Here Comes the Sun

by Nicole Dennis-Benn

  Thandi tries her best not to appear troubled by Miss Ruby’s appearance. “Do you know where Miss Violet went?” she asks.

  A deep scowl transforms Miss Ruby’s face. “Why yuh askin’ me dat fah? Me look like me keep tabs pon people? I survive by min’ing my own business.”

  “Do you at least know where Jullette lives? I have to find her. I have to find Charles.”

  “Where have you been? Yuh so locked into yuh books dat yuh not even know what time it is. Everybody want to know where Charles is. Him is a wanted man. Anyone who know where him is, is a rich s’maddy. Rich enough to buy a house and not be treated like shit. If I did know where dat brute was, me woulda move out long time. Suh why would you ask me such a stupid question? Now get away from me front door an’ nuh come back unless yuh have money for my service.” She looks at Thandi’s face. “From where ah standing, it look like yuh need more rubbing.”

  “No, thank you,” Thandi says.

  “Yuh sure ’bout dat? Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell yuh dat God nuh like ugly? Look what’s happening to us.”

  But Thandi turns and walks out of Miss Ruby’s yard without looking back.

  She hurries toward the square before the sun rises entirely. She passes Miss Gracie’s house and stops by the mango tree where she once spotted Charles and his gang stealing and devouring mangoes. Thandi reaches toward the lowest branch and picks one. But when she lowers the mango, she sees that it is rotting, the inside carved out by worms. She tosses it and keeps moving. When she gets to the pink house, she slows her pace. The French shutter windows are closed, but leaving the house in this early morning hour is her sister. Margot stops in her tracks when she sees Thandi. And Thandi halts too, her breath drawn so sharply that it hurts her lungs.

  “Thandi, wait!” Margot says. She’s opening the latch on the gate.

  “You didn’t have to lie to me,” Thandi says as soon as her sister approaches.

  “Ah didn’t think you’d understand.”

  “You could have told me that it was her.” Thandi has this odd feeling that they are being watched from a window inside the pink house.

  Margot touches Thandi on the arm. “I’m sorry—”

  Thandi pulls away. She starts to run, ignoring Margot’s plea for her to come back. She cuts through a grassy area, wiping away tears from her face. Her feet pound the ground, stirring up dust. She has to find Charles. Her bookbag slaps against her back the way it did that day when she chased him through the streets. When she reaches Sam Sharpe Square, she turns and turns, unsure where to look first. She doesn’t know where Jullette is hiding Charles. Who could she talk to? Where can she go? She sits outside and observes the gradual chaos of the shoppers, hoping Jullette will appear. Thandi waits the whole day, until sundown and the sky becomes a stunning shade of violet and fuchsia.

  On the street she spots two women in short tube dresses. One of them has rail-thin limbs. The rest of her looks like parts belonging to another woman—a high, round ass upon which one could rest an elbow, and sizable breasts that squeeze together inside the dress like two breadfruits, the way grocers display them in the square. The other woman is big all around—her voluptuous frame snug in the little elastic dress that looks like it’s about to bust open when she heaves and sighs from the fitful coughs caused by the smoke from her cigarette. The women are standing together behind the veils of smoke, their eyes alert on the pedestrians. The skinny one digs into her purse for a small compact mirror. She grins to check for lipstick stains on her teeth and pats her short black wig. But really it seems as though she’s trying to check out the man who just passed them by—as if to gauge if he’s looking back at her. Her fat friend shakes her head when she turns and sees that the man is walking straight ahead, not even giving them a backward glance. The skinny one puts the mirror back inside her purse and rolls her eyes. Thandi approaches them.

  “Can we help you?” the fat woman asks. Up close she looks a lot older than she dresses, the skin on her face ashy and drooping as though all the elasticity has been worn.

  “Yes, I think so,” Thandi says, uncertain.

  The two women glance at each other before they look at Thandi. “How much?” the skinny woman asks. She’s wearing a lot more makeup, complete with fake eyelashes and a drawn-on mole on her upper lip.

  “I—uh.” Thandi is speechless.

  The women burst out laughing. “Lawd, Doreen, yuh laugh like a damn hyena! No wondah why no man nuh want yuh!”

  “Shut yuh claat, gyal. Yuh laugh like faa’ting donkey.”

  The fat woman taps her friend on the forehead and her friend fans her off, the way one fans off a person they’re used to joking with. She turns back to Thandi. “What is it dat yuh need help wid, baby?”

  “I need help finding someone. A girl name Jullette.”

  “Why not look har up in di directory? What’s her last name?”

  “Rose.”

  That’s when the fat woman slaps her hand on her forehead, nearly knocking off her red wig. “Oh, Sweetness!” She hits her friend on the shoulder. “Doreen, she ah talk ’bout Sweetness!”

  Doreen’s eyes light up. “Oh, Sweetness! Yes, yes, me know who she is!” She turns to Thandi. Then to her friend she says, “Annette, yuh t’ink we should—”

  “Big boss would know,” Annette offers, cutting off Doreen. She lights another cigarette.

  “Who?” Thandi asks.

  “Big boss. She come aroun’ dese parts an’ recruit girls. Di younger ones.”

  “She?”

  “Yeah, man. Is a woman who’s in charge ah dese girls. We call har boss lady or big boss,” Doreen says. “She oversee everything, from how much di girls get pay to when dem get lay. Me an’ Annette is we own boss. We sleep wid who we please, when we please. An’ di money we earn is ours to keep.”

  “How can I find her?” Thandi asks.

  “Trus’ me. Yuh g’wan haffi be careful. She might convince yuh to work fah har. Dat woman, from what I hear, is a snake. A vicious one.”

  “So can you help me?”

  The women glance at each other. Then Annette waves Thandi to follow her. She stuffs the pack of cigarettes inside her brassiere and lifts her breasts so that they stand up. She walks with a slight limp.

  37

  VERDENE FEELS AS THOUGH SHE IS PLANNING A WEDDING—OR rather, is already at the reception, where she’s tipsy with wine, drunk off merriment and hope. But something nags at her. She can’t put her finger on it, but it’s always there, lurking like a bad odor trapped inside the walls, seeming to strangle her in her sleep. During these sleepless nights she’s cuddled next to Margot, comforted by her presence. It’s nice to think about Margot’s sweet dreams and avoid the inkling that has been nagging her. She hopes Margot’s dreams will become hers, relieving her of any doubt.

  Verdene’s suspicions began with Margot’s argument against hiring a lawyer. At first she didn’t think anything of it, since Margot kept on harping about her big promotion and the new property. That all Verdene has to do is sign, since she holds their future in her hands. But Verdene cannot shake the guilt of selling the house for less than what her parents had put down for the property back in 1968. Why would the property be so devalued now? She’s kept it quiet from Margot, but Verdene has been spending her days scanning each page of the contract, noticing more and more flaws—like the fact that the company identifies itself as a subsidiary group without mentioning its affiliate. After Margot left for work this morning, Verdene dialed Mr. Reynolds—the lawyer who did the paperwork for her mother’s will, which granted her ownership of the house and property.

  “Did they come by yet?” Mr. Reynolds asks Verdene over the telephone.

  “They’re supposed to be here soon.” She looks over her shoulder to see if the developers are at her gate. She runs her fingers through her hair and pulls slightly to alleviate the mild headache forming. “The bastards owe me money,” she says. “I should be getting quadruple what they quote here.”
>
  “Don’t do anything until I read the contract,” Mr. Reynolds says in his raspy smoker’s voice. He’s about seventy and has been practicing law for years—first in Britain, where he was a Rhodes Scholar who became friends with Aunt Gertrude and her husband. The last Verdene saw him was after her mother’s funeral. He still has height, for his age—about six feet—with a shock of white hair and skin the color of night. A proud Maroon from Accompong, St. Elizabeth.

  “Can you fax me the contract?” Mr. Reynolds asks. “I leave Montego Bay this evening for a business trip until next week, but ah can look at it when ah come back.”

  Verdene closes her eyes. What will she tell Margot? That she has to delay until her lawyer looks it over? Margot already thinks that she’s stalling. As though Mr. Reynolds is reading her mind over the telephone, he says, “Don’t let them bully you, Verdene. Why didn’t you contact me earlier?”

  “I—I thought I could handle it on my own,” Verdene says, feeling like a child again who has been caught stealing Scotch Bonnet peppers. She remembers the promise she made to Margot and how drunk she was with happiness for their shared future.

  “Yuh know who the company is?” Mr. Reynolds asks. “Maybe I can do some research on them through my contacts at NEPA.”

  “Doesn’t say on here. Just the subsidiary group.”

  Mr. Reynolds lets out a long whistle over the telephone—not the melodious whistle Verdene hears the farmers blowing on their way to the fields, a stark contrast to their silhouettes limp with defeat against the dull brown of the drought. Mr. Reynolds’s whistle is the tuneless, drawn-out alarm of fire trucks in London that cut corners on wet, slippery roads whose sheen reflects the bright red lights of their sirens. “Either you wait until I get back to Mobay, or risk losing your inheritance,” Mr. Reynolds says.

  After the telephone call, Verdene fills a pot with water to boil some cerassee leaves to get rid of her headache. As soon as she turns on the stove, she hears knocking at her gate. Two men dressed in white shirts, dark pants, and blue hard hats are standing there, waiting for the sealed envelope with the signed contract. Verdene goes out to greet them on her veranda.

  “I’m not signing this,” she tells them through the grille. She won’t give them the satisfaction of robbing her this way. Uprooting people from their homes like this and having the nerve to pay them less than what their property is worth.

  “Ma’am, we need your signature,” the shorter one says to Verdene. “We gave you time. We are behind on construction. You’re the only property owner who hasn’t signed.”

  “What do you want me to do about that?” she asks the man, who looks to be in his twenties. Perhaps a new university graduate convinced that he’s making a difference.

  “Comply.”

  “What for? You think I’m stupid like the rest?”

  “Ma’am, you seem like the most reasonable one around here.” The taller one gestures to her frame behind the burglar bars, leaving off words Verdene knows he’s thinking when he sees her lighter skin and hears her British accent. “Legally, we cannot do anything without your signature.”

  “Legally?” Verdene laughs, throwing her head back. “Did you read this?” She holds up the paper and rattles it for emphasis. “This is illegal! Your bosses are sending you out here to do their dirty work. This house belonged to my mother. I’m not signing this without a lawyer.”

  The two men glance at each other.

  “May I ask who’s in charge? I’d like to take this up with them.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Who’s in charge?” she repeats. “And stop calling me ma’am!”

  “It’s Sutton and Company,” the taller man says.

  “I want the name of the parent company. It says here that you’re a subsidiary group, but there’s no information about your affiliate.”

  “Wellington Estate, ma—I mean, miss.”

  “Wellington? Like the rum and coffee plantation?”

  “They also own properties on the coast. Alphonso Wellington is the one in charge.”

  Alphonso. The one Margot works for? The one who promoted her to general manager for his new hotel? Somewhere remote and off the beaten path, according to Margot. Verdene covers her mouth with one hand as everything takes shape in her mind. How many nights has Margot been with her, knowing that this would happen? Verdene reaches for the doorknob.

  “I—I have something on the stove, if you don’t mind,” she says. “Let your boss know that my lawyer will be in touch.”

  “Miss, we can’t—”

  But Verdene stops listening as the door closes behind her. She takes slow, careful steps toward the kitchen, seeing but unseeing. She sits at the table and cradles her pounding head in her hands. Margot knew how much this house meant to her. Not once did she let on that she was aware of the details of this development. The night when Verdene returned to the house shaking with relief from surviving the meeting at Dino’s, Margot gave her a bath. She had climbed inside the tub with her and gently cooed in her ear that it’s a sign for them to leave River Bank. “You, me, and Thandi can live together in the house I bought. For us.”

  “I’m not letting them destroy my mother’s house.”

  “You’re a property owner. You’ll get your money’s worth.”

  “I need a lawyer before I make any decisions.”

  “Why go through all that trouble to hire a lawyer and drain the life insurance money Miss Ella left you? For what? For them to read a couple pages that you can read yourself? All I’m asking is for you to trust that I can take care of you. Consider my offer. The new house is in a gated community where no one will bother us. You don’t have to suffer like you suffered here. This house might be your mother’s legacy, but our new house is ours.”

  “I need some time to think.”

  “Verdene, jus’ give it a rest.” Margot pulled her back into the tub. “Jus’ trust me.”

  Verdene begins to chuckle, clutching the edges of the table as her body gives way to trembling. Her eyes fill with tears. She had been fooled. Tricked into being vulnerable. By the type of woman who gave her the urge to sing along to the radio, feeling light and heavy at the same time. The type of woman who makes her think of rain-soaked October days in the midst of a drought. The type of woman who brought her to the kitchen—once on all fours—to lovingly cook her meals. And when they make love, the type of woman who cries as though Verdene has given her the best gift in the world. And yes, Verdene gave her everything—her whole self—and wanted for nothing. She thought that being with Margot would make up for lost years. She had begun to look forward. Verdene wipes her face. She feels old. Worn out and old. She smells something burning and remembers the pot of water for the cerassee tea. It was her mother’s favorite pot. One she has kept and cared for over the years. Verdene moves quickly to the kitchen to turn off the stove. She stands over it for a long time, peering inside the blackened interior where the water has evaporated.

  38

  WHEN JULLETTE LOOKS UP AND SEES THANDI, HER EYEBROWS furrow and her mouth twists to the side. She’s hovered over a pail, catching water from a pipe. Her face is wiped clean of the makeup Thandi saw on her at the restaurant. Once again she looks like a teenage girl, Thandi’s age. Her hair is parted in a straight line in the center and twisted into two French braids. Her loose-fitting dress billows in the wind like a parachute filling up with air, revealing a pair of long skinny legs and white cotton underwear. She holds the dress down with one hand while the other remains fixed on the standpipe. She probably made the dress herself. Thandi can tell by the slightly uneven stitching along the hem, though it is near-perfect. Jullette has been making her own clothes since Thandi can remember. She used to sketch dresses, blouses, and skirts, which she would then attempt to make from fabric given to her by Miss Priscilla, the fabric vendor (who is also Mr. Melon’s common-law wife). Miss Priscilla and Miss Violet were good friends, and when Miss Violet took sick, Miss Priscilla gave the little girl anything sh
e asked for—even if they were just scraps of material.

  “What is it yuh want?” Jullette asks. Thandi holds out her hands. It’s a humble gesture, she hopes. She needs her friend’s forgiveness before she can ask for her brother. But something about Jullette’s face lets Thandi know this might not be possible. She cuts to the chase: “I came to look for Charles. He told me that he’s staying with you.”

  “Chucky?” Jullette claps her hands together and laughs out loud. “God mus’ ah come!” Jullette says, laughing. “What in Jeezaz’ name can Thandi want wid me brother? My pickey-pickey head, dry-foot, old, crusty brother?” Jullette puts her hands on her narrow hips. They jut forward as she rests most of her weight on the enhanced parenthesis of her bowlegs. “If ah remembah correctly, he isn’t your type. So if is come yuh come fi carry him to di police station, then forget it. He’s not here.”

  “Where is he? I need to find him.”

  “Fah what? Yuh own selfish needs?”

  “We’re together, did he tell you?”

  “Him nevah mention yuh name. An’ I’m sure up until dis point, yuh neva mention his to yuh uppity friends either.”

  One of the many secrets they had shared as girls was what they’d want their future husbands to look like. Thandi never wanted a boy as dark as her to be her husband. Neither did Jullette. Thandi looks down. There is nowhere else to look, and meeting the mockery in Jullette’s eyes isn’t an option.

  “Jus’ leave us alone,” Jullette says very calmly. “You wanted nothing to do wid us, an’ now yuh coming aroun’, expecting me to trust yuh? I know what yuh really want. Money. Well, ah have news fah yuh. Charles not here. Him gone long time.” Thandi stands there with her feet planted firmly on the ground, her toes digging into the soles of her shoes. Inside, Thandi’s heart bangs against her rib cage. Charles cannot be gone. This cannot be true. Can it?

  “So yuh g’wan leave now?” Jullette puts both hands on her hips again. Thandi notices that her nails are painted red. “Likkle Miss Perfect. Yuh expec’ everyt’ing to be handed to you. Yuh nuh know struggle, don’t?” Jullette asks.