Jacinta trekked ahead knowing her daughter would follow. Rebecca pushed herself off the ground when she saw her mother wasn’t looking back. The light fabric of her dress was made heavy by the water. She tried to wring it dry as best she could, but it stuck to her skin. She shook her basket and wobbled toward her mother. The scare from the river wouldn’t leave her as fast as she wanted it to.
Jacinta frantically beckoned her daughter. Rebecca jogged over to discover her mother pointing at a branch above their heads, laden with bunches of blushing coffee cherries. But she couldn’t reach it no matter how high she jumped. Rebecca, taller than her mother by three or four inches, crossed a longer, drooping branch over the one they wanted to reach, and pulled until the fruit hung right above Rebecca’s head. Jacinta yelled for Rebecca not to let go until she’d plucked every pellet. After, they scoured the ground, prying apart thick blades of grass until Jacinta was satisfied they had collected every last one. Even then, their harvest filled only half of one basket.
The sun rose higher and crept across the sky. Sweat mixed with the dirt on their skin. Everything became sticky and hot. For relief, Jacinta and Rebecca intermittently sought the cool shelter of a tree. But Rebecca was scared to linger in its shade. When her mother asked her why, Rebecca recounted all the stories Jacinta had told her over the years about snakes biting the unsuspecting as they sprawled beneath a tree for a quick break.
Oh Gawd Becca, Jacinta said, nah worry bout dat nah. Meh take kyare ah meh pickney. Meh keel de snake good an dead. E nevah see wah come. Watch nah, like dis, and Jacinta picked up a rock, yuh hah ketch e head. She ground the rock into the earth with such force it spun a hole. If yah nah grung e head like dat den de ting eh dead. E jus like mahn. E come back toh keel yuh. Make sure when yuh keel ah snake yuh take ahwey de ead an do wah say.
—Meh muddah was a sweet sweet oman, eh Krys chile, my grandmother says, ah sweet sweet oman. She only wanted to look out foh she chilren.
Their work was laborious, especially without food all day. Many times they drained their water supply and had to work without. Sometimes friends among them shared, but with a disapproving steups and the cock of a hand on a hip. Today there was no help; workers had scoured these grounds hours ago, leaving nothing behind but trampled grass. Leaves flapping low in the trees slapped their skin. It was a sickening sound, one that lingered in their ears. By the time both baskets were filled, the sun had crossed the sky and was beginning its descent.
DOUGLA
—KRYS CHILE, my grandmother says, meh muddah was consume wid she grief. Poor oman, all-doh meh din see it den. Ah was inna diffrant worl. Meh was tinkin bout class latah dat night. Yuh see ah di hah one friend rheally and truly and she name was Lacey. And Lacey di hah ah surprise foh meh latah dat day. Meh only friend, Lacey.
Rebecca had met Lacey a few months before in the flower-arranging class Jacinta had found for her. The class met three times a week in the evenings, and three times a week Rebecca found herself looking forward to seeing Lacey, especially that night, since the two of them had hatched a plan to leave class early so they could go to an Indian celebration.
Too shy and self-conscious to talk to anyone, Rebecca welcomed Lacey’s stream of chatter as their fingers fumbled with silk roses and baby’s breath on their first day. No one in class spoke to Lacey. The other students blamed Lacey’s obnoxiousness, but they didn’t talk to Rebecca either, and she was quiet. Both knew it was because of their racial backgrounds (for Rebecca it was her racial mix, and for Lacey it was her Spanish roots), but neither girl ever mentioned it to the other. For them, their exile was also their acceptance of each other. All the Indian girls in the class thought they were too good for Rebecca and Lacey, shunning them to the back of the room—all the seats up front taken, bags and sewing cases flung onto any empty space left over. But neither girl cared.
Rebecca, usually uncomfortable with her own round appearance, relaxed in the company of Lacey’s vastness. Where Rebecca had thick thighs and creases down her side, Lacey’s legs were flabby, she had rolls beneath her armpits and back, and her breasts drooped in ovals over her swollen belly. At twenty she already had four children. There was always a chance she could be pregnant with her fifth child, but Rebecca never asked. When Lacey sat on the sturdy chairs in class, she seemed to plop her weight down onto four flimsy legs, and Rebecca always checked the slightly splayed posts to see if they would splinter under the pressure. They hadn’t yet.
Lacey had black hair cascading in ripples over her shoulders, delicate features, and brown skin like everyone else on the island, but hers was infused with a light that made her caramel skin look sheer. Rebecca felt a particular magnetic pull to Lacey’s hair. Unlike her own, which became a knotted mess when allowed to grow free, Lacey’s looked soft, as though her fingers could easily slip their way to her white scalp. Rebecca’s own hair was coarse and cropped close to her head.
—Krys chile, my grandmother says, Lacey surprise foh meh today hah meh excited. Rheal excited.
Rebecca burst into class, and though she was only a couple of minutes late, some girls had already started on their floral displays. Lacey sat at the back of the class commenting on and laughing at other’s festoons, oblivious to everyone’s disdain. They shot her dirty looks every time she opened her mouth.
Their instructor was a bony, brown Indian woman. She strolled up and down the aisles of the classroom with her glasses perched atop her nose. When her eyes landed on Rebecca, a sneer wrinkled her onion-thin skin. Lacey liked to whisper things about their instructor when Rebecca obsessed over the woman’s dislike for them. Doh min she, Becca. She eh hah ah mahn oh no chilren. She goh dead by sheself. Meh eh know why she eh try toh put on some weight and find ah mah toh bull nah. While Rebecca loved to listen to Lacey, she never added anything to her stories.
A A Becca gyul, Lacey bellowed from across the room, meh tawt yuh wasn’t comin today. Yuh eh wantah meet de mahn awah? At the mention of Rebecca’s mystery man, her heart fluttered. She smiled. Someone was interested in meeting her, excited even, according to Lacey.
E hah cah, Lacey had told her. Me, Jamal, and di chilren went somewhey and ah hear Jamal say someting bout ah fahm.
—Krys chile, ah see it, my grandmother says in what will amount to an incantation, house, lan, and motohcah.
As Rebecca weaved her way around the termite-riddled desks, everyone turned to stare. She hoped Lacey would say no more. An Indian girl who had never spoken to either of them before piped up, Wah mahn go wahn you? E muss be rheal blind. Tell im come and see me, ah nice and pure, meh eh no dut poor dougla. She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder and ran her hands down the front of her body. Her friends snickered. Their instructor suppressed a smile. Rebecca stopped. The sound of silk being folded and twisted ceased; there was the thump of scissors on the desks, the popping of pins in cushions. Their teacher said nothing.
Dougla—half African, half East Indian—was a mix Rebecca was not, but she did not yet have the strength to stand up for herself. Her short, coarse hair revealed her as someone of mixed racial descent, but the only word hissed at her back then was dougla. Trinidadians eventually created more names as races intermingled, but cocopanyol—half East Indian and half Venezuelan—had not yet been invented.
—Mama di come from Venezuela, my grandmother tells me. She di tawk Spanish rheal good and she is one ah de few people ah know who could tawk de true patwah. Boh wah me goh say toh dese people, Krys? Dey eh care. Is mix ah mix up an dat is all dey need toh know toh shun meh.
The derogatory word, dougla, was given more heft the longer the silence lived.
Lacey was flushed for Rebecca and started getting to her feet to defend her, but the same girl said, Wah appen, Rebecca? and she dragged Rebecca’s name out in the crudest way possible. Yuh kyant say nutten cause de Africans eh goh claim yuh and de Indians eh go touch yuh. Lacey erupted, but now the instructor intervened. Dat’s enough, let’s get back to our projects.
It took
Rebecca a few minutes before she sat. She swiped at tears both angry and hurt. The image of her blubbering mother trailing behind her earlier flashed before her eyes. She thought of the shack they lived in and how much of nothing they had. That made her stop crying. She refused to indulge in pitying herself.
Lacey’s eyes lit upon her again and again during class, but Rebecca’s eyes stayed down. All the questions she’d been on fire to ask Lacey had been extinguished. She was fixated on getting away and leaving everything and everyone behind.
—Meh was tinkin, says my grandmother, meh kyant stay hwome, meh kyant stay whey ah is, so meh hah toh run. Ah di tinkin too maybe dis mahn goh help.
Rebecca was prepared to leave before she even met him.
IN NOVEMBER, the month of Kartik, Hindus across Trinidad and Tobago gathered on the banks of rivers and the shorelines of beaches to join in the festivities celebrating the passage to the New Year. Women donned saris in varying shades of reds, yellows, oranges, and whites. The older women were wrapped in demure folds of blues and greens with hints of gold or silver. Music jingled from the thick bands of bangles lining arms and the delicate bells tied around ankles. The young women tossed their veils to the wind, untying coils and braids, gold and silver sequins glittering in the waning sun. Older women fastened their veils to dignified buns set low at the backs of their heads; the intricate designs of dark brown henna stained the bumps of purple veins. Some watched their granddaughters, daughters, and nieces wave fingers and toes trellised with crimson patterns of flowers and leaves, a tug of the past pulling them toward memories of when they danced by the water’s edge, drawing the eyes of men.
Rebecca wore a flower-printed dress with a scrunched waistline. The tenuous fabric barely concealed her large cotton undergarments. Though her father was raised by Hindus and Muslims, he never took her or her siblings to a temple, a mosque, or any of the ceremonies scattered throughout the year. She eyed the saris draped on the young and the old, deftly folded and neatly tied by the expert fingers of older women. Slender midsections exposed beneath sari blouses swayed to sultry rhythms of classical music emanating from radios set along the banks.
Once when she was a little girl and her father had walked with her and her mother to the market, she pointed to a lady wearing a hoop through her nose that was connected by a string of gold to her ear, then her hair. Pappy, why she wearin earring in she nose? She had turned her neck to follow the woman as she passed by with a parcel of Indian sweets dusted with sprinkles. The lady turned and smiled. Her father roared with laughter and explained it was a nathani, worn by married women in his culture. He cupped her head in one of his palms and told her she would wear a nath when she was a little older. The nath, he said, was a glass bead through the nose for girls, and as she got older he would replace the bead with 22-karat gold studs and then hoops. When she reached the realm of adulthood, he promised, he would buy her a nathani. She jumped up and down begging him to buy her one now. When her mother emerged from the throng of people haggling under the canopy of vegetables, Rebecca searched her mother for a nathani.
Pappy? He looked down at her, the rare smile lighting his face. Whey Mammy nathani? His face dissolved. He said, Yuh muddah kyant weah dat. She eh ah true Indian wife. She Creole. My muddah is ah true Indian an she does weah de traditions ah she culture. She does weah de mangalsutra, sindur, an ah nathani! Her mother had veered off to another vendor for supplies to make green seasoning for meat. When he said my muddah he emphasized the my and slapped his shirtless chest with the palm of his hand.
—Meh grandmuddah din wahn nutten toh do wid we, my grandmother says. We juss mix up so she disown we.
Pappy, wah is ah magali and sinda? This time he didn’t laugh. He didn’t place his hand on her head. Nor did he glance down at her. Strolling along the outskirts of the marketplace waiting for her mother, he scanned the antsy crowd of women till he found one woman carrying a basket.
Watch she dey. Yuh see dah oman? Yuh see wah she hah tie rung she neck? Rebecca strained to see who he was pointing to. De oman widdee red sari. The woman he was pointing to wore a necklace spun of yellow thread, gold pendants, and beads. She nodded. Well meh chile, dah is wah a mar-red oman does weah. She does hah toh weah dah all de days ah she life till she husband dead. Dah is ah mangalsutra. An yuh see how she paht she hair een de middle so? Dah red duss she put on she skull is sindur. Every mawnin meh muddah use toh getup and paht she head wid coconut oil an puh sindur on she head like dat.
When her father spoke of his mother, a sourness lurked in his eyes as bitter as raw cocoa, yet a slow smile softened his features. Her mother returned to them soon, and he became his gruff self again, silent as they walked home.
He never did buy her a nath, and by the time she was old enough for a nathani she had given up all hope of ever getting one. Now, standing right off the road with Lacey scanning the crowd for Jamal, Rebecca hungrily stared at all the young girls’ jewelry she had once been promised, and all the older women’s adornments of marriage that she still hoped to receive.
Rebecca didn’t know why Lacey chose for their first meeting to be on Kartik. The extravagant atmosphere made her feel distraught. She felt out of place and looked around for Lacey until she spotted her by her hair, quite unlike all the straight hair dancing in the breeze around them. If someone saw the way Rebecca eyed Lacey’s hair, they would accuse her of casting najar or maljo—the evil eye. Whenever Lacey turned, her hair swayed with her, the tips of it clinging to her right or left hip. It was a different color than the hair of any of the Trinidadians she knew. While all Indians had hair as black as the fathoms of the night sky and all African coils were even darker, Lacey’s hair was the color of coffee beans, reddened by sunlight. And the longer Lacey stayed in the sun, the lighter her hair became. But Lacey would never stay in the sun. Meh hah toh protek meh color, Becca. And Lacey had nice skin. It always looked like darkened honey trickling from the bark of a tree, as though if Rebecca licked her, she would be sweet and sticky. It was true that Lacey would always be classified as a bona fide boboloops—an obese woman—but nonetheless she had characteristics coveted by females on the island.
Lacey’s eyes moved from side to side, up and down, searching for her husband. Exasperated, she ran her hands through her hair, sweat glistening on her fingertips. She never soaked her hair in coconut oil as all the Indians on the island did. When Rebecca asked her why she said, Wah? An spoil meh head? Meh eh wahn it toh look greasy greasy so nah gyul. Foh dem Indian an dem igo be broughtupsy buh mine good juss so.
Rebecca’s mother never tried to flatten her children’s coarse hair. Her mother’s hair grew in tight corkscrews, while her siblings’ varied in texture. Only her younger brother Kamal had inherited her father’s hair, and he wore it long. He was proud to have the hair of an Indian man, because with that he could slip among them, unchallenged. Rebecca’s hair fell right in the middle of her father’s and mother’s, caught between silky and knotted. It never grew more than six or seven inches, and though it was considerably softer than her mother’s, it only spiraled upward. Every day she vigorously brushed away the offending curls, abrading her scalp in the process. Sometimes her mother would help her brush and other times just yell, Wah nonsense yuh doin? Stop wastin time and goh do someting.
Her father talked at great length about his mother’s hair, how long and luxurious it was, how it matched the color of her eyes, and the way it shone in the moonlight. He would always say that’s why his father had fallen in love with his mother. Rebecca wanted to meet this woman, whom she gathered bits and pieces about, but her father’s bitterness when he spoke of her kept Rebecca from ever asking to meet her.
When Lacey finally spotted Jamal, she waved both arms about her head, her sleeveless top unable to hide the fat rippling along her upper arms. She jumped up and down, her breasts, belly, and buttocks jiggling. Jamal was among a group of girls now entering their teens. They wore vibrant colors that shone against their brown skin. Some wore th
eir black hair in buns encircled with garlands of white flowers, while others wore theirs loose with no adornment but the setting sun. Jamal’s eyes were trained on them, a smile depressing his nose and lifting the corners of his mouth. He didn’t see Lacey for a few seconds.
At thirty-five, Jamal had a thick beard. Fifteen years Lacey’s senior, he seemed to ravage her youth, impressing age and hard work upon her with each child. Jamal raised his hand to signal he saw her. Lacey waddled to him. On the few occasions Lacey had mentioned being Jamal’s wife, Rebecca gleaned she was proud of herself for having the ability to steal a man like Jamal. Rebecca couldn’t see why. He was a tall man whose bones were visible even through his floor-length khobe. His eyes and skin were just as light and radiant as Lacey’s, but that was as far as the comparison went. Beneath a brush of brows were eyes deep set and moody. He always seemed to sift through women, discarding the ones he deemed physically undesirable, and Rebecca knew she was discounted the moment they met.
The first time Rebecca met Jamal, she and Lacey had taken their time gathering their things together before leaving the cramped classroom. By then everyone else had left for the evening. Jamal was outside leaning against wooden crossbeams, a box of du Maurier cigarettes unopened in his hands. Their giggling interrupted him, and he looked up as they strolled through the darkening corridor. He approached them and yanked Lacey by her arm, her bag slipping off her shoulder and onto the floor. Pins, needles, and acrylic cases clattered on the concrete, rolling in various directions.
Wah takin yuh so long?
Lacey cowered against Rebecca, covering her head, her stance no mystery to any woman: she feared his fists. When Jamal registered that someone else was there, he stepped back and cleared his throat, pocketing the red box with his other hand.
Secrets We Kept Page 20