“Is blind yuh blind?” Delores asks Margot. “Yuh sistah turning into a white ’ooman undah me roof! Is you put her up to dis?” Delores shouts, her body shaking as though aggravated by the words. Margot turns to look at Thandi, who is in her arms. “What she talking ’bout, Thandi?” Her eyes are scouring Thandi’s face. “Thandi.”
“I’m not turning white,” Thandi sniffs, wiping her eyes. “I was just bringing up my color. A lot of girls do it. I am the darkest at school. People either make fun of me or they ignore me.”
“So let them!” Delores shouts from where she stands. “Yuh g’wan be bettah than them wid what’s up here.” Delores taps her skull.
“But Mama, yuh always say—”
“Yuh should be concentrating on the CXC. Yuh was supposed to be the one to rise above dat stupidness wid yuh books.”
Margot is quiet this whole time, watching Delores through narrowing slits. She drops her hands to her sides like she did the groceries. “Mama!” She holds up one hand. “Let me talk to her for a minute.”
Delores backs away, her hands curled in tight fists. She has never surrendered her power before, but Margot doesn’t seem afraid to silence their mother. Margot seems to be the one in charge. Something is different about her, Thandi thinks. Lately she has been busier and busier, her clothes nicer and nicer.
She told Thandi that she was preparing to move them somewhere else. “Where would we get the money?” Thandi had asked her sister a few days ago. And Margot had given her the biggest grin she had ever seen on her face. “Ah jus’ win di lotto an’ buy land. Yuh looking on the new hotel general manager of Palm Star Resort!” Thandi hugged her sister before she pulled back. “Does Mama know?” Margot shook her head. “Don’t say anyt’ing to her as yet. Right now dis is between me an’ you.”
In this very moment, this indomitable woman is standing in their living space like the sun itself. Delores retreats inside the kitchen, mumbling to herself, as Margot sits Thandi down on the sofa. Very gently she cups Thandi’s face and caresses it with both hands. There are tears in her eyes too. Thandi isn’t sure if they are sad tears or happy tears. Margot clutches Thandi’s chin gently and parts her ruby-red lips as though to blow a kiss. “This is unnecessary if yuh look in the mirror an’ see what I see in those eyes.” Margot runs her hands through Thandi’s hair, untwisting the single braid and letting her hair fall around her shoulders. “Once you believe you are beautiful, then people will believe it too.”
“Is dat what they said at the hotel when they hired you as front desk clerk and then gave yuh dat promotion?” Thandi asks.
“What promotion?” Delores springs back into view.
Margot looks at Thandi in stunned silence. Without turning to Delores, she says, “I was recently promoted as hotel general manager.”
“When? Why yuh didn’t seh anyt’ing to me about it? How much dem paying yuh now?”
“Is dat all yuh care about?” Margot faces Delores. “How much I’m worth?” Delores is seething quietly in the shadows.
“What have you been telling Thandi, Mama?” Margot asks.
“What yuh mean, what ah been telling har? Is me yuh g’wan blame fah this?”
“A man like dat,” Margot says quietly under her breath. At first Thandi doesn’t hear her sister’s words, until she repeats it over and over again like a litany. Margot’s whisper becomes a laugh that rumbles in her belly and snaps her head back. “A man like dat is what I was to aspire to get, remembah, Delores?” Thandi watches this, instantly becoming a shadow, a bat perched in the dark recesses of the shack, listening. “Remember?” Margot says quietly. Just then Maxi comes to the gate and hollers for Delores:
“What tek’n suh long, Mama Delores? Ship ’bout to dock!”
And Margot’s attitude changes. She breaks the staring match between her and Delores and fixes her blouse. She bends to pick up the bags of groceries that fell earlier. Delores’s face is still twisted into a deep scowl.
“Yuh sister is different,” she says to Margot as she lifts her own weight—the basket of souvenirs. “I tell yuh dat all the time. So get offah me back an’ guh run yuh hotel. God mus’ really work in mysterious ways. I guess him bless yuh overnight, huh?” Delores’s voice has a sharp edge. “What position did you pray in, Margot? Were you on yuh knees or pon yuh back?”
Margot stiffens. She clutches Thandi’s shoulders. “Did she evah tell you?” she asks. “Did she evah tell what she did?”
“Kibbah yuh mouth,” Delores says. “Don’t bring yuh sistah in yuh mess.”
Margot’s tone raises the hairs on Thandi’s arms. “No matter what yuh do to yuhself, it not g’wan change a t’ing,” Margot says to Thandi. “Believe me, it won’t change yuh place in society or how they look at you.”
“Let me go!” she says to Margot, who still clutches Thandi as though Thandi is about to fall into some kind of an abyss that only Margot can see. Thandi stumbles backward when her sister releases her.
Thandi feels sorry for hurting her this way. She shouldn’t have shouted at Margot like that. But she thought Margot would’ve understood her and taken her side. Can’t she see that Thandi wants more than this life in River Bank? More than what Margot can ever give her? Margot waits until Delores leaves before she gets up and goes outside through the back door. Thandi watches her walk past the outhouse and the tire swing where Little Richie hides. Like a divi-divi tree thrashing in the wind, she walks with her head bent forward, storming through, parting banana leaves and trampling tall grass. Thandi slips into the fuchsia dress—snug at the hips with slits on both sides—which she bought last week for the birthday party. Might as well, since no one is there to see her wear it.
Thandi stands alone on the pier that evening, watching her classmates on the dance floor. She fights away thoughts of Charles, but no one asks her to dance. No one directs her to the table with snacks and soda. A feeling of alienation creeps up on her, cold like the night air. She fidgets with a piece of napkin folded in her damp hands, standing knock-kneed in the shadows. The other girls walk right by her as though they don’t know her. Dance-hall music soars in the open air and Thandi adjusts her dress, hoping someone will ask her to dance. All the pretty brown boys have found all the pretty brown girls. The boys stir with excitement and jump on the girls’ behinds, riding them to the rhythm of the music on the dance floor and against the rails. The girls don’t seem to mind. They’re oblivious to moist foreheads, smudged makeup, and damp collarbones where sweat sparkles like glitter. The more self-conscious ones fan and dab themselves with tissue, pretending not to be concerned or flattered by the looks from other boys, lining up and waiting their turn. Their smiles and skin glow under the disco lights.
Laughter takes everyone’s minds off the awkwardness of trying to impress each other. The music changes to Dennis Brown and there’s an unspoken acknowledgment that each person should find a partner. There is one boy left standing in a corner like Thandi. Their eyes meet. His dimples are visible from her vantage point. She moves from her corner and slips between the bodies on the dance floor. The boy stands up straight. Thandi tucks her hair behind her ears, confident that he can see her lighter, brighter face. She has dreamed of this moment, approaching a fair-skinned boy as though it is her birthright. The boy holds Thandi’s stare. With a slight drop of his head, he looks her up and down as she gets closer and closer to him. As Dennis Brown’s voice hits a high note, soaring into the star-filled indigo sky, the boy’s dimples disappear and he wrinkles his nose and walks away. Thandi has been acknowledged and dismissed in the time it takes to get to the other side of the dance floor. The belly-skip of possible love with a cream-skinned mulatto is nothing compared to the vile liquid that presently shoots through her veins. Her hope wilts on its stem before it can bloom into promise. Miss Ruby was wrong. Bleaching her skin doesn’t make them see her as beautiful.
Thandi walks to the restroom with pieces of her heart cradled to her chest. On her way, she spots a familiar face. S
he squints to see if her eyes are playing tricks on her. Jullette is sitting with a man at the bar—a foreigner who looks more than twice her age. He’s a deeply tanned white man with silver hair, casually dressed in a white polo shirt and khaki shorts. He has one hand on Jullette’s exposed brown thigh, the other around a drink. Such an unlikely couple they are, sitting there. The man leans in and whispers something in Jullette’s ear. She laughs out loud above the music, cupping her hand over her mouth. Her face is a colorful mask of violets, greens, and reds. She playfully taps the man on the shoulder, and he drains her drink for her.
“Jullette?” Thandi calls from the end of the bar where she stands. When Jullette hears her name, she turns. The beam fades from Jullette’s face. Her eyes, which are a startling hazel from the contacts she wears, widen. She quickly looks the other way.
“Jullette!” Thandi calls again, strangely happy to see her old friend since they had fallen out. The people at the bar glance at Thandi as though she has lost her mind, with her shouting to get Jullette’s attention. But Jullette buries her face in the crook of the man’s neck and whispers something. Soon they both get up and vanish from the bar.
23
THE PANTRY IS EMPTY. THE OPEN CUPBOARDS BARE THEIR SKELETAL insides filled with nothing but a can of chicken noodle soup. No crackers to moisten with tea. No tea bags. The refrigerator hums, its cold breath on Verdene’s face. No eggs for breakfast either. She has no choice but to go to the market. She counts the last of the insurance money her mother left her. It’s enough to sustain her, for the time being. Very slowly, she puts on her market dress. She zips the side and watches the dress fall over her knees, covering up everything. An attempt to gain respectability like the other women. She picks up her basket, the one her mother used to carry.
Outside, the sun is bright yellow like the yolk of an egg. Its one eye holds Verdene in place. For a second she ponders starving to death, renouncing her life within the safe confines of the house. Her body will rot, and when they find her she would be unrecognizable. She imagines the community people linking hands with their children to dance around her property, singing, “Ding-dong! The witch is dead!”
She makes her way down the road, hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible under her white sun hat. A man and a woman cross over to the other side of the road when they see her coming. A group of boys sitting on the branch of a mango tree throw mango seeds in her path. Two little girls jumping rope in a yard stop and hold the tails of their dirty dresses closed. The mothers of the girls standing nearby in the yard gasp. They don’t say then, You see that lady’s fair skin? See how pretty? Yuh g’wan stay black an’ ugly if you stay playing in the sun. Instead, they look the other way, the sides of their eyes holding Verdene in place as they grab their daughters. “Oonuh come out the way! Mek the witch pass!” And when Verdene gets to the bar by Mr. Levy’s, the men playing dominoes outside regard her closely, until she passes near enough to hear one of them, Clover, say to his friends, “All she need is a good cocky.”
But Verdene doesn’t falter. She holds her head high, knowing they probably won’t touch her due to her foreign privilege. Had they wanted to harm her, they would’ve done so already. It’s that crisp British accent, its stroke of precision sharp like a razor’s edge. “Is there a problem, gentlemen?” Verdene asks, trying not to let her voice quaver. The men shrink under her view. They are seemingly embarrassed by her propriety. Clover takes a swig of rum from a flask, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He says nothing, only grabs his crotch and holds it. Verdene stares him down until he releases himself and drops his leer.
At the market Verdene barely sees or smells anything. She picks up fruits and vegetables and puts them in her basket. They all look bad, given that it has not rained in months. She wishes she could test their texture and smell them like her mother used to do. Verdene’s mother could do this in her sleep. She always got the best price for everything she bought. But Verdene doesn’t have that luxury. One look at her and the market vendors know she’s a foreigner, a prodigal daughter who has still not assimilated back into the culture. It must be her clipped accent and mannerisms; her willingness to wait her turn to speak when they’re speaking; the way she walks with caution, unable to be led by her hips like most Jamaican women, and always looking over her shoulder like the tourists who wander from the hotels. And in her face, the vendors from River Bank see her mother, Miss Ella, and they remember the old woman who died alone in that nice pink house on the hill. They remember the daughter who disgraced her. They remember the sin she committed. They whisper to the other vendors. “Nuh Miss Ella dawta dat?” And their words spread like the stench of raw fish, battered fruit, and gutter water that permeates the humid air. Some fan her away like the flies that pitch all over their produce, while others pause, their hands on their hips as though waiting for a confrontation. Verdene feels like one of the soldiers that march through the area with long rifles, her presence leaving a trail of silence and apprehensive looks. The vendors quote the highest price, stating it between clenched teeth, their eyes communicating to her that their price is final. That they would rather do without her money and have their children eat cornmeal porridge again for dinner. When she agrees to buy their produce, unwilling to fight, they grudgingly take her money. Verdene notices that they touch the bills with only the tips of their fingers.
Verdene fills her basket and walks to the end of the row. She has never gone this far into the arcade, but today something is propelling her. Delores is on her haunches, taking out green peas from their pods. Her expert fingers open them up quickly to let the seeds fall into a basket. Though she’s getting a lot accomplished, her mind is elsewhere. Verdene can tell, for Delores doesn’t notice her standing there watching her. “Hello, Delores.” Verdene moves inside the stall and stands over the crouched woman, who appears smaller than Verdene remembered her to be. Delores regards her face as though trying to place her. Her large eyes widen and her eyebrows touch her hairline like she has seen a ghost. “You!” Delores says. This comes out as a whisper. Verdene takes a step back to disarm her, but Delores is already struggling to her feet, her gasp turning into a body-shivering cough. Verdene wants to step forward and hit Delores’s back in order to help, but she’s afraid someone might come and think she’s trying to assault her. Delores’s cough quiets. She breathes slowly, with her fist to her mouth just in case she might have another fit. “What yuh want from me?” Delores asks when she calms down, her voice hoarse.
“I was in the area. Just came to say hello.”
Delores grimaces. “Who told you we’re on any level for dat kind of thing?”
“You never used to mind me.”
“Well, that was before I knew yuh was the devil.”
Verdene wonders if she can risk asking Delores about Margot.
“How are you?” Verdene asks.
“Why is it any of your business?” Delores retorts.
“And how is Margot? I haven’t seen her in years,” Verdene lies. She tries to sound as casual as possible, though her heart is racing. Delores makes two fists and places them on her hips.
“Yuh asking after my daughter?” Delores asks. The weight of her suspicion is heavy, like the basket of fruits and vegetables in Verdene’s hand.
“How dare yuh come here wid my dawta’s name in yuh mouth!” Delores’s eyes are flashing.
She wants to explain, but then thinks against it. “It’s not like you treated her like your daughter. You never cared about her. You never loved her. Not like—”
“You have no business coming in here, telling what kinda mother yuh t’ink I am,” Delores snaps. “She’s not like you. She has a man. A moneyman who own a hotel. So if is come yuh come to see about Margot, then yuh bettah turn back around an’ walk di other way.”
“I didn’t say—”
“I know exactly what yuh didn’t say,” Delores says through clenched teeth.
Verdene opens and closes her mouth. Delores sees through
her. She knows. Has always known. It’s obvious in the way she looks at Verdene, her nostrils flared and eyes ablaze. A sneer creeps up Delores’s black ugly face.
“Margot has a moneyman,” Delores says. “A man who can provide for her. So g’weh wid yuh foreign accent an’ yuh inheritance. G’weh wid yuh nastiness! She’s not like you!”
Verdene backs away from Delores’s stall.
“She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you!”
The woman’s screams get louder and louder the farther Verdene runs. The other vendors peer from their stalls to see the commotion. They see Delores screaming, Verdene hurrying away, bumping into things and people. She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you!
She runs into a young Rasta fellow who is holding a box of carved birds. She has seen him selling them on the corner. The box falls, the birds crashing to the ground, breaking. The Rasta man raises his hands to his head, his eyes wild. “Yuh bruk me t’ings dem!” He catches Verdene by the arm, his grasp tight. Her basket falls and the fruits burst open on the pavement. The overripe breadfruit, when it hits the ground, sounds like a fist punching the soft, fleshy part of a body.
“Yuh haffi pay fah di birds!” the Rasta man says, glaring at Verdene.
“Let. Me. Go,” Verdene says through clenched teeth. Her chest heaves painfully as her heart presses against her rib cage. “I said let me go!”
But the Rasta refuses. “Gimme di money fah di birds.”
“Hol’ on pon har, John-John,” says one of the other vendors. “She was messing wid Delores earlier too. Come talk ah ’bout how she love Margot.”
Here Comes the Sun Page 21