Patsy

by Patsy (retail) (epub)

  “You worked fah Palm Star Resort?”

  “Yes. Many, many moons ago.”

  “Ah heard yuh got to be a certain shade to work dere. How did you—” She stops herself from saying any more, afraid she might offend Claudette.

  “Is all right,” Claudette says. “Yuh can ask. How did I get to work dere?” Claudette shrugs by the stove without turning to face her. “What can I say? I was lucky.”

  Patsy laughs. “I’m sure.”

  Claudette’s movement slows. “I was a masseuse.”

  “What was dat like?”

  “Ah met so many people. I was dis country girl from Westmoreland. Raised in a closed community of Rastafarians. So it was like a dream to move to Montego Bay an’ be around all those tourists—people from all walks of life. Ah got so much exposure. Dat’s di biggest perks wid working in di hotels.”

  Patsy watches Claudette’s back, sees her shoulders move, aware of the involuntary spasm of the muscle between her legs that gives way to a trickle of moistness as she imagines Claudette over a body on a bed, dutifully kneading the flesh below like wet flour.

  “People come to Jamaica to escape,” Claudette continues. “So ah made sure dey got di best escape possible.”

  “You—you knew ’bout di prostitution bust?” Patsy asks.

  “I left a year before all dat happen.”

  “So yuh knew about it.”

  “Let’s jus’ say dey arrested di wrong people. Those girls were young an’ poor. Dey had nothing. Yet, is dem g’wan spend time in prison. Fah what? Trying to survive? Di real masterminds behind it still eating bettah than we eating now. Ah can guarantee dat.” Claudette reaches for a glass spice jar and sprinkles some of the contents into the pot.

  “Dat’s how it always work back home.” Patsy turns to look at the photos again. “Di biggest crooks nyam di best steak. Dey said di general manager knew about it, but fled di country immediately without ah trace.”

  Suddenly the glass jar falls and breaks. Patsy jumps, frightened by the sound; the image of the man hovered over her and Cicely comes back and almost knocks her over. Shards of glass and blood everywhere. She doesn’t realize that she’s crouched with her hands clamped to her ears until Claudette runs over to her and puts a hand on Patsy’s shoulder. “Yuh all right?”

  Patsy drops her hands from her ears and slowly eases back into the present, Claudette smiling ever so gently at her. “Yes,” Patsy says, almost breathless. “I’m fine now.”

  CLAUDETTE SERVES THE FOOD, POURS THEM EACH A GLASS OF red wine, and blesses the dinner.

  “You ever think about opening up yuh own restaurant? Dis is delicious!” Patsy says between bites of her oxtail, butter beans, and rice. “Yuh put the restaurant where ah used to work to shame. Seriously. Ah haven’t tasted good oxtail since ah left home.”

  Claudette laughs. “Glad you enjoying it. Ah neva like di headache of a restaurant. But my dream is to open a massage parlor or a courier boutique. I’m saving to put down ’pon a likkle space on Flatbush Avenue. If ah do di courier boutique, I know Sadiq customers will follow me there.”

  “You’ll be so good at it.”

  “Thanks,” Claudette says, blushing a little.

  “You know what will mek it even bettah?” Patsy asks.

  “What?”

  “A computer. I notice yuh log everyt’ing in one book.”

  Claudette sucks her teeth. “Dat’s because Sadiq too old-fashion. But believe me, I’ll be outta dat place in due time. What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Want?”

  “Yes, want.”

  “No one has ever asked me dat before,” Patsy says.

  “I am now.”

  “I always wanted to go back to school an’ study computers,” Patsy says. “Not like what dey teach you at di free computer class down at di library, but more technical t’ings . . . like programming.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  Patsy shrugs. “No time or money.”

  “It’s not too late.”

  Patsy lowers her fork. “It is for certain things.”

  “Are you at peace wid it?” Claudette asks.

  “No.”

  “Then there’s your answer,” Claudette says after a while. “Follow yuh heart. It’s di least yuh can do. I know it’s easier said than done.”

  Patsy nods in agreement. She drains the last of her wine and asks for more.

  41

  “WHOSE DI MYSTERY PERSON?” FIONNA ASKS THROUGH THE receiver as Patsy pushes Baby in Central Park. “You haven’t called or answered yuh phone in God knows when.”

  “Stop wid yuh exaggerating, Fionna.” Patsy talks into her headpiece, imagining Fionna going from room to room, spreading beds, fluffing pillows, and emptying trash at the hotel where she works. It’s nice having someone to talk to about Claudette. “Ah called last week an’ got no answer. Figured yuh was out wining an’ dining wid yuh new man.”

  “Wining an’ dining which part? Di man don’t know what dat is!”

  Patsy laughs.

  “Seriously, though, Patsy. Who got you so busy dese days?”

  “Someone ah met when ah was buying a barrel.”

  “Him ’ave papers?”

  “No.”

  “How yuh mean, no? What’s di use of picking up wid ah man at a barrel shop of all places without papers? Yuh know yuh family g’wan t’ink yuh wealthy when dat thing arrive. Yuh might as well get a green card out of it.”

  “Fionna, yuh know ah don’t care ’bout getting it like dat.”

  “Let’s see if you’ll be saying di same t’ing when Immigration show up. Dem worse than di NYPD. Yuh see what happen to Abner Louima?”

  “What does Immigration have to do wid Abner Louima?”

  “Yuh want to know what’s worse than being rammed in di yuh you-know-what wid a baton? Deportation.”

  “Fionna, stop wid dat nonsense.”

  “Don’t Fionna me. Dis mus’ be one special man if him have yuh so sprung dat yuh forget we in America an’ need papers.”

  “Well . . .”

  “I knew it!”

  Patsy pauses with the stroller. Baby is asleep inside it. She looks up at the bare tree branches. Patsy remembers the gay parade she came across by accident years ago in the Village. None of those gay people marching through the streets half naked, wrapped in rainbow flags, looking so self-assured and flagrant, looked like her.

  “I really like him,” she says, swallowing the guilt.

  “Do whatevah makes you happy,” Fionna replies.

  Patsy slows. “Don’t pretend like yuh mean dat.”

  “Ah don’t. But you’re not a child. You grown.”

  “Thank you very much fah acknowledging dat.”

  “Patsy . . .” Fionna’s voice trails. There is a serious tone to it. “Jus’ promise me one t’ing. Promise me dat you’ll be careful. Think about what ah said. Ah have to go. Call you lata.” She sucks air through her teeth into the receiver. “Kisses!” Patsy does the same and ends the call. She thinks about the way Claudette looks at her and how she said, “Are you at peace wid it?” It’s the way she said it. Not in a dismissive, judgmental way, but in a way that reminds Patsy of the rush she once felt as a teenager when she put her hand over a candlelight flame confirming that she was real, alive; that the burning she felt somewhere inside was as absolute as the one out there, burning her skin.

  She pushes Baby in the park, surprised to see Judene. It’s a quarter past one, which is earlier than when Judene usually enters the park. Her eyes aren’t glued to her baby, but are gazing into distance, staring past the trees and the sea of cars on Central Park West and Eighty-sixth Street.

  “Is what do you?” Patsy asks. She sits next to Judene.

  “Delroy.”

  A siren passes just at that moment and Patsy has to pause before she can ask. “Is what happen?” Judene begins to cry, her shoulders jerking with all the weight
that has rounded her spine. Baby stirs awake in the stroller, so Patsy lets him out to play. Then she puts her hand on Judene’s shoulder.

  Judene sniffles. “Delroy dead.”

  “What? Delroy? How?”

  “Dey rob him store, an tek all di money. He didn’t want to pay di extortion fee dat him owe those criminals. Ah told him if him evah need more money, him mus’ jus’ ask me. Ah told him dat him shouldn’t tek di law in him own hand, ’bout him need to tek a stand. Him wouldn’t listen. Him was too stubborn. Dat money woulda save him life . . .”

  Patsy pulls Judene to her. She knows how much Judene loves her twin brother. Judene sends money to him and his family every chance she gets—enough to help him open up his clothing store in downtown Kingston. Only God knows how she gets the money to help her brother set up shop. But then again, she’s a live-in nanny who doesn’t have to pay rent, the disadvantage to that being that she’s expected to be on call 24/7 and therefore has no autonomy or life of her own. Judene continues. “Police should catch every one ah dem criminals an’ hang dem! Dey kill me only brother. Him was all ah ’ave . . .” She sobs quietly, unable to bellow in the bright park filled with children. Beatrice enters the park and spots them.

  “Is what going on?”

  Judene wipes her face.

  “Tell har what happen,” Patsy gently coaxes. When Judene shrugs, Patsy says to Beatrice, “Judene brother gone. Dey rob him store down town an’ kill him. He owed extortion money . . .” Her voice trails, because she knows that’s how dons like Pope operate. She knows there is definitely some filthy connection and it does not matter at all to Patsy whether it might be a different don from a different community. They are all the same.

  “Have mercy!” Beatrice puts her hands on her head. “Is what do dem? Why dem had to take di lives of innocent people? I’m so sorry to hear, dah’ling.”

  Judene begins to cry again. Patsy looks off into the playground and spots Judene’s baby crawling around, picking up dirt to put into his mouth. “No, no, no!” She hurries over to scoop him up and put him in his stroller near Judene, hoping that none of the housewives saw. The last thing Judene needs now is trouble with her boss.

  “Why yuh come into work today?” Beatrice asks Judene as soon as the toddler is secured in his stroller, sucking the pacifier Patsy gives him from Judene’s baby bag. “Yuh should be mourning an’ planning yuh trip fah di funeral,” she says.

  “I can’t,” Judene says. “I don’t get time off. An’ if I go, I can’t come back here.”

  “It’s your twin brother,” Beatrice says. “You should go.”

  “How?” Judene asks. “I have no papers. My visa expired long time. If I go, I’ll have to stay in Jamaica fah di rest of me life.”

  “She’s right, Beatrice,” Patsy says. “Yuh can’t expect her to give up everyt’ing like dat.”

  “Nonsense. Not even fah har own brother?”

  “What do you know?” Patsy says to Beatrice. “Yuh have a visa and the ability to travel back an’ forth. Heck, yuh ’ave di ability to take all di time off in di world an’ fly to France or Italy whenevah yuh please. How yuh g’wan tell a person wid no such privilege what dey should do?”

  Patsy and Beatrice stare each other down. Then Beatrice says, “Only a selfish, heartless person would say something like dat.”

  “Is not heartless. I’m being practical.”

  “All right, then. Since I’m not di right person to ask, then let me ask you something, Patsy. If yuh mother died tomorrow, yuh telling me dat you wouldn’t go to har funeral?”

  “My mother died long ago,” Patsy says. “Di day she gave har life to Jesus, she took her own.”

  “What about yuh children? I’m sure a woman like you have plenty back home.”

  “What’s dat supposed to mean?”

  “Isn’t dat what you people do? Have children oonuh can’t take care of?”

  Patsy pauses, the words bundled in her belly, as lifeless as a stillborn. “Don’t you dare make assumptions about me an’ my life.” Her voice is a low hiss.

  “See? You can’t answer my question,” Beatrice says, adjusting her turban. “That’s what ah don’t understand wid you people.”

  “You people?” Patsy asks.

  “Yes, you people! There’s plenty t’ings to do at home.”

  “Only you can say dat, Beatrice, wid yuh high-an’-mighty self,” Patsy says, trying hard not to let her voice shake. “You, who nuh know struggle. You, who neva feel di heavy load of responsibility when yuh don’t even know where help will come from. You, who live up in those hills wid enough money fi send yuh daughter to a school like Columbia. Some white people can’t even afford to sen’ dem children to dat school—”

  “Michaela had an academic scholarship.”

  “A scholarship? From yuh bank account?” Patsy gives a bitter laugh. “Yuh don’t even have to answer dat question. You an’ I both know dat we’re cut from different cloth. Now you an’ yuh stupid rich woman problems can wipe my ass an’ g’weh. Probably di only t’ing yuh evah worry ’bout is making sure seh yuh dawta marry a white man. You is the whitest woman me ever meet in America.”

  BEATRICE IS TREMBLING, HER MOUTH TWITCHING AND EYES shining like glass. Shirley saunters into the park with her stroller, wearing a pair of sunglasses and looking like a tourist. “Hi, yawl!” she says with that fake Dolly Parton accent she uses whenever she’s in a good mood. She stops short, the smile disappearing from her face. The glare of the three women chokes the lilt out of Shirley’s voice. “Ah wha?”

  Beatrice cuts her eyes and continues. Her anger glitters and sparks in every word. “Yuh want to know what’s worse than di death of yuh own child, or a dead mother, fah dat mattah?”

  “Who’fa mother dead?” Shirley asks, her hands flying to her round cheeks.

  “Judene’s brother,” Patsy says.

  “Oh, jeez! Delroy dead?” Shirley abandons her stroller and runs to Judene’s side.

  “Oonuh hush mek me talk!” Beatrice says.

  “There’s nothing more ah want to hear from you,” Patsy says. “Judene is di one we here for. She’s di one in need right now. Not you.”

  “Yuh don’t know nuttin’ ’bout pain. Nothing!” Beatrice says. “Yuh don’t know what it’s like when yuh only child is a gay. Every day ah pray dat she would change. How she g’wan raise dis child to believe dat two woman can get married? Dat’s not even legal! Do you know what my poor grandson call Michaela an’ dat white woman? Him call di both ah dem Mommy. Poor child. Him don’t even know dat children should have a mother an’ a father. I’m di one who have to account fah allowing his innocence to be tainted wid dis slackness. Dat’s why I’m here. To help teach my grandson what’s right. So, none of you know what I go through!”

  Judene stops sniffling. Shirley’s jaw drops. Patsy shifts uncomfortably, remembering how Beatrice stretched the word partner to describe her daughter’s baby’s father once, which sounded to Patsy like paaaaaat’na. Patsy found it strange, because where they’re from people either say wife, husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, baby mother, or baby father. Now it makes sense why Beatrice chose to be evasive.

  “If dat’s yuh only struggle an’ reason fah being here, then you should be di one to go back home,” Patsy says.

  Beatrice’s mouth is drawn tight, the small muscle below her trembling bottom lip seeming to pull imperceptibly at the already loosened skin under her chin. Without another word to them, she leaves, pulling her grandson off the seesaw, away from his little friend—another mulatto boy who looks like him, and whose snooty black mother goes out of her way to keep her distance from the nannies, perhaps fearing the white women would think she’s one of them.

  After Beatrice hauls the stroller out of the park, Patsy turns to Judene and asks, “So, what yuh g’wan do?”

  Judene shrugs her shoulders with Patsy’s and Shirley’s hands on them. “Ah have to sen’ money home fah di coffin, an’ pay fah di funeral. Since ah can’t go.”<
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  42

  PATSY AND CLAUDETTE WALK TOGETHER IN SILENCE AFTER DINNER at Sammuel’s. The restaurant celebrated its three-year anniversary tonight with a party thrown in honor of the patrons who kept it open—more people than Patsy has seen in the three times she’s been there. There was a deejay and a special guest, Floyd, a reggae artist who is friends with Sammuel. Patsy even saw Serge from the restaurant where she used to work. “Dimples!” he shouted when he saw her. Patsy recognized him from his belly laugh and his larger-than-life presence, the way he bowed to kiss her hand. It was nice to see him too. She smiled despite the heaviness that weighed on her. “Ah neva forget a beautiful face,” he said. “Ah always wondah wha’appened to yuh!” He was already friendly with Sammuel and Claudette, kissing Claudette on both cheeks; they had both worked at the Palm Star Resort back home around the same time, where Serge was an assistant chef. Now he’s head chef at a restaurant in White Plains. He made sure to tell Patsy that this one is owned by a yardie like them. He slipped Patsy his business card. “Call me if yuh evah need anyt’ing. An’ ah mean anyt’ing,” he said with a wink. At that point, Claudette linked hands with Patsy and twirled her away. “Lata, Serge!” People were drinking and dancing, and Claudette sang the words to Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” during the karaoke, hamming it up and smiling at Patsy. Patsy turned away, feeling an ineffable sadness well inside her.

  Walking now, Patsy carries her leftovers. She had no appetite earlier, and may not have an appetite later either. Beatrice’s words have haunted her since yesterday. Again she’s aware of the dark, looming thing that surrounds her like the gusts of cold wind: New York City, stripped bare of its sheen, hollow and lonely except for the echoes of sirens and now the slushing of Patsy’s and Claudette’s boots in the melting snow. She turns to tell Claudette that she’s okay walking home alone, but is surprised to see that Claudette is already regarding her with concern, and a glint of hurt. “What’s di mattah?” she asks. “Was I too forward tonight?” She touches Patsy lightly on her arm and Patsy flinches. Claudette appears alarmed. “Patsy, talk to me.”