by Nikki Woods
I gnawed on my lower lip, feeling torn. I couldn’t exactly tell Queenie why I didn’t want to go see Damon. I didn’t want to lie either.
Just as I was about to flat-out refuse to go, Queenie pushed my shoulder non-too gently. “ Go on, Chile’. He won’t bite you and I’m just not going to be able to take you being up under me all day.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” I bit down hard to keep from saying anything else and walked along the gravel path that led to the house. “And fix yourself up. Put some makeup on.” She called at my back.
I raised a hand in acknowledgment, but grumbled, “I’m not putting on makeup just to walk down the street,” careful not to let Queenie hear. I stubbed my toe on a rock. Shit! Pay back.
The gilded mirror hanging in the narrow corridor mocked me as I walked by. I doubled back and squinted at my image. With nothing on my face, I looked about thirteen years old. All right, maybe a little bit of lip gloss. I nibbled on my lower lip and pinched my cheeks. And maybe a touch of blush. Dammit! I didn’t want to care what Damon thought, but I did. I also didn’t want to feel anxious about his reaction to me showing up at his house, but felt that as well.
I made a beeline for my suitcase. While searching for my makeup case, I spotted my new black Prada shorts that I had bought the previous summer in L.A. When I tried them on and pranced in the three-way mirror, I knew I had to buy them despite the one hundred seventy-five dollars price tag. They flattered my figure with rhinestones that danced across the bottom calling attention to my well-toned thighs. The cut of the material seemed to pull my stomach in and round my butt out. My female vanity kicked into overdrive and I slipped them on. I fingered a plain black t-shirt, but pulled the tube top that matched the shorts on instead. Finally, I brushed a touch of Lancome Glitter powder across my shoulders.
I dropped to my knees and ran my hand underneath the bed until I found my black stack sandals. Queenie must have pushed them under when she swept earlier this morning. I buckled the straps and studied my feet. The polish on the big toe on my right foot was chipped. A good pedicure should hold up better than this. I didn’t expect to end up in Jamaica; so I had settled for a quickie job, thinking I had time later in the week. But once a Girl Scout, I was prepared. It only took me a minute to brush a new coat of Mardi Gras Red over each nail so they looked brand new.
Now for the hair. I pulled off the plastic band holding my hair, mussed it with my fingers until it fell gracefully around my shoulders, then added a bit of mousse to tame the flyaway tendrils at each temple. Preferring the natural look, I accented my lashes with just a touch of black mascara, MAC’s gold bronzer across my cheeks, and Aveda’s nude fantasy made my lips kissable. I sprayed perfume on my pulse points and then once in the air. I walked through the mist before twirling in the mirror so I could critique myself from every angle. Satisfied, I blew a kiss at my image.
Right on cue, Queenie’s callused, bare feet came padding down the hall. “My, my, my,”Queenie said, clicking her tongue as she peeked through the door to my grandmother’s bedroom. I was standing in front of my grandmother’s—my, I corrected myself—armoire. “You look like Cinderella off to de’ ball.” She handed me a bag filled with ripe mangoes and dull green avocados. “Go on, now.” Queenie sucked her teeth as I hesitated, then pushed me toward the door. And with a ball of fire beginning to grow in my stomach, I went.
The sun had made it halfway through its orbit and the heat was merciless. In Kingston, cool breezes were few and I could already feel the skin at the nape of my neck growing moist. Kids were playing a modified game of cricket at one end of the street and a cart chase at the other. Motorcycles revved at the racetrack a few blocks over. I waved at a man selling flavored ice called ska juice in the vacant lot. Old ladies rocked in chairs on the porch, men worked shingling roofs, and babies played in their cribs in the front yard while their mothers tended to their gardens.
I trudged down the block to Damon’s house, passing Maxwell Preparatory, the school my mother attended as a child. School was a generous term to describe the building, really just a house that was converted by a former nun who had been kicked out of the Convent for being too rebellious. Mom told me that she was having an affair with one of the married parishioners and got caught.
Uniforms—leftover from the days of British rule—were status quo on the island. I still kept two faded pictures of my mother in her school uniform—one taken with her class, one standing alone. In both photos, she looked shy, head ducked and hair pulled away from her face in two ponytails with ribbons tied on the end.
Too young to get a job after graduation, my mother went to a trade school and learned typing, short hand, and literary works. She worked and put herself through nursing school, but then got pregnant with me. Disgraced at being an unwed mother, she fled to America. Whenever we returned to Kingston, she would walk me to Maxwell. Standing outside and with misty eyes, she would tell me that this life had been easy, when life had been good.
Now the school was in shambles with only one red brick wall remaining completely in tact. The other walls were covered in graffiti: names of popular reggae artists past and present such as Bob Marley, his son, Ziggy, Chakademus & Pliers, Bongo and Yami Bolo, political slogans, and misshapen hearts with the names of boys and girls scribbled inside them. I walked inside the dusty schoolyard and kicked some rocks. The flowers had long been dead and there were no footprints in the dirt. A little girl was running on her way to somewhere more important, about twenty-eight pigtails tied at the end with red ribbon bounced around her head. As she passed by, her hand accidentally brushed my leg. She smiled. I smiled back.
Chapter 10
At six years old and with only two days carved out of my summer vacation, I was restless. I had already arranged and rearranged my dolls on the little twin bed that sat in the room just off the kitchen. The coloring books my aunt had sent for me were meant for someone much younger. Didn’t she know I already knew how to color in the lines? Adults. They didn’t have a clue.
The snacks that Mommy had packed were lined in the cupboard. I had already counted them twice this morning just to make sure no one was sneaking them but me. Pa-pa was taking his afternoon nap or I would have pestered him to teach me some more chess moves. Not that I really understood the game, I just loved spending time with him, one on one. He always made me feel like the most special little girl in the world and not just because he constantly told me, “ Kingston, you are the most special little girl in the whole wide world.” No, Pa-pa really cared about what I thought. He was the only grown-up who asked my opinion and then actually listened.
Normally, the majority of the summer would have been spent with Mammy, Mama Grace’s mother, in Swift River—a little town that was nestled in the hills sitting opposite of the Blue Mountains.
All of my cousins would converge upon Mammy in phases: Lil’ Winston, Stacia, Paulette, and Vivine would be there first. Next came Patrick, Pierre and Bianca. Finally, Adana, Andrew, and me.
This summer was different though. Mammy was sick and said her heart couldn’t take the pressure of ten youngsters running through her house. The big Independence picnic wasn’t going to happen until August—two months away—and that was more than enough excitement for an old woman, she said. So this summer I had been sentenced to three solid months in Kingston. Only being paroled for two things: shopping and church.
Mama Grace did most of the shopping at Coronation—a large noisy open-air market. Higglers dragged loads of bounty from all over the island: breadfruits, bananas, coconuts, plantains, yams, etc., and you had to barter with them for a fair price. Depending on the day, plus the mood of the market, multiplied by the heat, Mama Grace either made out like a bandit or felt like a fool—grumbling all the way home trying to come up with an excuse to give Pa-pa about why she went five dollars over budget.
Then, every Sunday, Mama Grace and I would walk to Coke Methodist Church on East Queen Street. Pa-pa never attended. He believed that most church folk
were on the take and he could praise his God just as easily on his verandah while still wearing his short pants. My mother was not only baptized at Coke, but also confirmed and married there as well. I, too, was baptized there and hoped one day I would be married in the cathedral-style building. Occasionally, we’d go to a matinee if Pa-pa had the money, but those days stretched few and far between. So when Mama Grace suggested that I go out and play, I just looked at her. When she suggested that I go play by myself, I looked at her as if she were crazy. When she looked at me as if I were the one that was crazy, I straightened up my face. Mama Grace didn’t play when it came to those looks.
I skipped outside. Children were whooping and hollering, playing an intense game of cricket. I walked slowly down the sidewalk, trailing my hand over the iron rod fence and studying the flowers that had just started to bloom. I noticed someone following me, dancing in my shadow. I whirled around, fully intending to give this intruder a piece of my mind, but her elf-like grin stopped me cold.
“Hi,” she said simply.
“Hi.”
“You Miss Grace’s grandbaby.” It was more a statement than a question. She cocked her head to the side. I was much taller than she was and she had to look directly into the sun to see my face. I wondered if that was what caused her eyes to cross in such a funny way or if it was natural. She twirled. The slogan on her t-shirt read, “Somebody who loves me visited the Big Apple and all they brought me back was this lousy shirt.”
“My name’s Kingston,” I spoke in the same voice I used with the elderly ladies in church, exaggerated politeness with saccharin sweetness dripping from every syllable. “What’s your name?”
“Kingston?” She grabbed her stomach and doubled over with laughter. “K-K-K-Kin!” She was laughing so hard she couldn’t even get my name out. My eyes narrowed with every hee-hee-hee. “Who named you that?” She finally asked and I thought she was stupid.
“My mother named me, who else? Who named you?”
“My granny. I don’t know who my parents are. They left my brother and me with my grandparents. I don’t miss ‘em though,” she said defiantly. “Why would I want someone who doesn’t want me? I live with my grandparents and I know them real well.”
Suddenly we had something in common. “I don’t know my daddy either,” I said.
She smiled. She was missing both of her front teeth and one on the bottom. “My name’s Joanne.”
“Oh.”
“Is that all you can say?”
“No,” I said and once again she dissolved in laughter. When she finished, she took a deep breath, took my hand and I felt as if nothing could separate us. Little did I know.
The months of June and July passed quickly. My seventh birthday came and went and Joanne was the star in the play of my life. With her around, nothing seemed quite as boring, quite as slow or quite as uneventful.
August marched in and it was time to head up to the country for Mammy’s Independence Day Picnic. We would be there for three days and I couldn’t imagine a minute without Joanne. So I started in on Mama Grace early with arguments worthy of a high-priced lawyer.
“She’s never been to Swift River, Mama Grace. And her brother lives in Hope Bay with her aunt so she’d get to see him. She hasn’t seen him in a really, really, really long time. Isn’t that sad?” I twiddled her apron strings around my fingers, eyes pleading just as much as my words. “ And Mama Grace, I can show her Uncle Battle’s goats. She's never milked a cow. It would be so much fun and then this way, you won’t have to worry about me because Joanne will be there to keep me company, so you and Papa can play dominoes and I won’t interrupt. You won’t even have to walk me out to pee-pee. Joanne can go with me. And she knows how to swim so we can help each other in the river.” It all came out on one whoosh of a breath as Mama Grace chopped the onions to go in the ackees and codfish we were having for breakfast.
“Hand me that little bowl behind you, Kingston.” I did so then moved closer, wrapping my arms around her waist. “And finish wiping the table so that Pa-pa can eat before he goes to the store.”
“Mama Grace?”
“I heard you, Kingston. I’m not deaf, ya’ know.” She was smiling, amused at my pain. She took my chin in her hand, her warm brown eyes meeting mine. “If Joanne’s granny says she can go, then she can go. Pa-pa and I have already discussed it. We anticipated your request weeks ago.” Her smile was crooked this time, as if she had just pulled a fast one on me. “I’ll write a note for you to carry to her grandmother.” I was out the door before she even finished the sentence, and almost to the gate when I heard her voice, sterner this time. “Kingston!” I put on the brakes. “ You must finish cleaning while I write the note.” She chuckled as she walked back into the house drying her hands on a towel.
When Pa-pa and Mama Grace finally announced that it was time for us to leave early Friday morning, Joanne and I had been waiting on the porch for almost two hours. We just sat there and listened to Mama Grace tidying up, Pa-pa feeding the dogs, the clattering of the breakfast dishes and a final walk through as they locked up the house—doing all sorts of unnecessary stuff as far as we were concerned.
As soon as we heard the key turn in the ignition, we ran to the gates to open them so Papa wouldn’t have to waste a moment getting out of the car to open them himself. He had borrowed the car from his cousin for one-hundred-fifty Jamaican dollars. Joanne was impressed.
Mama Grace was already in the front seat, adjusting the radio to pick up the morning news. Joanne and I flopped in the back seat next to a big box full of food—cooked and uncooked. Neither one of us had eaten breakfast, but the enticing aromas didn’t stir a thing in our empty bellies. We were filled to capacity with excitement.
It didn’t take us long to leave the city and soon we began our trek up the winding streets that would take us to the country. The drive from Kingston to Swift River normally took about two and a half hours; it took Pa-pa four hours. Never a man to hurry anyway, he was meandering at twenty miles below the speed limit. The steady rhythm of the car soon put us to sleep an hour into our road trip. When we woke, the car had just turned off the main road and was headed up the long winding hill that would take us to Swift River.
Mammy’s house sat right in the middle of six family houses clustered together at the top of the hill. The large frame house loomed against the backdrop of the Blue Mountains. Beds of flowers were planted on either side of the long gravel driveway that led to Mammy’s house, then splintered off into separate driveways like branches of a tree. Various fruit trees—oranges, tangerines, grapefruit, coconut, avocados, papayas, ackee, and mango—were sprinkled about the property.
Goats, chickens, and dogs ran wild in the front lawn. They were the lucky ones. The smell of blood permeated the air from the freshly slaughtered animals. Various forms of meat—pork, chicken, goat, beef—were already grilling on the pit, puffs of fragrant smoke wafting into the air with each turn. Some of Mammy’s helpers were busy setting up tables and chairs for the more than three hundred relatives expected to traipse through this area over the course of the weekend. Most of the women were stationed in the outside kitchen connected to the far side of the kitchen, chopping, peeling, grating, picking, plucking, slicing, and dicing.
Various cars were already parked with families unloading suitcases at the respective houses. The kids had changed from their traveling clothes and were suited up in their country clothes ready to see who could get dirtiest the quickest. They were organizing games of dodge ball, tag, and cricket. Joanne just stood there with her mouth hanging open.
“Come on.” I grabbed her hand. Pa-pa had already set the bags beside the car so we scooped ours up and raced toward the big house.
Mammy was standing in the middle of her huge outdoor kitchen orchestrating lunch. For a woman who had never worked a day outside her home, she had the organization and delegation skills of a CEO of any major corporation. Family members were in assembly-line formation, churning out sardine
sandwiches, slices of bun and cheese, and shanty cola served in paper cups. Mammy’s white hair snaked down her back in one long coil. She hadn’t cut it in more than sixty years and it hung well past her backside. Her skin was soft and unwrinkled, making it impossible to believe she was more than ninety years old. She was assigning sleeping spaces and cooking chores when I pulled Joanne up to meet her.
“There’s my Bumble Bee.” Though her voice was soft, I never had to strain to hear her.
The low, gravelly sound commanded full attention. She smiled, not caring that she hadn’t put in her false teeth.
She took my face in her hands and presented each cheek for a kiss. I obliged with enthusiasm.
“Hi, Mammy. This is my friend, Joanne. She lives down the street from Mama Grace with her grandparents because her mommy and daddy are dead.” Joanne was standing behind me, peeking around my waist.
Mammy opened her arms wide and I wrapped both my arms around her soft middle, her left arm pulling me close. Her right arm waited. “Come, Child,” Mammy said. “You’re one of us now.” Joanne snuggled in close to me and was tucked safely in Mammy’s arms. Before we suffocated in Mammy’s ample bosom, she sent us on our way with a warning to stay out of trouble.
“Why does she call you Bumble Bee?” Joanne asked.
“She says when I was younger and we spent the summer up here, out of all the kids, I was the one who constantly buzzed around her like a bee so she started calling me Bumble Bee.”
Joanne nodded, then said, “Bumble Bee.”
I grabbed her arm. “There are some things only family members can get away with and calling me Bumble Bee is one of them. Plus, Mammy can do it because she’s my elder.”
“What’s an elder?”
“Someone you have to respect no matter how crazy they are and you can’t hit them, either, because they’re older than you.”
“Oh.”
We traipsed across the verandah to the other side of the house and ducked in and out of rooms until we found the corner bedroom that had been designated as ours. Six twin beds lined up in a row in a space designed to only hold half as much.