Here Comes the Sun

by Nicole Dennis-Benn

  Miss Scott-Henry leaves her office door open at all times. Margot knows the woman takes frequent bathroom breaks because of all the water she drinks. She also sucks her teeth when in deep concentration and likes to take the bottom of a pen to her mouth and chew. Margot even listens in on the woman’s phone calls; hears her friendly chatter to a business associate or someone from the Jamaica Gleaner or Observer calling to interview her as the former Miss Jamaica Universe winner, “the new face of the tourism industry.” Margot rolls her eyes at this, because she believes Alphonso hired the woman for that very reason, to bring publicity to his hotel. Just put a high-profile beauty queen in charge—one who shaved her head of beautiful locks to donate all her hair to cancer patients and who left the modeling industry to pursue a business degree—and people will flock to the property, though Margot believes foreigners couldn’t care less about that.

  There are other surprising things about Miss Novia Scott-Henry. In the two weeks since she started, she has learned everyone’s names. “How yuh doing, Brenda? Take care, Faye. Don’t work too hard, Rudy. Let me see dat hose, Floyd. Nice hairstyle, Patsy.” She converses with the lower staff as though they are all the same rank as her—another trait Margot regards with mild suspicion. Margot became skeptical the minute the woman arrived on the scene with her turquoise blue cowrie-shell glasses, her closely cropped hair (all that’s left of the long hair that once cascaded in waves down her back, which was seen on all the 1980s calendars), and her sharply tailored pantsuits. Her beauty is indisputable, and she’s as sweet as she is tall. So sweet that she leaves a bitter taste on Margot’s tongue. Something sinister lurks behind her bright beauty-queen shine, the “Good mornings” and “Good evenings” she gives so freely, and the openness of her face. It’s the custard-pudding face of someone who will never have to work hard for anything; someone who enters a room and knows all the men’s eyes will be on her, yet plays it off by complimenting other women, no matter how frumpy. It’s the face of a snake who will accept a plate of food or a glass of water at your house and, when you turn your back, throw it all away. Margot wants to know what she’s hiding and what’s behind her power over Alphonso.

  “How long yuh think she’ll last?” Margot asks Kensington.

  “Longer than Dwight, fah sure,” Kensington says while stapling some receipts together. “An’ definitely longer than dis drought! Is like we ah roas’ in hell.”

  Margot looks in Miss Novia Scott-Henry’s direction. She’s outside, talking to Beryl, the voluptuous female security guard who never smiles. Their heads are lowered in conversation, sneaking furtive glances around the property as though whoever they speak of might ambush them. Margot wonders if they’re talking about the girls who’ve been coming around as of late. Beryl prevented one of them from entering the premises last week because she didn’t have proper ID. This infuriated Margot, because the girl couldn’t get to her client on time. Beryl has complained to Boris, the head of hotel security, about the young girls, but Boris already knows about Alphonso’s scheme. He promptly removed Beryl from front gate duty and put her in charge of the parking lot. Since then, Beryl has been more miserable than ever. Margot worries she’s a threat to their business. She watches Beryl and Miss Novia Scott-Henry huddled together. They are laughing about something, both throwing their hands up as though in surrender to the joke rippling through them. Margot is surprised to see flashes of Beryl’s teeth.

  “Something is fishy ’bout her, that’s all,” Margot says.

  “Fishy?” Kensington asks, lowering the stapler. “Is dat why yuh haven’t been doing work all week? ’Caw yuh jus’ waan watch fi see if she slip? She’s really nice. Bettah than that crow we had for ah boss. Alphonso did good by firing Dwight an’ hiring her. An’ besides, ah still have her old calendar. I want her to sign it. She did mek Jamaica proud di year she won Miss Universe.”

  A ball of fire rises in Margot’s belly. She turns to Kensington. “Yuh is a good Christian woman, right?”

  Kensington nods so hard that Margot fears her neck might snap. Margot often rolls her eyes whenever the girl comes to work in the morning with her stomach growling, explaining to Margot that she’s fasting yet again for her sins and therefore would not eat for the rest of the day.

  “So can I ask you a question?” Margot says, scooting closer.

  “What?”

  “How is it dat yuh tolerate her?”

  Kensington shakes her head. “I’m not following.”

  “When Alphonso introduced us the first time, she held my hand an’ stroke it.”

  Kensington jumps out her chair. “Yuh lie!”

  “Yuh calling me a liar? Look at her. The way she dresses, the way she wears her hair—what self-respecting woman wear har hair cut so close to har head without di decency to put on a wig? An’ yuh really t’ink any woman wid nice hair would shave it off like dat?”

  “Is fah the cancer patients.”

  “Cancer patients, my rear end. Something else is behind it. Yuh notice that we’ve never seen her in a dress? Look how mannish she is. A far ways from her days as a beauty queen.” As she says this with authority and a conviction that she never knew existed within her, a shock of excitement runs through Margot’s veins, taking hold of her tongue. “Plenty people know about di rumors.”

  “What rumors?”

  “That she’s a undah-cover.”

  Kensington is silent. A moment passes before she speaks.

  “But she was a beauty queen. Those girls too pretty fah dat. And dey ’ave morals.”

  “That was jus’ fah show. If yuh don’t believe me, jus’ ask around. Better yet, watch her.”

  Kensington studies Miss Novia Scott-Henry in this new light—the way she talks with her hands, touching Beryl often on the elbow. A dark soot fills Kensington’s eyes, obscuring the whiteness. Perspiration beads form above her mouth from the humidity.

  “How yuh know fah sure that she’s funny?”

  “Jus’ look at her,” Margot says. “She flaunts it.”

  Kensington makes a sign of the cross. And just like that, Margot knows she has planted a seed, perhaps the only one that has the potential to thrive in this drought.

  The next few days are more bearable in the office for Margot—not because the hotel has installed new air-conditioning to ward off the unbearable heat, but because of Kensington. Kensington’s budding suspicion of Miss Novia Scott-Henry keeps her so occupied that she’s not able to focus on anything else—like the reservations being made to certain rooms on the sixteenth floor under fake names, the local businessmen who check in, then check out hours later, the girls who prance solo in a diagonal line across the marbled lobby straight to the elevator.

  When Miss Novia Scott-Henry comes to the front desk to request the receipts and vouchers, Margot pretends to be busy with reservations, so she directs her question to Kensington. “I’m not sure what is going on here. Can you please explain what these ‘special services’ are on some of the bills? And why there are astronomical charges to rooms that were only reserved for two hours?”

  Kensington has a genuine look of confusion on her face. She’s mouthing words that aren’t coming out.

  “Am I speaking to myself here?” Miss Novia Scott-Henry asks.

  Margot thinks fast. “We—well—Kensington and I are still working on the other vouchers. There might have been a slight mix-up in booking. But when we’re done sorting things out we’ll get to you right away.” She is a bit concerned that Alphonso hasn’t shared his underground business with his hotel general manager. Shouldn’t she be the first to know what’s really happening and where the extra revenue’s coming from? This just proves her incompetence. Or is it Blacka who is feeding her these figures, forgetting to eliminate the miscellaneous profits? Alphonso should fire that pompous pest of an accountant. But when Margot clicks on an unopened file, she realizes that it was her error. She gave the woman the wrong file. What if she calls them to inquire about the charges? What if she finds ou
t and reports it to the authorities?

  “Please have everything to me by the end of the day,” Miss Novia Scott-Henry says. She glances at Kensington, who is sitting stiff and mute at the desk. “Is everything all right, Kensington?”

  The girl nods, her eyes sliding into her lap, where Margot notices a small Bible tucked discreetly between her palms.

  “She’s jus’ a likkle undah the weather,” Margot says.

  “I see.”

  Miss Novia Scott-Henry glances at Kensington. “You may go home, if that’s the case. Wouldn’t want our guests to get sick on their vacation. Margot, has a Mr. Georgio McCarthy checked in as yet? We have a meeting at four.” Margot pulls up her reservations files on the new computer, though she doesn’t have to. “Yes, checked him in at two.”

  “Perfect. Also, can you please remind the guests not to leave towels that they only used once for laundry. Remind them that we’re in a drought and our goal is to conserve water.”

  “I sure will.”

  When Miss Novia Scott-Henry walks away, Margot waits until the woman is out of earshot before she turns to Kensington. “What’s di mattah with you? You lost yuh tongue?”

  “No.” Kensington begins to put her Bible away. “But if yuh say she is what she is, then it’s a sin. An abomination. I don’t want to be around it.”

  “So what yuh g’wan do? Quit? Because she’ll be here fah a very long time. You said so yuhself.”

  “Maybe ah should mention it to him,” Kensington says, her eyes getting big.

  “Who?” Margot asks.

  “Alphonso.”

  Kensington’s eyes are crazed like old Miss Gracie’s whenever she preaches on her soapbox in the square. Or when she stops people to give them a prophecy. (“Yuh g’wan conceive t’day in di name of Jeezas!” “Yuh g’wan win di lotto!” “Yuh g’wan haffi prepare fah di third funeral tomorrow.”)

  Margot leans forward in her chair. “You don’t have access to the owner of the hotel like dat. None of us do. And besides, the man is very busy.”

  Kensington stares at her for a while, blinking rapidly like she’s trying to regain focus, one hand clutching the strap of her handbag. “Him need fi know what going on undah him nose. Yuh nuh notice anyt’ing else funny ’roun here?” Kensington asks.

  “No. What yuh talkin’ ’bout?”

  “Di girl dem.”

  “What girls?” Margot shifts her attention to the computer.

  “Di young, naked one dem prancing in an’ out like dem own di place. And not ah soul seh one t’ing to dem. Dat neva use to happen before. Dat woman bringing in some bad energy. Alphonso need fi know ’bout it.”

  Just as Kensington says this, a call comes in from room 1601, the penthouse suite. Margot picks up, her eyes on Kensington’s back.

  “Guest services, how may I help you?”

  “Yes, I’d like to get a sundae.”

  Click.

  She smells money as soon as she walks into Georgio’s room, where the shutters are open to a picturesque view of the sunset. It leaves a trail of red and violet in the sky; and a half-moon sits a couple feet away, patiently waiting its turn.

  “Smoke?” Georgio offers Margot. He’s a man of a few words. She met him at the last gathering held at Alphonso’s villa.

  “Shame on you for asking. Yuh know why I’m here.”

  Though fresh from his meeting with Miss Novia Scott-Henry, he’s already dressed down in a white Palm Star Resort terry-cloth robe that swallows his small, sickly frame. He looks like a skeleton with flesh—his green eyes peering at Margot from dark hollow holes, so powerful they seem to burn away the lashes. She imagines the old naked body underneath that awaits her strokes and kneading; the flaccid penis that hangs between his legs. She didn’t send one of her other girls because Georgio is the biggest fish in the pond. It’s his money that Alphonso needs to close the deal on the new resort. She undresses.

  “Turn around,” Georgio tells her as soon as she’s naked. He places his cigar inside a simple ashtray by the desk. She does as she’s told, bending over right there by the swivel chair. She imagines the last sliver of the sunlight casting them in gold—Margot bent over with her legs spread, and Georgio behind her. She closes her eyes and thinks of Verdene. The weeks she has let slip by without calling her. She has told Kensington to screen Verdene’s calls at the hotel.

  “Who is she to you?”

  “No one.”

  “Suh why she calling yuh like every othah minute? It ah drive me crazy. Ah have t’ings to do, yuh nuh.”

  “Just keep telling her I’m not here.”

  A slight breeze embraces her, reminding her of her nakedness in this stranger’s room. Margot bites her lips and sucks in her breath as she awaits Georgio’s initial thrust. He’s taking a mighty long time. She hears him cussing at himself.

  “Is something wrong?” she asks him, turning her head slightly. She catches a glimpse of the old man sitting slumped on the bed, looking like a boy who has lost his best friend.

  “Sorry,” he says, not looking up at her.

  “What you mean by ‘sorry’?” Margot asks. She knows exactly what he means. She watches with annoyance and pity as the man gestures to his soft front. Georgio is shaking his head and pouring himself a drink from an expensive-looking bottle he keeps on the nightstand. Margot resists the urge to ask him to pour her some. She remains standing. She doesn’t get dressed; and he doesn’t instruct her to do so. She stands there for what feels like a long time. Long enough for the sun to disappear completely and the moon to spread across the night sky. She gets down on all fours. The new moon floods Georgio’s room. Margot is down on both knees in front of him and takes the cigar out his mouth. She can make out the stricken look in his face when she does this. “Is there anything I can do?” she asks, taking his flaccid penis in her hand. She tugs it, gently at first. Then more vigorously. For what she knows—and has always known—is how to milk desire. Georgio stirs, tilting his pelvis as his penis hardens in her hand. Would there ever be a time, she wonders, when she will not have to do this? Only with Verdene did she begin to experience pleasure on her own terms, and not responsible solely for someone else’s. She tries to shut this out by focusing on Georgio’s grunts, but the thought is persistent, a nagging that has been long subdued like dark secrets she has held in her belly. It is here, while sitting in a moonlit puddle in the penthouse suite with her fist clenched around another man, that the gigantic organism she imagines her secrets to be uncoils and pushes from her navel. She doesn’t take her hand away from Georgio but feels, for the first time, the sadness she ought to. It floods the room and pulls her back into the night sea. She’s afraid she might drown. She remembers—too late—that Verdene had promised to teach her how to swim.

  12

  THANDI SITS IN MISS RUBY’S SHACK, FEELING THE COARSENESS OF Miss Ruby’s palms on her skin. “Yuh coming along fine.” Miss Ruby hums while she rubs Thandi. She is in a rare good mood. “In no time yuh g’wan be as white as snow white,” Miss Ruby promises.

  “You mean light brown?”

  “Same difference.” She touches Thandi’s face. “Trus’ me when I say this. Yuh g’wan see the doors open up so wide.” Thandi relaxes under the woman’s hands. This is exactly what she needs. More than promises of lightness in her skin is someone’s touch. Though it is far from gentle, it is just enough for Thandi. She lifts her arms above her head for Miss Ruby to get under her arms and sides. Thandi closes her eyes when Miss Ruby gets to her breasts. This circular motion reminds her of other touches. Whenever she pulls out the neatly folded towel from under her pillow at nights and rests her head on it, her fantasies turn to Charles. His light brown eyes pull her gently in a dare. Her restless fingers seek comfort inside her cotton underwear. Her own wetness surprises and shames her. Since the attack on her as a child, she hasn’t touched herself this way, not even to idly put her hand there while bathing. It became a separate entity from her body, an organ with its own blood supply,
something mangled and left behind. But it’s not him who comes to mind anymore. Some nights, before Margot comes home and well after Delores and Grandma Merle fall asleep, she floats outside of her body to the ceiling. She curls up next to a pillow of guilt, afraid she has conjured the devil; but more afraid of the possibility of Delores’s eyes opening, the whites of them flashing. She hears Charles. Come, he says. And Thandi reaches toward him, her fingers growing and growing to close the distance between them.

  Miss Ruby stops her rubbing and frowns. “Yuh all right?” she asks. Thandi hugs herself and crosses her legs. A wave of shame washes over her.

  “Uhm. I’m fine,” Thandi utters in a small voice, avoiding Miss Ruby’s eyes. “Why?”

  “Yuh jus’ made a noise.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  Miss Ruby begins to wrap the plastic around Thandi’s chest. But she still has a look of concern when she pauses again to study Thandi. Just then something shatters outside, and she hears her name: “Thandi!” Miss Ruby stops what she’s doing, leaving the plastic dangling. Thandi leaps to the other side of the room to seek cover and Miss Ruby grabs a knife—one she once used to cut the heads off fish she sold—and opens the door of her shack. The door bangs on the zinc. She looks from left to right; then, up in the quivering branches of the mango tree, she sees Charles. “Hey, dutty, stinkin’ bwoy! Don’t mek me cut yuh backside t’day! If me eva catch yuh, me will kill yuh!” she screams.

  “What yuh doing to yuhself, Thandi?” Charles shouts. Thandi can see a part of him in the mango tree just outside the window. She gasps. “How dare you! Yuh have no decency, to be spying on me this way!”