The three girls knew their mother should’ve had cool water from the well ready for their father before he reached home, and they watched with trapped breath, praying the scene that unfolded before them would be smooth. They were not far from the well and were familiar with the steep drop of land that fell behind the house before rolling gently to the mouth of the well. It was hard to both ascend and descend; loose earth often unraveled beneath their bare feet and sent them all skidding down the side, bucket and all. Often, if their father wasn’t home, they’d all take their time walking around the house, over the soft rises and falls of cool grassy pathways rather than the strenuous hike up and down.
Rebecca retreated to the kitchen. Their mother had already finished her portion of the farm work and was clanging pots and pans together. Shiva rinsed his muddied blades in a tin pail. He plunged his arms into the tepid water. Arya chewed on her cuticles. He paused. Arya bit her finger. He splashed water on his face. Arya breathed. He scrubbed his head, back, and chest over the sink, a light breeze cooling his wet skin. He reached for the towel Rebecca never forgot to place for him next to the sink, dried himself, and hung it around his neck. Shiva stood on the edge of his property, which overlooked the steep drop to the well, the chicken pens, and the winding road leading past rivers and trails to the cocoa fields. Arya, Pooja, and Chandini flattened themselves in the grass. Their father looked up at the sky; Arya did too. It was a cloudless sky today, turquoise stretching in every direction. The grand landscape before her was one she could never truly appreciate, though she knew the land sloping past her feet more intimately than she’d ever known another being.
Rebecca removed his boots. He continued to stare at the sky. Arya knew her mother was doing it as quickly and quietly as she could, hoping he wouldn’t turn his wrath upon her yet again.
—E di stop hittin she by now, my mother tells me, boh dah eh stop de abuse. She was like ah cage animal, Krys, train toh do wah e say.
Throughout their entire lives, the children all whispered about their father’s instability. If he had known they spoke of him disrespectfully, he would more than likely have beaten them close to death. Invisibility and silence: that was all that kept them safe.
Their mother washed their father’s feet, dried them, then placed house slippers on them. As he was walking up the stairs they heard her say to him, Ahgo bring it up right now. In her hands she balanced a tray of roti hot off the tawa, tomato choka, yogurt, and a jug of water with an enamel cup.
A half hour later Rebecca descended the back steps, avoiding the creaky parts. The tray was empty. Her husband would fall asleep. For two hours after lunch each day, in the lulling heat of midday, he was dead to the world.
Ma, e reach hwome yet? Arya asked from the window, pretending they’d not just seen everything. Rebecca bustled over to her trio of daughters and nodded. Wah take allyuh so long? E done eat and ting ahready. Goan wash up yuhself. Leave de shovel and ting by de back door. Ahgo wash it foh yuh when ah done hyah. They each claimed a barrel and cleansed themselves with rainwater. Even though they’d had running water for years, their father insisted on collecting rainwater and utilizing it.
Arya and her two younger sisters stood at their lookout points. They had to make sure their father was as asleep as he could be today. Chandini, the youngest and smallest, was on the verandah that looked into the living room where their father was. She ducked behind a chair. Pooja was at the bottom of the stairs waiting for any signal from Chandini. Arya, still in work clothes and boots like her sisters, was on the ground floor, at a point where she could see Pooja. She gingerly set one of their metal chairs in the middle of the floor, right beneath the living room. Testing it with the weight of her foot, she determined it was safe before she climbed on, careful not to tilt it back and forth. They trembled to think of what would happen to them if they were caught.
From a space between the boards, Arya could peer into the living room. She steadied herself by pressing her fingertips against the ceiling. A white coverlet brushed the floor. Her father’s black skin gleamed against the white of the sheet. His unclothed chest rose and fell in the rhythmic pace of sleep embraced.
In her excitement, Arya hopped off the chair and it toppled. She caught it and steadied it with trembling hands. But then a humming carried on the breeze around them and they all froze. It was a sound they were used to, a soothing one that wasn’t usually this close to the house when their father was sleeping. Nollie, their father’s sister, wandered into the room, right where Arya was standing. Her vacant eyes swept around, and as she was about to express excitement at seeing Arya there, Pooja clamped a hand over her mouth and dragged her away from the house. Arya wasn’t sure how to react, torn between yelling at Pooja for treating her this way and not wanting to wake their father so they could escape for a little while. Chandini skittered down the stairs, and the three sisters convened under the shade of the cocoa house, where their voices would not carry to their father. Rebecca was hacking at sugar cane stalks.
—Someting was wrong wid Nollie, Krys, says my mother, boh we din know what it was. Juss dat she couldn’t evah be widdout adult supervision. All ah we figure it out early, rheal early on, and we use to protek she from Pappy. She was so sweet, eh Krys, so sweet.
Three voices warbled in unison as Nollie sat close by, a smile painted across her face, Mammy, please lewwe goh, Pappy sleepin, we check. We eh goh geh een trouble. We eh goh do nutten wrong and we promise we goh come home befoh e wake up. Though at first she said no, in the end Rebecca conceded. Boh make sure allyuh chilren backside right back hyah een ah hour an ah half. None of them glanced back to see the yearning on their mother’s face as they pranced away from her. She was left with a cutlass in one hand and Nollie’s fingers entwined in the other.
—Krys gyul, my grandmother confides in me one day when my mother isn’t there. My grandfather is asleep in the next room; we share a meal at her kitchen table. Yuh muddah, all ah dem dey hah such energy and meh dere not evan ole, only forty someting cutlassin cane an all kinda ting. These are words she would never say in the presence of her children, and I’m thankful I have her to ask questions of as well. Ah coulda be out dey too enjoyin mehself, boh instead meh stick up dey on de fahm wid Mistah Shiva.
The giddy trio discarded their work clothes and donned hot pants or beaded skirts, lacy tops, and stilettos. Halfway down the gravel pathway they slipped off their shoes to run the rest of the way to the main road barefoot. There, as promised, was Dharmendra, grinning behind the wheel of his sporty new jeep. Arya and Dharmendra shared an embrace and a quick kiss on the lips before taking off. What Arya felt then was the intensity of her sisters’ jealousy. She chose to ignore it in hopes that it would fade when they each found someone to call their own.
—Back een dem days, Krys, my mother says, it eh hah dat many cahs and dem on de island nah, and it done ahready so small we could goh anywhey we wahn fass fass fass.
Collectively they decided to stay in Grande. Inland from Matura Bay and close enough to the capital, Sangre Grande beckoned partygoers to the Atlantic side of the island. In the middle of town, older people milled around the shops and bakeries, clearly not as hungry for excitement as they were. As their car crawled past, they turned their attention every now and then to an uproar, but their curiosity was dashed when they realized the hollering they longed to join was emanating from nearby rum shops. Old men clinked bottle necks over their heads and belted out ancient Hindi songs, a language the young had abandoned.
A mini parade crossed paths with them. Dharmendra halted the car, and they all scrambled out to join in the whistling. African headdresses constructed from plumes of feathers sprayed forth in resplendent colors—tangerines, turquoises, vermilions, magentas, and golds. They were paired with Indian sequins and glass beads that glittered brilliantly beneath the Caribbean sun. Arya and her sisters inserted themselves into the crowd. They screamed the words to the songs blaring from the stage, floating in the street along with
them. The singers, dressed in sequined bras with lines of jewels that cascaded from the nipples and connected to their matching panties and boots, jumped and waved, urging the crowd on with them. Dharmendra wrapped his fingers around Arya’s slender wrist. She turned to him and he pulled her close, her curls flying behind her. They embraced and stared into each other’s eyes. Arya threw back her head as they danced, exposing the graceful arc of her long neck. He never took his eyes off her, nor did he remove his arms from her waist. Arya flung her body back and forth; she twirled, her arms arched above their heads. She was free to move and laugh. Away from the farm, away from her father, she became the person she longed to be.
One of the band’s scantily clad women hollered to one of her friends, Ayayayayai, check im out nah. She pointed her chin to Dharmendra. De mahn tabanka, dis gyul rheal tie up e head. With that they plunged their fingers into the pouches that dangled from their belted waistlines and flicked glitter on the couple.
Arya ripped away from Dharmendra, trying to escape the shimmering flakes as they fell and clung to their sweaty skin. He gave her a quizzical look. The women, drunk and in the mood to gallivant, moved on. Dharmendra tried to embrace her again, tossing his hips to and fro, then in fast, small circles to a hot chutney rhythm, anything to reclaim the magic they’d succumbed to just seconds ago. Before she was even close to him she said, Nah! Yuh know how hahd it goh be toh geh shinin duss outtah meh hair? Off meh skin? If Pappy see it on we, e goh know foh sure we wasn’t hwome. Comprehension dawned on his face. She flounced away in search of her younger sisters. Dharmendra consulted his watch.
—Krys, my mother says, we di done stay too long ahready. Boh once everyboddy havin ah good time so we din wantah goh. Toh tink wah dat mahn goh do toh we skin if e wake up an we eh dey, de cutass we wuddah geh . . .
Through the triangles of space framed by elbows held akimbo, she spied her sisters sandwiched between half-naked Indian men, borrowed headdresses tilting precariously as they bucked their hips to and fro. Glitter sparkled on Pooja’s fair skin, the lightest of all the Singhs, and twinkled on Chandini’s chocolate tones, she the darkest. Chandini pushed one of the men forward and balanced herself by placing her hands on his thighs. She bent over seductively, pressing her behind harder, rougher against his crotch.
Furious, Arya jumped over drunken bodies squirming on the ground, beer bottles miraculously still held upright in their hands. She yanked her sisters from between the men. They stumbled forward, and the men, their brown abs gleaming and their long black hair dripping, tripped and fell into one another. They laughed and clapped one another on the back, the two girls forgotten as they moved on in search of more.
The partygoers surged forward, leaving a gap between the foursome and the fete. A few stragglers stumbled and recovered. Whey allyuh goin? Dharmendra queried. A handful of men shouted back, Arima, mahn. Arya shook her head at her sisters; they frowned. A woman added, Is whey de fete is, come nah mahn, and winked at Dharmendra, the feathers atop her head flouncing flirtatiously.
They’d managed to bump and grind their way to nearly half a mile away from where their vehicle was parked. They trotted back and hopped in, breathless beneath the beating sun. Arya chewed the inside of her cheek while staring at her watch. Already, an hour had elapsed. The ninety minutes their mother gave them were drawing to a close. Dharmendra swerved onto Wallerfield Highway, the pathway to Arima, to the promised fete. The road curved along like a buxom woman, and he attacked those sensuous rounds with the awkwardness of a virgin. The wheel spun in his hands, his aggressiveness frightening, no longer sexy.
Ah tink we should goh back hwome, Arya said. No sense in movin fah fah fah from de house. We goh done geh weself een trouble.
Dharmendra said nothing, only pressed down on the gas.
Oh Gawd Arya, lewwe goh nah, we eh goh geh ah chance like dis een ah hurry again, Pooja pleaded. We eh ready toh goh back hwome yet.
Yeah please, Arya gyul, Chandini chimed in, come nah, gyul.
Meh eh wahn Pappy toh wake up and see we eh dey, Arya said, the weight of being the eldest there lying heavily on her. Allyuh eh care wah goh happen to Mammy if dah appen? Is not only we behind we hah toh worry bout. Dharmendra, turn rung, take we hwome now.
He pressed even harder on the gas pedal; the engine thundered below them. He clenched his jaw, ground his teeth; veins pulsated in his neck. The needle on the speedometer climbed to 70, 80, 90 . . . She pressed herself into the seat and held on with both hands.
Wheyyyy, Pooja whistled, Dharmendra, boi yuh could rheal drive! She slapped the back of his headrest as though spurring on a galloping horse,—Yeah mahn, geh we dey fastah—then threw her head back and hooted.
No, Dharmendra, yuh goin too fass, Arya said, slow dung. Slow dung, Dharmendra. But that just seemed to urge him on faster.
Yuh always sneakin whey foh ah lil bit, Dharmendra said. Yuh eh hear dem awah? Dey eh ready toh goh hwome yet. Lemmeh enjoy meh damn self before ah shuttle allyuh ass back nah mahn.
Arya, Chandini said, we eh geh nuff baccanal, nuff excitement gyul. Arima hah de music and de big crowd. We goh hah fun gyul wid de float and dem.
Arya again checked the hands of her watch and the road ahead. They approached the bend on Wallerfield Highway, a well-known corner that had overturned many an experienced driver.
Dharmendra, yuh eh goh make de cornah, Arya warned. Slow dung.
Mahn, wah de ass wrong wid yuh? he asked. Yuh tellin meh how to drive? Ahgo make it no mattah how fass ah go. Ah is ah experience drivah. He thumped his chest as he said this.
Right before the turn he sped up. Arya flung her arms out and clutched anything that she could hold on to. Looking back at her sisters, she yelled at them to do the same. Pooja and Chandini screamed with glee. Bouncing around in the backseat, they ignored their sister.
The corner came too fast. He took it too straight. Jerked the wheel. This way. That. Too late. Moments suspended, bodies straining, hair floating, arms adrift. They flipped once. Roof. Twice. Wheels. Thrice. Roof.
Arya was the only one conscious through it all—the grainy black asphalt pelting at her through the open window, the thunderous crumpling of the car’s top each time it landed on the roof, the screams of her sisters followed by their silence. Her head was pressed against the hood, her neck twisted almost grotesquely. Shards of glass shimmered on her skin. Arya looked to Dharmendra. He hung by his seat belt, his eyes closed, blood flowing from his head. Chandini was on top of Pooja. They groaned, eyes still closed. But no sound came from Dharmendra. Though she feared he was dead, anger as thin as thread knotted itself in her mind. They were there, after all, because of him. Blood pooling around his head struck fear in her again, and she scrambled to break free of the car. Arya fell onto more shattered glass. She crawled through the open window. Looked back. Dharmendra was still motionless. Death entered her mind, an unwanted guest. She decided not to move him, convincing herself if she didn’t, there was still a chance he was alive.
Crawling on bloody hands, she heaved one of her sisters out of the back window. Never before had she felt the dead weight of a person. Her sister didn’t budge. They stopped moaning, and it was the silence that scared Arya the most. The car creaked as the hood crumpled more.
—Krys, my mother tells me, ah was the eldess. It was meh responsibility toh bring dem hwome safe.
Without knowing which sister she was holding on to, she hooked her arms around any body part that wouldn’t resist and pulled, and yanked, but nothing gave. Arya screamed and pulled, shattered glass driving into her knees.
A man touched her head. Another crouched at her side. Yet another tenderly took her arms from around her sister. More and more men swarmed her. These men came with women, and their women uttered words to her that did not register. The crash was in her head, drowning out everything else. These women helped her to a patch of grass, pressed handkerchiefs into her crimson palms, dusted her clothes, patted her head, hugged her. This dreamlike state melted awa
y. Their chatter penetrated the roaring in her head. It pierced straight through and was clear, almost painfully so.
Arya pulled away from them and sprinted to the overturned car. Dharmendra! Pooja! Chandini! E dead! All ah dem dead. One of the men pulled her into his chest, and something of his warmth, his touch, his affection, subdued her. His voice was like the low rumble of thunder after a storm has passed. Deh eh dead. We gettin dem out now, all ah dem. Stay close but doh worry, we goh geh dem out. She nodded into his chest.
Numerous cars had pulled over. People continued to spill out of them. They helped in whatever way they could, some tackling the overturned vehicle, others holding people back.
BACK AT THE FARM, Rebecca wrung her hands in despair. She tiptoed from one end of the kitchen to another.
—Krys chile, my grandmother says, telling me her version of this, meh was hopin de mahn stay sleepin foh much longah dan usual. Boh when ah kyant wait no moh meh hah to go an see if ah could find out someting bout dem.
After an hour and a half passed, she walked around the back and followed the gravel path to the main road. At the meeting of gravel and pitch, she shaded her eyes from the sun and swept her gaze in both directions. The road was deserted. Each time she detected the rumble of an engine she started toward it, hoping it was Dharmendra with her daughters. The afternoon sun blazed down on her, and soon the thin material of her dress was soaked in sweat.
Another vehicle approached. She jumped to her feet from where she sat, afraid to go back to the house. The front of a small car peeked over the hill—it wasn’t them. Rebecca slumped against the wooden post of the shed.
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