Mateo turned her around so they faced each other, and though this was less vulgar, because less of their bodies touched, it seemed much more intimate. He leaned his face into her neck and she felt his lips on her wet skin as if he had tapped directly onto her spine. She shivered and pulled back. And then she left the dance floor. Mateo stood there for a moment before following her.
“You okay?” he asked once they were outside.
“Yeah. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” They were quiet for several moments. “I wanted to kiss you in there.”
“I know.”
“Can I kiss you now?”
“I don’t know, actually.”
“Can I try?” She nodded. He leaned forward and she turned to give him her cheek. “If we get married,” he said smiling, “we’ll be doing a lot more than kissing.”
“What?”
And then he kissed her open mouth and she felt his soft lips and his wet tongue and she jumped back. And she smiled and then she backed away some more and then she ran away, into the cavern of the club, her heels clinking on the deck like knocking bones. She’d had her first kiss and it had been with Mateo, and had he asked her to marry him? This was like a Bollywood movie except with real kissing. She needed to talk to Leslie.
But inside, the dance floor was a living mass of its own. It was hot and steamy now. And the people were not concerned about the expensiveness of their dresses or the intricateness of their hairdos. The floor was sticky and difficult to walk on in Leslie’s heels.
Mateo had kissed her and now Gita did not know what to do. It had felt animallike. It had felt slutty. She didn’t want to see him again. But she wanted to see him every day for the rest of her life. And that was silly. Did she really believe that Mateo Diaz was the kind of boy who kissed a girl and then married her? Was he? He would want sex first or at least dating a little. He would want to fool around with American girls in college and all that. Wouldn’t he? Would he? Why would he say something so serious if he wasn’t serious? She felt sick. Her head felt sick. She felt as though she had to get away from the crowd. “Are you tight?” someone asked. She shook her head but thought she might throw up. “Man, Pinky Manachandi is tight!”
She wandered to the bathroom, then hiked up her pink dress and sat on the toilet until she felt as though the kiss and the drink were gone from her. When she emerged she felt better but more stupid. Had she even kissed Mateo? And had she run away afterwards?
Someone grabbed her wrist gently. It felt protective. She looked up expecting to see her father. The older man leaned into her face. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’m not.”
“You need some water.” He was wearing a panama hat fitting tight and low. He offered her his open bottle.
She wasn’t used to drinking. Water seemed like a savior. She took it and drank steadily. Drank the whole bottle before she knew it. It felt clean. It tasted sweet.
“I’m sorry, sir.” She handed him back the empty bottle.
“Sir!” said the man with amusement. “Well, I haven’t been alive that much longer than you.” Gita didn’t know how to feel about this. But now she peered at him and thought he looked familiar. She squinched up her eyes at him. It wasn’t a bad feeling, this familiarity. But it felt dark, like a secret. He squinched his eyes back at her. Then, without smiling or saying goodbye, he slipped into the men’s room with his water bottle.
“Where you been?” Leslie’s voice, suddenly next to hers, was hoarse.
“In the bathroom.”
“Were you puking?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mateo just tell me he kissed you and then you run away.”
“He’s lying.”
“Oh man, Pinky. Now what you going do? Do you like him like that?”
“I going marry him. My dad will let me do anything. He visits with my dead mother every night.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you boyfriend and girlfriend now?”
“I don’t think so.” Gita watched the door of the men’s room and waited for the man to come out. She wanted to remember who he was.
“You should find out.” Leslie paused. “Do you even have his number?”
“Who? Oh, no. I don’t think so.”
“Pinky, are you high or something? What the hell! Let’s go give him yours.”
They walked around the club that was now playing its jazzy theme song. People were leaving. The lights went on like a wide search beam. People now looked human and raw. Some stood around and waited. Others talked loudly about heading out to a new club in Port-of-Spain that stayed open later. No one was dancing anymore. The dance floor looked like a sad, dirty place. Mateo wasn’t there. Outside, they stumbled over the pebbles to Pinky’s car. “I’ll drive,” Leslie offered.
“That’s okay,” said Pinky. She sat in the driver’s seat of the SUV that had been her mother’s. She started the engine and rolled down their windows with the automatic buttons.
“Hey, Pinky. Stop running away from me.”
“Oooh,” whispered Leslie from the passenger’s seat. “He good.”
Pinky put the car back in park and told her heart to stop slamming against the inside of her chest. Asked her brain to stop floating around in her head. She wanted really to drive away. She wanted really to wave and honk her horn like others were doing and then find the main road and then go to school in January and wait to see if Barnard had accepted her and then wait to see if she actually wanted to go after all. But instead her palms sprung water and slipped off the steering wheel.
“Can I get your number?”
She nodded but didn’t turn to look at him. Her head might fall off, it felt that soupy. Is this what love feels like?
Mateo leaned into the car window. “Pinky, girl, I’m not messing with you. I know this has to be on the down low cause of your pops. I’m for real. However you want it, girl. Hey, give me your cell.”
She kept her hands in her lap. Leslie dug through the little magenta purse and passed him Pinky’s cell phone. He typed his number in. “I put in ‘Mary.’ That can be my code name. That way, when I’m calling no one knows it’s a guy. Cool?” And then he backed off a little. “Good night, Les. You take care of my girl.”
Leslie smiled and waved and reached over to honk Pinky’s horn. “Now drive away, Pinky,” she said under her breath.
Pinky put the SUV in gear and drove. “I have a boyfriend,” she said as the sea air whipped around them on the highway. The air made her head feel less swimmy. Kept her palms dry.
“You have a man, Pinky. Now what you going do with him?”
“I have no idea.”
She drove faster. She wanted the air. She and Leslie were careening into their happiness. They were nearing Alcoa, where her father worked. Pinky thought, Father, and then remembered the Catholic priest, and then she finally remembered where she knew the older man from. The coffin shop. She smiled. There was something funny about the man. He had been so mad when she touched his one-winged plane. He was nice to have given her water, though. Did he remember her? Is that why he was so nice? The water had been sweet. Maybe it was coconut water. This thought made Gita laugh out loud. The laughter made her head float. Leslie glanced over at her to ask what was so funny.
But they had already gotten to the narrow loop in the road before the aluminum warehouse. Pinky turned the wheel into the dark corner. There was a sudden blare of another car’s horn. Then, the invasive brights of the other car’s headlights. Pinky let the wheel pull away from her. She released her hands and raised her foot off the gas. She saw the Alcoa dock and thought of it as a solitary arm reaching into the sea as in welcome.
Leslie saw her friend’s hands raised above the wheel. She felt the car slam into the railing. Felt it lift as though alive and turn, turn, until upside down. Her body stiffened in anticipation. The fear was like metal on her tongue. “Hold on,” she tried to scream, hold on!—but the word
s were too slow. They hit the water like a wall. The wall gave way. Then it was dark and they were underwater and they were in a sinking car and they were upside down.
Leslie released her seat belt. She reached out for Pinky, who was facing her. They were staring at each other—Leslie could tell that much. She tugged at Pinky’s seat belt. Pinky did not tug back. Pinky’s eyes were wide open as though she were breathing water and surprised at her new magic. Leslie’s body filled with the burn of the saltwater in her chest. She grabbed at her friend’s seat belt. She pulled at Pinky. It seemed like forever but maybe it was only a few seconds. Five seconds maybe. Leslie’s chest hurt and her eyes hurt and she was more afraid than she had been at birth. Five eternal seconds and then she turned to open the door, but the door would not open and so she pulled herself through the window and she did not look back but swam toward what she hoped with all her heart was the surface and not further out into the ocean. She hit the air and heaved and was surprised to see the highway quiet, as if nothing at all had happened. As if Gita were not under the water stuck in her seat belt. She swam until she could climb out. Four more minutes maybe. She ran across the street without looking either way, toward the first rum shop at the edge of the village. It was closed. A minute. She ran toward a convenience store, a red open sign buzzing above the door. Five minutes. She was wet and dirty and she babbled to the register man, who nodded and handed her the phone. She didn’t call the police station which was less than half a mile away. She called her parents. But all she could say was, “Mateo kissed Pinky and now she’s in the water. She’s in the water and it’s only me on land. Just me. Help. Come help.” By then the convenience store owner had used his cell phone to call the police. And by the time the police came and the firefighters came and Gita’s father came, it had been almost thirty minutes.
“Why don’t you go get her?!” Gita’s father shouted before his car had even stopped. Mr. Manachandi left his car like a catapult and rushed past the police, who were gathered around Leslie. He jumped over and into the water.
The police did not stop him. “Part of his mourning,” one said to another, and jotted the occurrence down in his notebook.
Mr. Manachandi went under and then came back up. “Help me! Please. I see her. Help me.”
Then another police officer said, “Get the old man out of the water.” And a young cop took off his gun and jumped in and grabbed Mr. Manachandi and hauled him out. The father looked like an animal. He looked like a wild dying animal. The firemen, who were more trained in dealing with human beings than car wrecks, told him that they needed him over here. Away from where the divers were going down to cut the body out of its seat belt. And by then Pinky had been under water for forty-five minutes.
In the ambulance, Leslie howled as though her own mother was dead.
Leslie Dockers walked into the shop and said good afternoon out of a new formality. Mr. Corban remembered her, the friend of the Indian girl, and sat more erectly in his chair. He was nervous. He was excited.
Leslie walked to the mustard-colored coffin with the Virgin emblazoned on it and caressed its satin lining with the back of her hand. She felt this one would be best, but she wasn’t sure she’d have her way. She’d already convinced Mr. Manachandi that a coffin would be better than an urn.
The jangle of the door sounded again. Mr. Manachandi walked slowly into the shop, his shoulders stooped over and his hands clasped in front of him. He walked over to Leslie and stared for a second at the Virgin. He began to raise his hand to his mouth, but instead swayed unsteadily, holding onto the coffin. The coffin held the weight.
Corban cleared his throat and gestured to the stool where Father Simon usually sat. Father Simon, the magic good luck. Away on his yearly trip to the parish in Tobago. Business was always dead when Father Simon was gone.
But Corban studied a little magic of his own. Bitter herbs. Sweet potions.
Mr. Manachandi took the seat. “Something for a girl,” he said.
Corban nodded with the appropriate weight of this request and came out from behind the counter. The man, Corban noticed, had a flattened gold marigold edging out of his breast pocket.
“Well, there is this one. The BWIA plane. It’s odd. I never thought I’d sell it, but a girl was in here just the other day who liked it very much. I would be willing—”
“No. No. No,” Mr. Manachandi began, his voice small. He shook his head and closed his eyes. “Something pure and natural,” he said firmly, and then opened his eyes.
Corban put his hand to his chin and squeezed it. He looked at the blonde girl who was standing there at the Virgin coffin as though it were an altar. “Yes, I understand.” He glanced about and saw the simple pine coffin. Corban knew this was not the right choice, the Indian girl hadn’t liked it when she came in a week ago. But he would show the pine to the man anyway. A sale was a sale.
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
LISA ALLEN-AGOSTINI is a poet, playwright, and fiction writer from Trinidad and Tobago. She is the author of a children’s novel, The Chalice Project (2008). An award-winning journalist, she has been a reporter, editor, and columnist with the Trinidad Express and the Trinidad Guardian.
ROBERT ANTONI carries three passports: American, Bahamian, and Trinidadian. He is the author of three novels, Divina Trace (1991), Blessed Is the Fruit (1997), and Carnival (2005), as well as the story collection, My Grandmother’s Erotic Folktales (2000). He presently lives in Manhattan and teaches in the graduate writing program at The New School. According to his horoscope, he has “no barometer for abstinence.”
KEVIN BALDEOSINGH is a journalist and the author of three novels. His novel, The Autobiography of Paras P (1996), is a social satire. Virgin’s Triangle (1997) is a romantic comedy. The Ten Incarnations of Adam Avatar (2005) is an historical novel covering the past 500 years of Caribbean history. In 2000 and 2001 he was the regional chairperson for the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize (Canada and Caribbean). He is also a founding member of the Trinidad and Tobago Humanist Association.
ELISHA EFUA BARTELS is finally escaping the unnecessary hazards of winter and coming home to Trinbago. While in Washington, D.C., she stage-managed and performed with several theaters, including the Washington Shakespeare Company and the Folger Shakespeare Library, and was a freelance associate producer for the Kojo Nnamdi Show on WAMU-FM 88.5. biglove to grims and her family for continuing to support her similar endeavors in locations current and future.
VAHNI CAPILDEO lived in Trinidad until she moved to Oxford, England, where she studied Old Icelandic because “Vikings” wrote hardboiled prose. She now works on the Oxford English Dictionary for Oxford University Press. Her books include No Traveller Returns (2003), Person Animal Figure (2005), and The Undraining Sea (2008). Works in hand include Dark & Unaccustomed Words (poetry) and Static (stories).
WILLI CHEN is a Trinidadian entrepreneur, artist, and writer. His accolades include the BBC prize and Trinidad’s Chaconia Silver Medal (2006). His writings have appeared in literary magazines in the Caribbean and the U.S. His works include King of the Carnival and Other Stories (1988), Chutney Power and Other Stories (2006) which was short-listed for the 2007 Commonwealth Writers’ Best Book Prize (Canada and Caribbean), and Crossbones (forthcoming).
RAMABAI ESPINET is a writer, critic, and academic. Her published works include a novel, The Swinging Bridge (2003), a book of poetry, Nuclear Seasons (1991), and the children’s books The Princess of Spadina (1992) and Ninja’s Carnival (1993). She is the editor of Creation Fire (1990). A documentary on her work, Coming Home, was released in 2005. Forthcoming is a collection of short fiction, Shooting Trouble.
RIAN MARIE EXTAVOUR has worked as a freelance journalist for the Catholic News and was selected to be a fellow in Trinidad’s Cropper Foundation Creative Writing Workshop 2005. She enjoys acting and singing and has appeared in Relevant Theatre’s 2006 production, Phases, the University of the West Indies (St. Augustine) Festival Arts Chorale production of Oliver!, and she a
ppears regularly with Mawasi Experience.
KEITH JARDIM, a jaguar who lives in the forests of Guyana and Venezuela, is the author of Under the Blue: Stories (2008) and The Last Migrations: Stories and a Novella (forthcoming). He eats peccaries and alligators, fish and capybara, the occasional moist-eyed deer, and agoutis. He knows the government of Trinidad and Tobago never had a heart.
OONYA KEMPADOO was born in England of Guyanese parents and brought up in Guyana. She has lived in Europe, St. Lucia, Trinidad, Tobago, and currently lives in Grenada. Her first book, Buxton Spice, was published in 1997 and has been translated into five languages. Her second novel, Tide Running (2001), won the 2002 Casa de las Américas prize. Kempadoo was named a Great Talent for the Twenty-First Century by the Orange Prize judges.
JAIME LEE LOY, a native Trinidadian, studied literature and visual arts at the University of the West Indies (St. Augustine) and is pursuing an MPhil in literature. A contributing artist to Galvanize (2006), she has participated as artist-in-residence at Caribbean Contemporary Arts (CCA), Trinidad, and the Vermont Studio Center, U.S. She was Exchange Programme Coordinator for CCA where for five years she experimented with video.
DARBY MALONEY writes short stories, poetry, and is currently working on a children’s Heroes of Trinidad and Tobago series which includes Russell Latapy: The Little Magician (2007) and Stephen Ames: Trinidad’s Ace Golfer (2008). Darby has lived in eleven states and three countries, and currently resides in Southampton, New York and Trinidad and Tobago.
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