by Leone Ross
Amber felt warmth flow through her. It seemed to be concentrated in her legs. They said for each person it started in a different place. Started being Post. She unfolded a limb and gazed. The calf was strong, longer than she remembered.
Wondering, she reached out a hand, skin beaten brown and smooth. She hooked her skirt up to her thighs. For an odd moment she felt she was seeing her daughter’s thighs from decades ago, but even as the thought occurred, she dismissed it. No. These were stronger. Dancer’s thighs.
The warmth spread through and through.
‘Amber…’
She looked across. Birdie’s hair was growing back, like an animated black waterfall. It had started at her crown, wet sable. It was pouring its way down Birdie’s back. But this was not the most astonishing thing. Birdie’s face was changing. Fascinated, Amber watched the cheeks soften and fill, moulding around cheekbones that had become too sharp with alcohol and late nights and age. Birdie was shaking.
‘It happenin’, Amber? Ah can feel me face an’ me body stretchin’ –’ Birdie took her eyes from the road and sucked her breath in sharply. Her voice was a whisper. ‘Jesus Chris’, girl! Yuh look like yuh twenty-one!’
Amber wrenched at the rear-view mirror on her side. The crow’s feet were gone, spirited away like a dream. Unable to resist, she brought her hands down to the front of her blouse. Underneath the light material she could feel her heartbeat, hot beneath her skin.
‘Oh my God, Amber – it really happen like dem seh, it really happen –’
Amber realised Birdie was near tears. The Emerald wavered dangerously on the slate road. So clean now, not like the rain-filled potholes of their childhood.
‘Birdie, min’ de car…’ She felt as if she was speaking from a dream. They couldn’t stop the car now. They had said they couldn’t. She undid her blouse. Her breasts were heavy, like smooth sacks of wine. Somehow they had lifted themselves from their 101-year stoop and pressed back against her ribcage. She felt along the aureole, enjoying the wind on her naked flesh.
It was Birdie’s tone that jerked her back into reality. She knew that sound. It was like when the headmistress had given them double detention and Birdie said she wasn’t serving no detention; she had man waiting at the school gate. Her face had been set the same way: defiant and immortal.
She could feel the car slowing.
‘Amber, ah stoppin’ di car.’
A metallic voice emitted from the depths of the dashboard.
‘Warning. Sister Bernadine Collins and Sister Amber Bailey. Warning. The Emerald T4 should not drop below two hundred miles per hour. You are not at the designated stage.’
Amber gripped her arm. ‘Birdie, yuh cyan’ stop! Remember? Birdie! Is soon time!’
Birdie shook her arm off. Her newly-young mouth was twisted. ‘Ah goin’ fin’ somewhere to park. Who seh we cyan’ jus’ stop, eh? Who seh so? We could stop an’ have it all over again. Dem couldn’t find us!’
‘Birdie, t’ink what yuh doin’! The car won’t let yuh stop anyway! We would haffi jump!’
Birdie let go of the wheel. The green car exerted itself. The speedometer began to climb.
‘Automatic drive now activated. You now have one hour to your final destination.’ The mechanical voice was calm, but Birdie would not be soothed. All her hair was back, whipping richly against her face. Her eyes, Amber thought, were too bright. Birdie began to rise, one foot on the seat. She was trying to stand up.
Amber grabbed Birdie’s leg, amazed at her own reflexes. She waited for a flash of pain. There was none. Only warmth. Birdie kicked awkwardly. She was yelling. The car was going faster.
‘Nobody never try to get out! But we could! Look pon yuh! Look how yuh beautiful an’ strong! Both ah we! Dem wouldn’t fin’ us! We could jus’ disappear! Mek dem come find we inna bush!’
‘No! No! Birdie! Look at me!’
Birdie struggled, trying to get away. ‘Girl, if yuh don’t want to jump, me goin’ jump!’ Amber held onto her with grim determination. Birdie felt like an electric eel. She had touched one at the beach when she was ten. It was a baby eel, crackling, but not enough to hurt. The wind whistled past her ears. The car was going faster.
‘Birdie. Listen to me! If yuh jump out, yuh going to kill yuhself!’ She had a handful of purple material. If she could just stop her from standing. She hooked her legs around the other woman’s and tugged at the cloth with all her strength.
‘No –’
‘Birdie, ah beg yuh! Stay with me!’ Amber yanked. Birdie, who had untangled a leg, crumpled. She half fell into Amber’s lap, banging her hip on the gear shift. She began to cry. Amber stroked her hair. It was soft. Softer than any expensive wig. Birdie’s mascara was running. She still used mascara. Old time ways. She raised her face. Amber marvelled at the symmetry. She had old photographs of them together that Simone laughed at. She had thought they captured Birdie’s face. None did.
‘We only have one hour, Birdie.’ She didn’t know what to say. ‘Yuh remember de butterflies in de school yard?’
‘No.’
‘Yeah, man. Yuh remember. Yellow butterflies. Like clouds. A whole heap ah dem. Dem used to fall on yuh face an’ dead. An’ yuh would get vex.’
She smiled as Birdie chuckled into her shoulder.
‘Yes. An’ yuh would look like yuh goin’ to bawl, cause yuh know dem was goin’ to dead.’
‘Yes.’ They rocked together for a little while. The Emerald purred on.
Birdie touched her own face. ‘Is only dat me get excited, y’know.’
‘Ah know.’
‘Yuh know me did always like me looks. Me admit it, me kinda vain. An’ de idea dat me coulda have it all again. Y’know. Walk down street wid dis body, mek de man dem call out…’
‘Dem nuh even whistle dese days, Birdie. Dat is old time behaviour.’
‘Me know, me know. Just dat ah miss bein’ beautiful. Ah miss man cryin’ at me foot bottom. Yuh have a husband. Him ‘memba how yuh used to look. Me nuh have nobody. Jus’ de woman dem inna me building, an’ dem all t’ink me mad…’
Amber looked at her. ‘But dem not wrong.’
They laughed.
‘But yuh undastan’, right?’ Birdie said.
‘Of course,’ said Amber.
The metallic voice interrupted them. ‘Sister Bailey and Sister Collins. You have fifty minutes to final destination. Countdown will begin one minute before arrival. Peace be unto you.’
Birdie pulled herself upright. She put her head on one side and reached across to hold Amber’s hand. They chorused together.
‘And we know this!’
*
They watched the clock, listening to the sound of their own breathing. Amber thought that she had never really heard her own breath before. Even when meditation and breathing exercises had become compulsory at school, and she’d had to do catch-up lessons with Simone. Albert would pinch her and tell her she didn’t have a damn thing to catch up on – new-fangled indulgences.
When she walked out of the house this morning she had not looked back at his tears.
‘Well.’ Birdie shook herself. ‘Since me get back me hair an’ de car doin’ it own bloodclaaht t’ing, ah goin’ step inna de back seat an’ blow inna de breeze.’
‘Do not jump,’ Amber said.
‘Me learn me lesson.’ Birdie’s voice was contrite.
It was wondrous to see her clamber skilfully across the seats, like she was sixteen again. Amber leaned against the back of the car seat and gazed at her. The purple jumpsuit bagged at the waist and hugged too closely at the hips. It was three inches too short. Birdie had shrunk with age. Amber looked at herself in the mirror again. They had warned her that it could be confusing, disorientating, but she felt quite calm. She had never been too fond of her face anyway, supposed that it had served her, but that was all.
The car continued to purr around sharp lanes. It was getting faster. She took a deep breath and followed Birdie into the back.
Birdie tried to smile at her, her ribcage rising and falling. She was trying not to hyperventilate, trying to talk.
‘Who yuh – who yuh –’
Amber took Birdie’s hands in her own. Part of her felt serene, as if none of it was happening.
‘Calm down, sweetie. What yuh want to seh?’
Birdie gulped and her breathing steadied. ‘Who yuh love the most in your life?’ she said. The Emerald whizzed along the road. The engine sounded as if it was speaking to them.
Nearly there nearly there nearly there nearly there.
Amber smiled. ‘Albert, of course. And Simone.’ She looked away. She had hoped there would be no questions for her. It was one of the reasons she had chosen Birdie. A ride full of her oldest friend’s confessions, regrets, denouement. Then she could hide her own thoughts.
‘Me nuh believe yuh.’ Birdie struggled to sit up. Even her voice had changed. Back to the sweet tones of their high school choir.
Amber looked at the clock. Twenty minutes. And counting. She could see the sparkle of the water by the road. They were by the sea and it wouldn’t be long.
‘Sing fo’ me, Birdie,’ she said.
‘I will. Just tell me. Tell me who yuh love the most. Me know is not Albert. Every woman have a firelight in her eye fe the man who sweet her, lif’ her up. An’ yes, me know seh yuh love Albert. An’ me know yuh choose me because me woulda talk de head off a donkey. But is your time too, Amber. An’ me fling-weh my hair a’ready.’
Amber shook her head. All the nights of regrets, sleepless, longing. She had pretended for years.
‘Tell me which man yuh love the most.’
Amber laughed. It was a silver sound, lost in the wind and the unending mutter of the engine. She listened to the warmth running through her. One plait looped over her shoulder. No grey. Perhaps it was time to tell. They’d said she should not reach her destination bound by silence. She turned to look at Birdie with her soft throat and her kiss-me-yuh-fool lips and her dark, wise skin, almost purple, like the tree bark around her mother’s house.
‘Is yuh.’ The words sat between them. She felt as if something had broken inside her newly sixteen-year-old self. ‘Me love yuh since me meet yuh.’
Birdie’s face was a mixture of horror and incredulity.
‘Me love yuh since me see yuh ah cuss wid teacher in de school yard. Love yuh all de time, Birdie. Sleep over wid yuh ah night time, ah giggle ‘bout man, tell yuh how fe kiss dem.’ She closed her eyes as the warmth plunged and rose in her. ‘Remember how me tell yuh how fe kiss?’
‘Put yuh mout’ on him mout’, soft up yuh lip an’ memba fe breathe.’ Birdie sounded as if she was reciting.
The clock blinked at them.
‘Me never want to tell yuh now. Me never want it to be de las’ t’ing yuh memba ‘bout me. Mek yuh t’ink seh me ah watch yuh an’ t’ink bad t’ings… but de injection – it makin’ me warm.’ She giggled. It was like being happily drunk. ‘What a rass injection!’
Birdie put her hands up to her eyes. ‘But why yuh married? Why yuh lie? Why yuh never talk, baby? Dis is de time fe people recognise dem t’ings. Dem wouldn’t judge yuh. Not like when we was pickney.’
Amber laughed again. ‘Cause is only yuh, Birdie. An’ me did know seh yuh wouldn’t love me back.’
The Emerald smoothed its body around the corner. The sea flirted with them from a distance. Soon they would be on the sand. They could feel its urgency. The speedometer began to rise.
Birdie was crying.
‘Yuh ‘fraid, Birdie?’ She reached out for her hand. ‘Yuh ‘fraid?’
Blue nails dug into her fingers.
‘No. Is not ‘fraid. Is yuh, girl. Me cyaan stan’ it. Jesus Chris’! So yuh regret everyt’ing, yuh waste everyt’ing!’
Amber shook her head. She must make her understand. She had to yell over the wind. Streams of sand whirled around them, golden clouds.
‘All me did want to do was tell yuh. Dat’s all. Me live me life. Nuh regret nuttin’.’ She searched Birdie’s wet eyes. ‘Tell me yuh know what me mean. Me a’right. Me did jus’ wah tell yuh.’
‘Me nevah know! Me never give yuh anyt’ing!’
Amber reached out and it felt as if Birdie floated into her arms. Belly to belly. ‘Yuh was me friend, B. Dat’s all. Dat’s good.’ The car roared and she felt her heart beating. Like a yellow butterfly.
‘Sing for me, Birdie,’ she said.
Birdie raised up her voice. It was strong and long and real. An old hymn. From hot days in Sunday school.
‘You are the rose, the rose of Sharon to my heart…’
The sand obliterated the car. It was as if they were lost in a quiet storm.
‘You gave me water that refreshes me in every part… you are so beautiful…’
The sand changed around them. Kaleidoscope colours, bright as a bird’s wing filling their eyes. They held tight. And Birdie sang.
‘And I love you more than words can say…’
Amber’s final moment of consciousness was filled with the sound of Birdie’s voice, filling her eardrums as the Emerald thundered towards the Light.
‘You are my beloved and my happiness in every way…’
*
The little girl smiled hesitantly at her mother as they sat cross-legged on warm mats in the bedroom. The last of the illuminations were fading into the distance. It was the third time they had seen them in as many weeks.
‘Mamma, yuh think those lights were for the Post Ladies we saw today?’
‘Probably.’ Her mother reached out to touch her face. ‘It mek yuh sad, Ellie?’
‘No. Dem look old an’ happy.’
‘Ah t’ink dem was well happy.’ Her mother helped her into bed.
The child listened to her mother’s footsteps on the stairs. She smiled at the window as the purple lights flittered into night and a final golden bubble sank beyond the window into the sea.
MASKI-MON-GWE-ZO-OS
[THE TOAD WOMAN]
Maski-mon-gwe-zo-os sells the fatty, yellow lotion she harvests from her back and arms. She’s bald. Her legs are long, her lips pendulous. She wraps fragrant cedar belts around her distended belly and stores the lotion inside those terrific lips – beside tracts on divorce, contraceptives, homeopathic painkillers, abortifacients and tiny knives, such as a woman might slip up her sleeve on the night-bus.
‘Look at her leaping,’ they say. Soaring over men’s heads, knickerless, her breasts buoyant sacks in the breeze. She’s never killed a man, despite the warrant out for her arrest. When brave children ask what the warrant is for, Maski-mon laughs.
‘They don’t like the sound of my voice,’ she says. ‘But come, let us sing, anyway.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The Woman Who Lived In A Restaurant as a limited edition chapbook, ed. Nicholas Royle (Nightjar Press, Oct 2015) and in Best British Stories 2016, ed. Nicholas Royle (Salt, Autumn 2016)
‘The Mullerian Eminence’ in Closure, ed. Jacob Ross (Inscribe/Peepal Tree Press, UK: London, Autumn 2015)
‘Fix’ in The World To Come, ed. Om Dwivali (Australia: Melbourne, Spineless Wonders, July 2014)
‘Smile’ in Minuteman, 1st edition, ed. 12 (Awe & The Abyss, April 2013)
‘Roll It’ in Kingston Noir, ed. Colin Channer (Akashic Books: USA, May 2012)
‘Love Silk Food’ in The Best British Short Stories 2011, ed. Nicholas Royle (UK: Salt Publishing, October 2011) and in Wasafiri magazine, eds. Bernardine Evaristo and Karen McCarthy (USA, September 2010)
‘The Heart Has No Bones’ in Incommunicado, eds. Romy Ashe and Tom Doig (Australia: Express Media, May 2006)
‘Breakfast Time’ in Tell Tales, The Anthology of Short Stories, Vol. 2, eds. Rajeev Balasuramanyam and Courttia Newland (London: Flipped Eye Publishing Ltd., June 2005)
‘Breathing’ in Spoonface: A Collection of Short Fiction, ed. Clem Cairns (Ireland: Fish Publishing, 2004)
‘President Daisy’ in The Writer Fellow: An Anthology,
Oscar Wilde Centre at Trinity College Dublin, Ireland 2004)
‘Art, for Fuck’s Sake’ in Brown Sugar 2, ed. Carol Taylor (USA: Simon & Schuster, December 2002)
‘Covenant’ in Whispers in the Walls: Black and Asian Voices, eds. Leone Ross & Yvonne Brissett (UK: Tindal Street, 2001) and in Obsidian III: Literature in the African Diaspora, ed. Kwame Dawes (USA: North Carolina State University Press, 2001)
‘Drag’ in Brown Sugar: A Collection of Erotic Black Fiction, ed. Carol Taylor (USA: Dutton Plume, January 2001)
‘Mudman’ in Time Out London Short Stories, Vol. II, ed. Nicholas Royle (USA & UK: Penguin, 2000)
‘Phone Call to a Rape Crisis Centre’ in Burning Words, Flaming Images, ed. Kadija Sesay (UK: SAKS Media, 1996)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR