurt himself. Yuh into football?”
“Not American football. Jamaican football. Or ah should say ‘soccer,’ as di Americans call it.”
“Look at you! So you were one ah those Reggae Boyz fanatics?”
“No. My . . .” Patsy’s voice trails.
A waiter appears out of nowhere and pours Claudette and Patsy water and hands them a menu. Patsy is grateful for his presence. He takes his time telling them about the special, which is a vegetarian oxtail stew made of fake meat. Patsy wonders what’s the use of people being vegetarian if they still have to eat fake meat to feel satisfied. Doesn’t it defeat the purpose? She orders the fake oxtail anyway, since it’s the only thing that makes sense on the menu. She quietly laments the fact that it seems virtually impossible to get a good plate of real oxtail stew in America. Claudette orders Sammuel’s vegan Ital special that includes stir-fried edamame noodles, roasted asparagus, broccoli, almonds, and some type of leaf Patsy doesn’t bother to ask about.
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