by Gemma Weekes
‘Come on,’ he says again, the command now a request. Fear steals into his face. Mine too, probably.
‘I thought you didn’t do this.’
‘Eden,’ he says helplessly.
I go to him because he looks set adrift. I want to re-anchor him, if only for the moment.
He avoids my hug and we kiss clumsily, all tongue and teeth, as if he’s never done it before, and he tries to get my clothes off before there’s any harmony. We don’t both fit comfortably on the tiny sofa, so I lead him to my low, dishevelled bed.
I’m undone by the sensation of his sharp little bones under my fingers. His awkwardness, his quick, jerky release. His forehead shining with sweat.
His eyes are closed, face in my neck. His hair is moist. I’m completely awake, completely myself throughout, though not unmoved.
Afterwards, he lies on his back and closes his eyes, face at war. He pulls me to his chest. He’s been waiting for someone like me like some people wait to be diagnosed with cancer.
fast over.
PICK UP, PICK up, pick up.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey!’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Juliet,’ I say, relieved just to hear the accent. Feels like I’ve never been so far away. ‘It’s me, you doughnut.’
‘Oh my God! Eden! Mate!’ I can hear traffic and loud squeaky brakes in the background. She must be on the bus. ‘So good to hear you!’
‘What’s up?’
‘Wow . . .! Not much going on, bella. You’re not missing anything. September’s got an identity crisis and thinks it’s February. But cool apart from that. Just getting on with it, really. Chasin’ boys and bakin’ dough. Got your groove back yet?’
‘Kind of . . .’
‘Oi!’ she shouts. ‘Call your dad, please! I have to say that before I forget, ’cause he’s going mad! Keeps asking me to act as some kind of go-between to bring you two back together. I know he’s your dad, but pretty soon I’m gonna have to tell ’im to pee off!’
‘I will, I will . . .’
‘So are you and Zed swapping liquids yet? I still can’t believe you both wound up in the same house by accident.’
‘I’m not sure it was an accident, knowing my Aunt K. As far as liquid swapping goes, Juliet, you know it ain’t basic like that.’
‘Nothing basic about liquid exchange. It’s how both of us got here and it’s pretty bloody magnificent actually. And if you ain’t swapping no liquids it’s all just a brain strain anyway!’
‘I’ve met someone else.’
It’s only when I say it out loud that I realise it’s something I’ve never said before.
‘You,’ she says, ‘Eden Maria Jean-Baptiste, have met someone?’
‘Stop milking it! But . . . yeah.’
‘Migosh! That’s immense! Don’t waste any time do ya, you MINX!’ She laughs and squeals in delight. I imagine the looks she must be getting from other travellers on the bus. ‘What’s he like?’
‘He’s . . . well, he’s beautiful, Juliet. And strange. He plays lead in a band and he’s really smart and profound and we understand each other.’
She sighs. ‘I’m so happy to hear that, love. So happy.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Well, to go from the sublime to the ridiculous, your friend Dwayne poked me online a couple of days ago. He’s trying to take me out. I pretty much think he’s trying it with everyone at the moment, but it’s cool.’
‘Ugh! You’re not gonna go, are you?’
‘Why not? It’s a free night out. Plus, me and you are different, you know,’ she says. ‘Very different. You’re always looking for a bloody romantic hero, all windswept and troubled. The less accessible the better. I like ’em quiet, serviceable, and preferably a bit slow.’ She raises her voice. ‘Driver! Can’t you see I rang the bell? Stop!’
‘God, I really miss you, Juliet!’ I laugh. ‘And kebabs.’
‘I’ve got to get off the bus with my bags, so gotta run. Go back to your Heathcliff. Make sure you call me soon though . . .’
‘Juliet!’
‘Yep?’
‘I’m just wondering if . . . I mean. Do you think it’s a problem that he’s a friend of Zed’s?’
Pause. ‘Nope. Do for self, bella. That’s the first rule.’
the obvious.
‘HEY BRANDY!’ I catch her coming out of her room and she’s once again cinched, painted and fragrant. ‘The lady is back, huh?’
‘Indeed,’ she says. ‘How you doing?’
‘I’m good.’
‘Evidently,’ she laughs. ‘That guy Spanish called for you a couple of times, by the way. What did you do to that boy?’
I shrug, embarrassed, smiling. I’ve hardly ever been in any kind of relationship long enough for it to go public. I’m not sure what face to wear. He’s mine now?
‘Don’t be coy with me, sweetheart!’ says Brandy. ‘It doesn’t suit you!’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, answering truthfully. ‘What time did he ring?’
‘About an hour ago.’
‘Cool, thanks. So where are you off to looking so pretty?’
‘Violet fried some chicken for dinner so . . .’ she smoothes her hair. ‘I’m gonna go help her out with it, seeing as Eko only has five teeth.’
We laugh, standing in the hall. And I can smell it, the scent of fried chicken wafting down the stairs. And a cake, I think. My stomach roars audibly.
‘That girl is a kitchen wizard,’ I say, with a sheepish laugh. ‘It’s ridiculous.’
‘Why don’t you come? She’s always cooking too much food anyway.’
Spanish can’t hook up tonight, so I’m all alone. The invitation is too good to miss. ‘She won’t mind, will she?’
‘No . . .’ says Brandy with a soft smile. ‘Of course not.’
‘Well, you ain’t gotta ask me twice. Lead the way, señorita.’
Upstairs, soul music is playing in the living room. TV on mute. ‘Brandy!’ says Violet, padding barefoot out of the kitchen. She’s bright and fresh in a red tracksuit, her hair covered by the habitual baseball cap. ‘And Eden! I guess everybody’s in the mood for chicken. Zed’s up here too.’
Too late to leave. I take a deep breath. Too late to make excuses.
‘I told Eden you were cooking,’ says Brandy, ‘and honey, she almost tripped running up the steps!’
Violet laughs, pleased. ‘Well you know you’re always welcome!’ she says and leads us through to the living room and the dining table. ‘There’s enough for everybody.’
Zed is kicking back in the armchair all dressed in blue, legs spread wide. He looks up when we enter the room but doesn’t rise and doesn’t look surprised to see me. He must have heard my voice in the hall.
‘Hey y’all,’ he says, an ironic Southern drawl. ‘How ya’ll doing?’
‘Cool,’ says Brandy, sounding more like Brandon. She clears her throat.
‘Eden?’
‘Can’t complain,’ I say carefully. It feels like high altitude up here with him. The air is thin.
‘Alright! You guys ready to eat?’ says Violet, speedily adding two plates to the dinner table. ‘Stupid question, right?’ she laughs. ‘Look at your faces. Ya’ll look hungry . . . especially you, Zed.’
She changes the music from soul to Fela Kuti and we all take our seats. Violet loads our plates with food and Brandy talks about the weather.
‘Getting hotter and hotter, isn’t it?’
I steal a glance at Zed and he does look hungry. Hungry, lean and silent sitting there across the table. When his food lands in front of him, he sets into it with determination and doesn’t look up from his plate.
‘So you’re a rapper?’ Brandy says to Zed eventually. ‘I heard you practising the other day.’
‘Yeah, that was me.’
‘Sounded like some good shit.’
‘Really?’ Zed replies, smiling. He rests his fork on the side of the plate. ‘What you know about h
ip-hop, B? You don’t seem like the type.’
‘I know a lot! I’m into my M.O.P., my Big L, Wu Tang, some Jadakiss, Cam’ron . . .’
‘Are you serious?’
‘As taxes!’
‘That’s what’s up!’ Zed laughs, taking a big bite of potato salad. ‘That’s what’s up.’
Brandy glows. ‘Anybody tell you you look a bit like him?’
‘Who?’
‘Cam’ron!’
Zed turns sideways from the table and doubles over like he’s choking. When he emerges, I realise that he’s in gales of laughter.
‘Ha ha! Cam’ron!’ His eyes are narrow with mirth, his cheeks are high and I forgot my camera. This is what happens when I don’t have it. I miss things. ‘You sayin’ I look like Cam’ron? That shit is wild!’
‘It’s definitely a compliment,’ says Violet, smiling.
‘As long as you don’t think I rhyme like the dude, we cool,’ says Zed, still laughing. And for a few moments we somehow luck into an atmosphere of complete ease.
Fela sings ‘Water No Get No Enemy’, and we eat our good, hot food.
‘Your hair always looks so nice, Eden! You get it done again?’ says Violet.
‘No, I’ve actually,’ I laugh self-consciously, ‘I’ve been looking up some natural hair tips on the internet. Washing it with conditioner, which stops it from drying out. And then I set it in rods overnight.’
Violet sighs.
‘I’ve been trying to convince Violet to go natural!’ says Brandy.
‘It’s not for everybody, Brandon,’ she says, a cloud going over her face. Suddenly all the ease is gone. She gets up from the table. ‘Anybody want more chicken?’
‘Look at you changing the subject again. Damn.’ Brandy shakes her head, then turns to entreat us with her big, made-up eyes. ‘She doesn’t think she’s pretty enough to pull off short hair, but she’s beautiful. I don’t know why she doesn’t see it.’
We sit for a moment. Zed concentrates on his near-empty plate. ‘You do have a beautiful face, Violet,’ I say.
She sighs. ‘I asked you people if you want more chicken. Better speak up or I’m gonna send ya’ll back to your spot with your stomach growling.’
‘No thanks, I’m full,’ says Brandy, pushing her plate forward. She’s the only one who’s barely touched it.
Violet looks irritated and concerned. ‘You see that? She buys all these groceries and then doesn’t eat anything. You need to eat.’
‘I’m fine, seriously.’
‘No you’re not.’ She turns to me. ‘Do you know where she’s going after this? To do her show at Glitter Bar. And after that, to her customer service job. And after that, she’s got classes at Brooklyn College!’
‘Wow . . .’ I look at Brandy. For the first time, I notice the greyness under the eyes.
Then Zed says, ‘Well I ain’t contributed anything but . . . if it helps I’m willing to have more chicken.’
The laughter is a bit louder than the joke deserves. Violet goes for more food for me and Zed and when she comes back, she also brings a container of food for Brandy.
‘That’s for later.’
‘Thanks.’
Zed and I get a start on our seconds, racing each other to the finish line.
‘Look after you,’ says Violet to Brandy, ‘that’s all, OK? You give so much but you don’t really look out for yourself and it’s not fair.’
‘Alright. But I’m lookin’ out for my little homie, that’s all. Eko’s getting kinda big these days and I don’t think baby food is gonna cut it.’
Violet smiles gently. ‘So Zed, I still don’t know where you fit . . . How you know Umi and Eden?’
He takes a sip of water. ‘Aunt K grew up with my dad back in Saint Lucia. So we’re almost like family. As for Eden,’ he smiles crookedly, ‘I’m an old friend. We go way back.’
‘Really?’ says Brandy, glancing at me.
‘Yeah,’ says Zed, ‘although she seems to be more interested in new friends these days.’
Eko picks that moment to start crying, before looks of bemused curiosity have a chance to settle on Brandy’s and Violet’s faces. The doting mother rushes off to settle her son back down, and Zed changes the subject back to hip-hop.
When she returns we take our leave for the night and I can’t figure out a viable reason why Zed and I should go down separately, but I’m scared to be alone with him. I don’t know if he’s amused or angry, if he cares or not. I can’t see him clearly. I thank Violet and Brandy for the meal, eyes down. Zed does the same, except he jokes with them both, easy, expansive and charming.
‘Now that is some crazy shit,’ says Zed as we walk back down the stairs.
‘What is?’ I ask, walking ahead, heavy with food.
‘We just crashed a romantic dinner.’
‘What . . . Brandy and Violet?’
‘Yeah, Brandy and Violet! Are you blind?’
‘Come on . . .!’
‘Eden,’ he says as we land at the base of the steps, ‘dress or no dress, your boy is feeling Ms Violet. You should learn to spot the obvious.’
‘Wow.’
‘So,’ he says slowly, stopping outside his bedroom door. ‘Spanish not coming around tonight?’
‘No.’ I swallow. ‘Band practice.’
Zed nods. ‘Don’t get lonely, mama,’ he says, closing his door.
wait—
Today I carried Angeline down to the river, Cherry Pepper, only moments from where she was born. She rode with me from town on a transport van that pulsed with Jamaican dancehall music. It made me laugh so much, thinking of how she would have hated it. How she would have complained at every bump and pothole in the road.
I walked through her slow, quiet village trying to see for her, how things had changed. ‘We should have come back earlier,’ I said to her, and I felt so deeply sorry. How could we have stayed away?
I sat on a rock, cradled by all the thick and singing green, and I spoke until I was empty. I gave her every detail of every injury, sting, scar. I said all the things I wished I could tell her when she was flesh. Fears, dreams and lovers. I retold all the jokes that had made us laugh, spinning loose from pain, restarting. I drew her close to me, Eden. I felt her breath on my neck, and even smelled the pressing oil she would use in her hair when I was a little girl. Then, when my voice had died and all I could hear was the birds and the easy current, slowly I emptied that Bounty Rum bottle over my hands and into the river. Slowly. Angeline running between my fingers, feathering the air, dissolving in the water. The sun turned her into gold. So light. And gone.
We should all be ash. We should all be a sprinkle of ash on the water.
Soon,
Aunt K
black sheep outreach.
THREE DAYS AFTER our awkward consummation, I turn up at Spanish’s place to find him looking far from serene.
‘Shit,’ he says, by way of greeting. His face is bloodless, poked around the front door.
‘And a good afternoon to you too,’ I say. Someone’s in there, I can feel it. ‘You gonna let me in?’
Of course this was gonna happen. I thought he was different and sincere but that would have contradicted everything I know about the puny, changeable nature of modern love.
He shuffles and grimaces.
‘Spanish?’ I say. Ready for whatever.
‘Yeah. Sure,’ he says, pulling open the front door. He scratches his scalp through the big hair and kisses me, hesitantly, on the cheek. ‘Uhm. Come on.’
‘What’s up?’
He doesn’t reply.
‘Just tell me.’
He sighs. Shakes his head. Looks over my shoulder into the street. ‘My . . . uh . . . my mother’s visiting,’ he says quietly. ‘She just got here.’
I stop him, my hand on the cool skin of his forearm. ‘Your what?’
‘My mother. It’s no big deal.’ I don’t move. ‘It’s no big deal,’ he repeats.
I look down at my clothe
s, the short shorts and long socks and busted kicks. I can’t believe this. I mean. His mother? ‘You want me to come back another time? ’Cause—’
‘No!’ he says in a strong, desperate whisper. ‘I want you. I want you here . . . I just. Come on, Eden. She’s gonna wonder what the hell’s going on down here.’
When we get to his living room, an expertly tanned and painted, platinum-highlighted blonde is sitting there. Cross-legged in modest khaki shorts and an ice white blouse. She looks nothing like her son. Spanish could be drawn entirely in charcoal. She’s all polish and gloss.
‘Mom,’ says Spanish carefully, and she lifts her head and only the crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes give her away as forty-plus. ‘This is Eden.’
‘What a lovely name! Hi Eden!’ she replies, springing to her feet, the baby-girl voice slightly incongruous with her quietly aging face. ‘I’m Margaret. How are you, my dear?’
‘Hi,’ I say nervously. ‘Fine.’
‘I brought over a great Chardonnay. Why don’t you get her a glass, James?’
‘No – that’s alr—’ I start.
‘It’s cool,’ he says. ‘I’ll get you some.’
I sit on one of the random dining chairs – unattached to a table – scattered around Spanish’s living room. James. His name is James.
‘So is that an accent I detect, Eden?’
‘Yeah, I’m from London.’
‘Wow!’ She raises her eyebrows at Spanish as he comes back into the room, like ‘well done’. ‘You’re a long way from home! Are you on vacation?’
‘Well. Sort of. I might be staying for a while.’
‘That’s great!’ she says.
‘What part of New York do you live in?’ I ask.
‘Oh no!’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘I live in Florida now, but I was in town so I thought I’d stop by for a visit. How do you like it here?’
‘Not that different from home – just a little warmer.’
‘You can say that again!’ she giggles and pretends to faint. ‘New York in the summer is hot as steak on a grill!’
I laugh politely. Spanish taps out a quick rhythm on the wall behind him and looks an uncomfortable combination of bored and anxious. She asks him: ‘So how’s the band?’