I liked this lady, how she so vulgar and full of herself. She liked me too. Looked me square on then said, “And you have a little baby. Well, I giving you a chance.”
When I started thanking her—
“But is only part-time. And then you might get some freelance work cause sometimes clients need their own artwork done.” Still looking me square, hard as a business deal. “You brave, girl. You going to live on your own here? You can’t stay with yuh family? Trinidad rough, you know, it rough. It only looking so.”
“Girl, you born with a gold spoon in yuh ass!” my friend shouted at me, pelting out the gate of my new home. “Come let’s go round by me, I have some things for you. Look just so, you get this wonderful place to live. How long I had me eye on it but the stingy lady always saying she not renting. Now a job too. Yuh blessed, child . . .”
We swing round the corner into Picton Street, a few doors down to Francisco’s grandmother’s house, where he lived.
“Shh. She might be sleeping.”
I followed him up the red painted steps to the small front porch. A real granny house, crowded with chests, wicker chairs, and plants everywhere. Francisco’s clutter added more bric-a-brac—shells and pebbles collected on the banister, driftwood in a corner. He pried open the skinny front doors and let us into the gingerbread house. Cool dusky air inside and a swirl of bright speckles followed us in. In the tiny antique living room, the bent-wood furniture and radiogram are intact. A light, neat, and soft kitchen, treasured square tins in a row, tea towels folded clean. The snore of an old white fridge breathed gently too. These houses, and their insides, are the hidden pride of Port-of-Spain. Secrets, disappearing. Sometimes plucked out overnight.
“I have a pot here for you, come,” Francisco mumbled, digging in the kitchen safe, a traditional wood and wire-mesh food locker. He pulled out a dinky little aluminium kettle, almost dolly-house size. “It cute, eh? You could have it. And something else . . . It’s in the bedroom,” whispering, “fabric. Luvely white cheese cloth, mmn.”
When he pushed open his bedroom door, the paint held the top stuck for a second, then it sprang open, shaking the thin wall and fretwork. Piles and heaps, stuffed bags, hats, belts, and wraps filled the small space round the bed, his nest. Grabbing bags, checking, moving them aside, digging, he crinkled a noisy plastic one, a harsh loud sound in the small house.
“Shh, oh shit!”
“Francisco?” came from the sleeping room next door.
“Yes, it’s me, Gran. Is okay.”
We found the fabric, two big loads of it, and bundled back out into the bright. Back round the corner to my home-to-be.
Bursting through the narrow front doors—a scramble shook the house. Shook my heart to the core. The back door.
“Tief!”
A man running, dashing past the windows at the side, flying down the street, gone. With the gas tank. With my courage and bravery. Leaving me shaking, shamed of the fear I carry.
“The gas tank, Bella! He tief it!” And Francisco starts flapping.
We checked to see what else was gone, round the near-empty rooms—nothing else troubled except us. We closed the front door and went back to the tiefing spot, like it could give us a clue. Eyes followed the tief’s smudges on the wall, to where his feet must have sprung and jumped into the little driveway and out to the free road. A little twenty-pound cooking-gas cylinder. Francisco fuming more than me.
“We just turn our back for a minute, wasn’t long we were gone for, eh? And these things hard-hard to get. He gone and sell that for crack, yuh know. Ass! The last time my aunt had to get a gas tank was endless stress—up and down, going and coming, checking Tom, Dick, and Harrilal, cause Texgas and Shell never have any. The ass!”
“At least it was empty,” I said lamely, and started checking the heaps in the rooms again. “What a welcome, eh? It’s a good thing nothing else is gone.”
Francisco stood, glaring his googly eyes all round the house, bristling and fiery as a ruffian terrier.
This couldn’t break my luck though. No. This old house was a piece’a charm come true. From the time I saw it, to when Francisco took me to the owner—agreement and key. Magic. A wooden white fretwork dream. Ramshackle iced cake with a pointy tin roof. Shelter for me and my boy. Right here in town, round the corner from work, from Francisco and the Savannah. Tall narrow doors graced the dusty front steps, banana trees colored the yard. Original cast-iron fence in its concrete base, gate bent but freshly painted black. And as fragile as an antique it looked from the outside, it was elegance inside, to me. Palace. High ceilings and doorways lengthened my spine, white everywhere dressed me regal. Wooden lace partitions, the layers of gloss paint, the care taken to cut each curl and detail so long ago—curved a delicate eggshell womb for us, pinpricked with sunlight patterns. At night, streetlights lit inside-out effects. Silhouettes of lace. Jalousie panels glowing like pleated rice paper.
It didn’t need much more than the few things I had for furnishing. Cushions and a mattress on the floor, worktable, and plants. Some black-and-white clean checkered lino for Oliver’s room so the splinters and dusty cracks wouldn’t bother him. Now Francisco’s gauzy white crepe to drape the front sunroom. I spread old cotton curtains to cover the holes in the floor there. Cozied it into a heavenly nest, weighted with round river stones, scented with vetiver. Haven. Our shelter. Shaken but not crushed.
“The tiefing is the problem though,” my friend reminded me, shaking the louvered door in Oliver’s room. “We have to board this up too.” He checked the tiny window in the bathroom.
“No one can pass through that,” I figured.
“Dat is what you think! Them jumbies round here will pass through a keyhole. They push children through. Is them boys selling they nastiness round the corner. Since they come round, the whole neighborhood change. You know they tief Gran clothes off she line last week? Imagine.” He was still strolling around. Inspecting. “Thank God these windows have proper burglar proofing.” Pushing his foot at a soft corner of the floor, pulling back when it crackled. “Look how rotten, Bella. Wood ants feasting like hell.” Staring all up to the attic. “And you could imagine what going on up there! The other day, right in that office over so, they came in through the roof. And tief out all the computers.”
“If they look in here first, they mightn’t bother.”
“Well. Don’t mind. Anyway, at least they painted up the place before you came in . . .” He went on, the whole time. While we nailed up the weak door and put a new bolt on the front door. Going on, then gently urging me to be careful, always look out, especially when I coming in at night, to look out for them sprangers because they like rats round here.
I looked out for them. And the hills. And Trinidad. Eyes peeled. Listening to gruesome news, daily. Tucked close under the feathery, shifting beauty. Standing on thin skin, feeling bones moving under the soles of my feet. Watching the rainbow colors of oil on dark water.
PART II
TOWN
WOMAN IS BOSS
BY ELISHA EFUA BARTELS
Diego Martin
Jump high, jump low, somebody dead.
Afternoons in July, it comes down bucket-a-drop in Diego Martin. This particular day the sky opened up over the Northern Range right on time and the expected convectional rainfall was beating its usual rhythms on galvanize. It would be another hour or so until the rainbow fighting through the clouds won and sun kissed us again and life could continue, squeaky clean after the afternoon wash.
As I rolled over on my mattress, my eye caught #1’s work-in-progress, making me roll back over and shove my head under the pillow, hopefully blocking out art and light, at least until the latter was over for the day. I had to fall out soon to be rested enough to surpass #2’s three-day cumulative anticipation, and staring at myself was too disturbing. I wanted to take advantage of that lithe young body enough that I’d worked from yesterday, straight through the night and this morning, sending multiple stori
es with sidebars to keep my editor busy. I was doing for me tonight, so the knowledge that surely somebody somewhere was dead had to take a backseat.
Hours later, as Jon Stewart’s outstanding opening monologue made me gleefully imagine doing to him what I’d been planning for #2, the latter rang.
“Aye, babes. You home?”
“Yes. You coming?”
“Up the road. Waiting for your go and I there . . .”
“Come.” Enough time to shut down laptop, find keys, finish spliff, out incense, and stick notebook and phone in my pocket as my song pulled up outside—he always thought of shit like that, knew exactly what I needed a moment before I did, ever-ready with the blanket, water, ice cream, right tune. Being the center of someone’s universe was amazing and I couldn’t possibly be giving enough in return. His being completely in love helped cover my debt, but even so, could this level of devotion be long-term sustainable? I tried not to think too hard, reaching instead into Billie’s voice: Filled with despair / There’s no one could be so sad / With gloom everywhere / I sit and I stare / I know that I’ll soon go mad / In my solitude.
I opened the door as he reached out to knock, pleasant surprise interrupted as my phone emitted its low, discreet, single tone. I ignored it for the moment, heading for the car where I knew he’d open the door, hold it while I got in, then gently tuck it closed behind me once both legs were safely inside, knees almost caressing the dash.
People calling at that hour knew it wasn’t their turn and should expect to wait. Still, such off-night calls were rare enough that once en route, I played the message, face wringing involuntarily as I snapped the phone shut.
“Babes?”
“Nada.” I rearranged my expression. “So. Where we going?” We were always going—I didn’t entertain in #1’s space. #2 waited for my go to pull up to the house, given only when I was ready to walk out the door.
“Surprise.”
“I hate surprises.” He took me to Martin’s via the scenic route (my designation for going all the way around the Savannah with a small run up Lady Chancellor) to Cipriani Boulevard. The Savannah’s circular nature despite a lack of roundness was irresistible, populated by flowering trees, joggers, and coconut and pholourie vendors, supplemented at varying times with corn soup or snow cone vendors mobbed by Bishop’s and QRC uniforms, fellas kicking ball, parents and siblings pushing garrulous babies in strollers—the cacophonous charm of the world’s largest roundabout made it my automatic route for anywhere it could take me.
He opened my door with a spliff in the palm of the hand offered to help me out. I took both, the question still lurking behind lowered lids—could anybody remain so attentive?
At a table under the big tree in the backyard, I waved at Martin, ordering a red rum and tamarind juice as we sat. We got lifted while endnotes of another delicious night in Ruthmin’s kitchen teased my nostrils, my stomach commiserating with Tanker’s wail of longing for Lena from the speakers. I allowed one hand to drift under the table, masking the action with my legs as I reached into his lap. The phone rang again.
Same caller, no message this time.
Across the table, the other eyebrow raised. “Somebody anxious, forget what night it is?”
“Sorry, babes.”
“We good.”
I felt bad anyway.
Shortly, sliding back into the passenger seat, I looked up at him and tried to smile. “Sorry, lovin’.” I found myself saying the word twice as often lately, meaning it about half the time.
#2 took me back home, Billie’s voice slicing deeper into my mind. I hesitated at the door, hunting for a reason to turn the key—not a fitting end to my night, especially since there’d probably be little appreciation for my cutting it short to grant this request—of course I’d cancel my plans and come home to “talk” since he thought it was important enough to call, knowing full well he shouldn’t have.
The latch plunked reluctantly back from the well and I pushed, then pushed again, annoyance rising. The door was still sticking—the last flood seemed to have swelled the wood and no amount of hot sun would shrink it.
“I’m here.”
He paced the big room, all but pawing and snorting. “I hear this one might be serious.”
“What?”
“I want it to done.”
“Want what to done?” For dragging me away from a previous engagement, the least he could do was make sense.
“Him. Stop seeing him.”
“I’m sorry . . .” Again. Maybe I meant it.
“No. I sorry. But I can’t help it. This one different and I just . . . not handling it. I not trying to cramp your style, babes, but just . . . not this one . . .”
“Hear what—I need a cup of tea. I coming.” I prepped my favorite mug with Lipton Yellow Label and two teaspoons of brown sugar, turned on the fire under the kettle, and returned to the big room, dropping into the couch and silently thanking it for being the most forgiving thing in my life these days. “So, why?”
“I don’t know, and I feel shitty asking you, but I not dealing, and I don’t want this to mash us up, so I asking you to let this one go.”
“You asking plenty, wanting me to throw away a relationship because of some vague, undefined . . . unease. You better come better than that. I don’t know if I can agree, on principle. I mean, if I give up this, then what? What else after that?”
“You know is not like that. Come on. You trying to tell me you can’t do this one thing for us? This small sacrifice to maintain something more important?”
“And what about me? Why I have to be the one to fucking sacrifice? Why you can’t just fucking deal?” I was defensive, happy equilibrium threatened.
Everyone in the equation fulfilled a function. I got everything I wanted. #1 got the live-in and accompanying perks without a permanent mosquito in his ear. #2 got as much as or more than he expected since he knew when he got involved that he wasn’t #1. And Kaya got the relationship with accompanying perks and protections, without the worry of some jealous man showing up at the club four out of five nights, making trouble and cutting into her customer time and tips. Each person effectively purposed.
“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to bring this up cause I know you’d get vex. I was hoping you’d get bored with him.”
“Sorry.” Again.
“No, I’m sorry.”
Conversation shifted into silence. I went back to the kitchen to make tea, confused. I’d never expected the #1 beneficiary to have a problem with the arrangement.
By the time I got back to the big room, in-hand liquid warmth spreading, the door was thudding closed, Post-it fluttering: end it tonight. never see him again. please.
I gulped my tea, grabbed keys, phone, and notebook, and left Diego with such haste that I nearly killed a pedestrian too stupid to realize the Cocorite walkover exists because the maxi-ride there tempts fate enough. 3canal didn’t make it through “Watch Dem” the third time—we ent takin’ dey lies / propaganda tearing de place asunder / we want a new agenda— before I parked in Charford Court.
I gestured to Face’s shadowy outline by the stairwell that I’d be back soon and immediately cut across from Charlotte Street along Oxford onto Henry, blowing a kiss over my shoulder at Renegades’ panyard to make up for bypassing my usual melodious route. The job made me a regular in Port-of-Spain at night even if average citizens weren’t, and the panyard knew me too well for me to pass without stopping in.
Two-thirds of the way to the Promenade, “Watch Dem” still in my inner ear, I stepped up from Henry Street into the dark, narrow stairwell, each foot automatically falling into the next worn spot, bass thump reverberating Gregory Isaacs’s “Cool Down the Pace” through my pelvis, then cut through skanking pipers and rootsmen and women only to pull up short, sense of purpose deflated. If not here, I didn’t know where else to look for #1.
As I turned mindlessly, a skinny man in a Rasta-colors mesh vest, matching hat bulging, center-stitch C
larks, obligatory black bottle and spliff in one hand slid up and grabbed my elbow with the other. Flashing gold with every word: “Sistren, you hadda leave here now.”
“Excuse me?”
“You hadda ride.”
Confused, I allowed the pressure on my elbow to lead me back to the street that only seemed refreshing after the stifling dive I’d just been ushered out of.
“I know who you come for, but you hadda wait home.” Urgently hissing this instruction in my ear, he hustled me into a light blue pH car idling empty, off-route as if its driver didn’t need fares. “Fidel, take this lady for me, nah.” He rattled off what I belatedly recognized through mental earmuffs as my address, and the car peeled out before I could collect myself.
By the third red light run, I managed to squeeze out, “Drive, I’ll take it here.”
“But miss lady, Ras say take you Diego.”
“Thanks, Fidel, but I can’t make any promises about the length of your life if you don’t stop this damn car so I can get out right fucking now.” Fidel acquiesced. But as I memorized his face, suspicious and fearful eyes followed me out onto Green Corner, sticking, worried that I was leaving them ransomed.
A few blocks later, Face emerged from the stairwell as I reached my car. Unusual. We rarely spoke in public. He peered up at the fifth-floor railing behind which his daughter was trying to wriggle out of her mother’s arms. A shrill voice descended, fighting to cut through Port-of-Spain smog, the panyard’s loose, jangling harmony and the nearly tangible smell of the dumpster at the end of the yard.
“Face, go, nah. She don’t settle if she could still see you.”
He steupsed, short but eloquent. “Damn child have no right to be awake this hour, far less on the gallery. Aye, Star, plenty people mark your ride, eyeing up your plate number.”
“Anybody we know?”
“Don’t know yet. I go call, nah.”
“Safe.”
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