So we spent a long while just traveling. We spent our whole honeymoon traveling, it seems. First we went south hoping to stay away from the hurricanes. We stayed in Barbados, Tobago, and the Grenadines most of September and October. After a little while I started to feel homesick and Nathaniel decided we should return to Anguilla. But things weren’t the same here either, you know, because I wasn’t able to see my family and I wasn’t confident enough to visit my friends. I felt even more homesick in Anguilla than away from it, so after one or two weeks we left again, this time to St. Kitts, Nevis, and St. Lucia.
Nathaniel was born in the countryside and he always missed countryside life in the Caribbean so he was always looking for the forest in the islands, for the mountains. I think that’s why he loved Nevis so much. Or maybe he just liked the monkeys. After traveling for about two months he wanted to go back to Nevis to spend the Christmas season in one of the luxury hotels. But I really wanted to come back to see you, Grandpa, so I convinced him to come back to Anguilla for a while. And we did, but it was terrible because everywhere we went I could always feel so many eyes accusing me of treason, of having let my family down, of abandoning you. Once, I remember, we went to The Smiley Face for dinner, and Maria, the daughter of Karina and Eustace Brown, she was working as a waitress there, and though she was waiting our table and she recognized me (I could tell by the look in her eyes), she didn’t say anything, until she dropped a glass of red wine on me (on purpose, even if she say it wasn’t so), and even then, she only apologized once. We never went back to The Smiley Face but that didn’t mean there were no other ugly episodes. Once we went to Shoal Bay during the day and we went to The Sunshine to eat lunch and as soon as we sat down at our table the music just stopped and for the rest of the afternoon there was nothing but silence. There were only a few people there, and it might have been a coincidence, but I know it wasn’t. I could tell it wasn’t. We still went back to The Sunshine another time and I suppose nothing strange really happened that time, but you know what I mean. Every time we were out I felt there was always something strained, always something not nice waiting to happen.
We did stay in Anguilla for three weeks before I found the strength to knock on the door of the Rawlingson home, which was my own door! The holiday season was over by then and things were returning to normal. Maybe you were there but I don’t know for sure because I wasn’t let inside. Mom opened the door and when she saw me she didn’t say a word. She just slammed the door back shut. And then Dewan opened it again, and all he said was, “Go. Go, sis. Go.” And I did and went back home and said nothing about it to Nathaniel.
We were still pretty happy together, Nathaniel and I. But he could tell there was something wrong. His visa would soon run out and he was worried Immigration would give him grief to get a new one, so he said we’d stay until they renewed his visa and then we’d go traveling again. I was afraid they wouldn’t renew his visa at all, but all of a sudden it was as if no one cared about him no more. Within a week he got his passport back and we planned another trip in the Caribbean.
Nathaniel spoke French fluently, so this time we took three months to explore Guadeloupe, Martinique, and St. Barths. Nathaniel liked all of them but he liked Martinique most, so we spent more time there than in the other places. It rained a lot in Martinique and maybe that’s why I got so depressed. I can’t say for sure what it was, but the longer this situation dragged on, the more ungrateful I felt. I think what hurt the worst was not being able to see you, Grandpa. I was missing all of you, but I was missing you the most. Even through all my years in Washington, we always used to have a little chat on the phone. I missed your wisdom, and your love. I missed you more than I ever did miss you in Washington because this time our complete silence made it feel like you were dead, you know, not just far away. Nathaniel said we needed to do something about it, otherwise I’d be sad for the rest of my life. I said it wasn’t too bad and it would go with time but deep inside I knew he was right. So he went up to the hotel manager and told him he wanted to leave to Anguilla as soon as possible, so within three days our honeymoon—which had lasted from September to March—was finished and we were back home for good.
One or two weeks later Nathaniel came up with this crazy, stupid idea. I’m sorry to swear in front of you, Grandpa, but that’s what it was, honest to God, and I wish we had never done it. It spoiled everything, though everything was spoiled already, but at least Nathaniel and I were sort of happy at the time. We had been traveling a lot, and we knew how difficult and expensive traveling between the islands can be, and Nathaniel knew I had a passion for the sky, for looking at the world from above. He had seen my pictures, the ones you say look like I have found the highest mountain to look at the world from, because it’s the only place where the world looks like I feel it should, and he thought they were very good. I was flattered about his enthusiasm (he, a man of the world, having real knowledge about art, calling my work “special”), but that is where it ended so far as I was concerned. But who could have guessed he was going to try something all crazy like that?
Anyway, Dragon Wings, at the beginning at least, was a mad-mad effort by Nathaniel to reunite me with my family and make me happy: he thought the project would be big enough to make everyone on the island have the hots for it; he thought the Rawlingsons would not let pass the chance of getting involved in something big and exciting like that; and he knew I was obsessed with the sky. I loved him even more at the time for even considering such craziness just for my sake. I hate him now for not listening to my advice, for spoiling everything.
Of course, I dismissed the idea straight away, but his support gave me the courage to do what I should have done a long time before. I came home to speak to you all, and I wouldn’t turn around until I had done so. So Mom slammed the door in my face one more time, and Dad said nothing at all, and Desmond sat and listened and watched; and I just couldn’t get a sane reaction from no one. And then you came out of your room and looked at me with your sad eyes, and I couldn’t help but cry, but I couldn’t be seen crying by the rest of the family, so I just turned round once again and ran away, pretending my sadness was anger.
When I got home, Nathaniel wasn’t there. I was pleased, because I looked a mess. I had time to calm down and collect myself. But as soon as he returned, Nathaniel could see I wasn’t alright. He knew exactly what was wrong and without asking me anything he just told me how he was just coming back from a meeting with Franklin Howell, the Minister of Communications and Infrastructure, about the possibility of creating a local airline. I had just assumed he had forgotten all about his craziness. But that wouldn’t have been much like Nathaniel. He spent his time researching and planning, and he convinced himself that the business was good and that he could use it to get me and my family to make peace.
Just to prove him right, I received a call from Uncle Glen some while later. The same man who less than a year before had tried everything in his power to deport Nathaniel from the island was now taking the first step to bring the family closer to us. Of course, Uncle Glen only wanted to speak to Nathaniel, not to me. And he only wanted to do that because of the airline project, nothing else. But that was exactly what Nathaniel had planned from the beginning, and he took advantage of the opportunity not only to keep Uncle Glen interested in the project but to make him speak to the rest of the family on my behalf.
From then on, the doors to my own house were no longer shut to me. Although Dad still didn’t speak to me, and Dewan never once showed up while I was there, and Desmond’s visits became less and less regular, and Mom, despite being polite, wasn’t really caring. At least Jamaal seemed pleased to welcome me back. Even back then I spent more nights at his house than at mine. And then, when trouble finally arrived, I was more comfortable living with him than at home. I stayed with Jamaal and his wife for almost two weeks before you convinced me to move back in here. Many nights I had long conversations with Shaniqua about life and family and all, and she made me feel loved. But, of cours
e, there was you here, who listened, like always, and held my hand to comfort me, even if you didn’t agree with what I was doing, and I couldn’t resist moving back home, where I could have you near me. And even though it wasn’t the same as before, even though I couldn’t tell you everything that was on my mind, and I couldn’t be really honest with you (partly because I was ashamed, partly because I was afraid), I could still feel your support when you held my hand. And for that, more than anything else at any point of my life, I really thank you . . .
VI
Nathaniel Jones spent three miserable days in the privacy of his five-star hotel, cursing fate for dealing him a bad hand, nursing short-term memories of happy days, planning the strategy that would determine his actions in the near future, nesting the hope that the stranger who had become the ruler of his fantasies would also be ruing the wretchedness of her own self. Fifty-four hours later, the DeHavilland Dash 8 that had been scheduled to take him to Antigua in the first leg of the long journey that would mark the end of his yearly dose of amnesia departed the Clayton J. Lloyd International Airport with an empty seat.
Nathaniel had learned enough about the island in the previous twelve days to understand that if you wanted to pass by unobserved, your only choice would be to stay at home. He guessed Sheila’s intention would be to keep away from his reach until she knew (thought) she would be safe from a chance meeting with him, so, he figured, she would stay at home for the next three days. Nathaniel Jones’s decision to spend the last three days of his holiday—the first three days of his permanent move to Anguilla—in self-imposed seclusion appeased his mind by making it appear as if he were sharing the exile he thought he had indirectly imposed on Sheila Rawlingson. Nathaniel Jones’s decision to spend the last three days of his holiday in seclusion meant that he was not there when Sheila Rawlingson sat, lonely and dejected, at the bar of what had become Nathaniel’s favorite hot spot on the night of the first day they had spent apart from each other since they had met. Nathaniel Jones’s decision to lock himself inside his five-star hotel room and suffer in solitude what he hoped was a shared agony meant that he was not there when Sheila Rawlingson walked barefoot along the shoreline of what had become Nathaniel’s favorite bay on the second day of their abrupt separation. Nathaniel Jones’s stupid decision to serve what he merely imagined was Sheila’s sentence to both of them meant he was not there when Sheila Rawlingson—in the absence of the partner she sought—swung her perfect hips in synch with a brand-new stranger who despite being black and young and beautiful was nowhere near as perfect as the stranger Sheila had taken to The Velvet just two nights before. Nathaniel Jones’s childish decision to throw a tantrum far larger than Sheila’s meant that he was not at the airport on Monday at twenty past nine when Sheila sat on the bench behind the check-in counter, ready to drop the tear that eventually froze up inside her right eye as soon as she realized that she had in fact been right about the man whom for the past fifty-four hours she had thought she had mistreated.
When Nathaniel Jones was ready to lift the veil of mourning he had found necessary to carry around after Sheila’s rejection, Sheila had already entrenched herself in a mist of bitterness and sorrow that stemmed from her own projection of what she felt the man who had made such difference to her should feel. Sheila felt betrayed, fooled, and manipulated by her capacity of discernment, hence she grieved her own stupidity locked in her room for seven nights, while Nathaniel Jones systematically raided every joint and den in town, looking for the one he thought he might be able to love. Sheila felt she had betrayed every principle the bad seeds had silently taught her, she felt she had manipulated her own feelings in order to become vulnerable to an old white man, she felt she had fooled herself not only about her feelings toward a stranger—whom she could no longer think of as perfect—but also about the feelings of that probably-all-too-common old man toward her. Sheila spent seven days of rage followed by seven nights of disillusionment, while the man who was everything she had once hoped for desperately searched for the only bit of heaven he could not find in paradise.
After a fruitless fortnight laying siege to an invisible castle, Nathaniel Jones approached with short, longing steps what no longer was or wasn’t his favorite bar, when from across the room a hazel lightning dissipated the doubt harbored in his heart. Sheila Rawlingson shared a table with three local men. Lunch had already been eaten, the party engaged in the final arrangements before leaving. Your glasses. When the eyes of the only two people that mattered in the world locked, an infinite source of happiness revealed itself to both. She, your glasses! Hand outstretched, glasses repeatedly tapping Sheila’s hand, eyes lost in foreign latitudes. Not a word was spoken. Sheila Rawlingson restrained her smile, blinked, turned away from bliss, headed in the opposite direction. Only she heard the whisper calling from Nathaniel’s mouth. She knew exactly what he had said. She did not hesitate: opened the door of the car, got inside, turned the key, drove away.
Nathaniel Jones walked to the last table by the far corner of the deck, sat, taciturn, asked for a beer. By the time the sun set, his beer was still half-full. Come dinnertime he asked for another. He did not eat but it wasn’t a particularly busy night so he wasn’t disturbed until closing time. His tab came to eight dollars. Nathaniel Jones was there alright when the employees of the place showed up late the following morning to open the restaurant for lunch. He was their first customer, at 10:54 a.m., sixty-six minutes before opening time. He sat at the last table, by the far corner of the deck, had a beer, no lunch. He gazed blankly into the establishment, eyes wide open, mouth cracked dry, skin burned, hand loosely holding a warm plastic cup. Sheila did not show up. He remained unfazed. As the sun set again the waitress brought him another beer; he had not finished his first yet, but no human being could conceive of drinking that stale old broth. On the house, sir. A drink on the house is a drink you cannot refuse, but by dinnertime Nathaniel’s second beer of the day was still untouched. What would you recommend? Nathaniel did not taste a thing, didn’t even move the cutlery. Take it home. Give it to your children, your husband, your dog. He had not meant to be insulting or even patronizing, but he was well beyond thinking—or caring. Three-quarters of a beer later, the restaurant was empty, ready to shut. Only one table, by the edge of the deck, could not be put away. The tall, dark figure of the manager approached Nathaniel, whose eyes, though still wide open, no longer registered anything. You wan’ stay dere all night? Nathaniel might or might not have nodded. See you in the mahning. Another day went by and by now Nathaniel was treated as a piece of furniture. He barely moved—did not talk at all—and no one even offered him a beer. He did not care to ask. The sun, risen from the east, hugged the sky on its way upward until it emerged from behind the structure of the restaurant, began its slow descent into the water. Nathaniel’s lips revealed two visible wounds, botched up with the clumsy protection of dried blood and saliva. The maze of bloodshot capillaries in his pale blue eyes attested to three sleepless nights. The dark rings around his eye sockets were highlighted by the clashing contrast of the indigo blue with the bright red of his sunburned skin. The sun shone for four and a half hours every day on the particular corner of the deck where Nathaniel Jones had built his nest to wait for Sheila’s love, or rage, or sense, or curiosity to hatch. The sun shone for four hours too long on the particular corner of the deck where Nathaniel Jones’s tender white skin got scorched beyond pain. Only the coat of half-grown (over three days) white facial hair disguised the alarming hue of a complexion that—no matter how long it roasted—would never tan.
Nathaniel’s throat was dry as a desert, his every breath ached. Every instinctive motion of his larynx to generate saliva and slide it down his windpipe carved a trail of agony in his consciousness. His eyes, even now wide open, could hardly see past the itch of wakefulness. His weakened body had resorted to its fat to produce the energy that was not coming from external sources. Blisters crowded his arms and legs, where the relentless sun had punished him
most. His muscles stung, his stomach burned. The sun was setting one more time. Reds, yellows, blues mean nothing when the silhouette of your dreams erupts into an otherwise empty scene. Nathaniel’s delirious mind found no strength to gather. His knees buckled, his skin burned, his head whirled. Still waiting? Did she speak? Was it her? We need to talk. No. Of all the things they might have needed to do, talk was certainly not one of them. Just take me to your place.
It took three days before Nathaniel could tell where he was. He never knew how he had made it to his hotel room. It took a full week before he could walk on his own. But one full week was enough time to anchor in a cautious, flattered, intrigued mind the seed of a sprout that had gone from fascination to fear to anger and that would finally be given a chance to grow. When Nathaniel heard the knock on the front door of his private villa, he assumed it was another doctor, a nurse, room service. He did not wonder about the unusual time of the day, he did not think it strange not to have had a previous call from reception. He simply walked, bare-chested, in his checkered boxers and loose green robe, to attend to it. The overwhelming feeling, not necessarily joy, he would never be able to describe yet would henceforth cite as the irrefutable proof of his love for Sheila Rawlingson assaulted him not one second before opening his varnished maple-wood front door. Sheila walked inside without being asked, shut the door behind her, made herself at home. He was fidgety, nervous, shocked. She took control: a long kiss appeased Nathaniel’s mind, restored balance to the scene. Her first caress of Nathaniel’s lips was turned sour by the piercing sting of unhealed gashes all over his mouth. She never knew it—she always thought it was perfect.
VII
For a man of resources like Nathaniel Jones, renting a house in Anguilla was nothing more than a formality. Three weeks after the kiss that sealed the detour in Nathaniel’s life, he stood at the front desk of Hotel Anguilla handing Saul Newman the payment for a stay that had been extended from two weeks to two months. Nathaniel had no bags, no luggage, no boxes. Just a cognac attaché case and a Sunday paper (it was Tuesday). Everything else had been duly transported to his new home on the eastern end of the island, where Nathaniel could experience the more local aspect of life. The balance owed came up to well over a year’s rent at his new place. Nathaniel paid it with no regrets, a large smile on his face, and a good deal of plans for the future. After all, what would you not give for a twist in your life? Saul Newman carefully tilted forward the cigar almost always found between his lips or between his elegantly curled index and middle fingers or in a large round baccarat ashtray, as he exchanged a vigorous handshake that marked the beginning of an eventful friendship with Nathaniel Jones.
On the Way Back Page 10