by Amanda Smyth
One time, a guard with a pointed face and a light tan asked everyone to step outside the car. Helen Rodriguez quickly got out, looking worried. She took Consuella from me, and held her hand like a shade over her daughter’s head. The sun was very bright and the glare made it hard to see. Joe took his father’s hand and we all stood alongside the shiny car. The guard looked at everyone, but he was particularly interested in me. He asked where I was from and what I did for a living. Was I a servant? The way he said “servant” made me feel uncomfortable.
I didn’t know how to answer him. “Not exactly, sir.”
Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez said, “She works for us and she lives with us.”
“Where would that be, sir?”
“St. Clair.”
“Which street? Near the square? The college?” He fired the words like pellets.
“Mary Street.”
“Yes, I know Mary Street, sir. It’s a very nice street.”
Then, it was as if Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez suddenly realized something, that the guard wanted to know where I lived for other reasons, and that this interrogation had nothing to do with security.
“I think that’s enough, don’t you?” Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez’s tone was sharp, and it must have surprised the guard.
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
Next thing, we all got back in the car, the barrier lifted, and we drove off.
THE HARBOR WAS wide and full of boats. We parked in a shaded place, and while Joe looked for Vishnu, the skinny Indian boy who took care of the boat, we got everything out of the car. Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez called Vishnu “Missing Ball” because like a missing ball no one could ever find him. He was either in the hut, or talking to someone on the jetty, or cleaning fish, or washing down the boat, which was a small, brightly painted pirogue called Sapodilla. The first time I saw it, I didn’t know how we would all fit, but there was plenty of room.
The sea was blue at first and it was often choppy. Carrera Island stuck out of it like the back of an animal. There was a prison on the island. It looked old and broken down, and I wondered what it must be like to live there. William told me prisoners on Carrera Island were so hungry they ate rats.
“How do they kill them?” I asked.
“They jump on them and beat them with their hands.”
“How do they cook them?”
“They strip them, put the meat on the iron bars, and roast it in the sun. Rat is like chicken,” William said. “Rat is better than dog. You know how many restaurants cook dog and rat and call it chicken?” He said the prison was much worse than Port of Spain jail because no one went there to inspect it, it was too far away.
“No one goes there to see anybody.”
I said, “Yes, why would they.”
“Carrera is the worst place you could end up. A terrible place. Better they hang you than stick you in there.”
We crossed the first Boca and entered Monos Bay. Beyond we could just see Huevos and Chacachacare, the island of lepers. Before we reached Monos it looked like there was nothing on our part of the island at all. It was very green. After a few minutes we saw houses scattered here and there. We often saw people in the houses, sitting on the porch, drinking and talking, and their children played in front or swam in the sea. A lot of people had second homes here. Avalon was hidden behind a piece of land that jutted out and the boat had to tilt and curve around it. The house was pink and large. It had a concrete veranda and a wall went around it, and there were steps that led down to the bay. The water here was green and calm.
We carried everything onto the small jetty and Joe ran up the steps behind his father, who opened up the doors of the house. Vishnu helped us, although sometimes Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez told him not to bother. I watched the boat turn and disappear and leave behind a white frill in the water, and I always felt the same thing—we could die here and no one would find us for days.
I unpacked the food; usually Marva had made pilau or baked fish or stew chicken. There were vegetables and rice and she always made a cake—ginger or chocolate—and she also made biscuits that had a lot of butter in them. She made lime juice and orange juice and put the juices in large bottles. There were always some basic provisions in the house. Helen Rodriguez said it was better to prepare food and bring it. Apart from anything else, the stove was temperamental. I served lunch on the long, thin table. While everyone ate, I made up the beds, dusted the bedrooms, and washed out the shower rooms.
My bedroom was downstairs. It was a small room with a window above the bed. There was a clump of banana trees right outside and I could stand on my bed and lean out and pick a banana. But once when I was outside, at the back of the house, I saw something crawling where the figs grew. The spider was like a man’s hand. I had never seen a spider like it. It was dark brown and hairy and its fat body was puffed up as if it had just eaten something. From then on, I slept with the window closed, even though it made the room hot. I left the door open to let the sea air in.
In the afternoons, we sat in the large drawing room. Joe took out a jigsaw puzzle and we put it on the table, or we played dominoes, or cards. Upstairs, Helen Rodriguez rested in her room. Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez also went upstairs, or he stayed and read his medical journal that came every month from America, until he fell asleep. The sea air made me sleepy, too. If everyone was resting, I went in my room and lay down; there wasn’t much else to do.
Around four o’clock, I made tea. Then Joe and I went for a walk, usually behind the house. The land here was overgrown. There were stone steps and they were old and crumbling but we still climbed right up, into the back. The bush was thick and wild and full. Joe liked standing on the top of the hill. From there we could see the bay and Heuvos and Chacachacare, and they were blue-gray, and beyond them were the paler hills of Venezuela. Once when we were there, I told him about the tiger cats that roamed in those parts.
“Their paws are enormous.” I made a big shape with my hands.
“Really?” he said, and he looked around and down the craggy hillside.
“A tiger cat has a sweet tooth and a particular fondness for milk.”
“Tigers can kill you, right?” His round face was serious.
“They won’t kill you but they might creep into your house and lie down in your bed and sleep, or steal into the pantry and take food, cakes, and cream and biscuits.”
“How do you know?”
“My schoolteacher Miss McCartney told me so. They arrived with Warahoons in canoe boats from Venezuela.”
Joe liked to hear about these things, but I had to be careful. Next thing he would tell his mother and she’d say I was filling his head with lies and superstition.
ONE LATE AFTERNOON, when we were coming back down the hill, and the sky was deep blue with yellow and orange streaks, we heard voices. Through the leaves, I saw Helen Rodriguez standing at the kitchen window. She said, “Celia, Celia,” as though she wasn’t sure it was me. Then, “We have guests, could you come now,” and she said “now” as if I had done something wrong. I hurried down the steps. I was surprised to see her so red-faced and worried. She was pouring rum and juice in a silver flask and then shaking it up. There were little drops of sweat on her forehead. “They arrived about ten minutes ago. We couldn’t find you. I’m making cocktails.”
While sailing around the islands, the Smith family from San Fernando had seen the house and decided to stop by. Charles Smith had known Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez when he was a student in medical school. Charles had gone on to become a gynecologist. He had been to Avalon once before, some years ago, and was pleased that he had remembered where it was. He was with his wife and his parents. The young woman was very attractive; her long dark hair reached her tiny waist. When I took in a tray of drinks, Charles Smith had his arm around her and he was playing with the ends of her hair. She was telling Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez how they met and I could see that he was interested in her story. Helen Rodriguez was sitting opposite, looking at the woman as if, for some
reason, she hated her.
Later, I took in shrimps and a bowl of dipping sauce. Apart from Helen Rodriguez, everyone seemed glad of them, and Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez told me to mix more drinks and I did. His wife said she didn’t want any punch, just a glass of water.
Soon there was a lot of laughter coming from the veranda. Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez was telling a story about a professor who was terrified of snakes; how one night, he and Charles found a dead boa constrictor in the road. They took the dead snake into the lecture theater and draped it around the lectern like a scarf. When the professor saw it he passed out. At this point, Helen Rodriguez said, “You might have killed him. I suppose that would be funny too.” Everybody stopped laughing and looked at her. Then she got up and went inside.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Smith came to the kitchen. I said Mrs. Rodriguez had probably gone upstairs to put Joe to bed, which was true. They left.
Next day, it was midmorning, and we were all outside when Helen Rodriguez came out in her red nightdress and sat on the veranda wall. As usual, the sky was bright and sunny. There were a lot of leaves on the veranda, big leaves from the almond trees. They had blown down the hill. I was sweeping them into a heap and putting them in a bag. Then I started wiping down the chairs; the sea blast made them sticky. Joe was climbing down the steps into the sea. He called, “Come in, Mother. The water’s lovely. Please.”
But she did not want to swim. Her head was already aching from the sun. She was sitting at the edge of the water, with her feet tucked underneath her. She looked pale and out of place. To no one in particular she said, “Doesn’t it seem hotter than ever today?” Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez didn’t say anything. He took off his shirt and trousers and threw them over a chair. He was wearing navy blue swimming trunks.
“I’m coming to get you,” he shouted to Joe. And he dived into the sea and Joe screamed, and then started swimming away.
Helen Rodriguez said, “Please, Emmanuel, don’t frighten him.” But he didn’t hear her.
I went to the steps and watched his shape moving quickly underwater. Joe’s little legs kicked hard, his arms slapped down on the water. His father came up for air and, again, ducked underwater. He grabbed Joe’s ankle and the boy screamed and wriggled like a fish on a hook and soon he was laughing and screaming and splashing.
Helen Rodriguez seemed to be watching her husband and her son, but as far as I could tell, she was staring at nothing. She was sitting in the same position without moving, as if she was made from stone. I was about to ask if she was all right. But then she fell into the sea. She fell like someone who has died. Facedown into the green water and her blond hair fanned out and her white limbs flopped down and her nightdress puffed out like a red balloon. I shouted something, I don’t remember what, and Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez heard me shout. I jumped in, right where she was sinking or drowning, and I pulled at her heavy body, and I knew it was heavy because it wanted to go down. I looked at her face under the water and it did not look like Helen Rodriguez. It was deathly white like coral and her pale eyes seemed to say, Let me be. I put my arm around her throat and pulled her up, and with my other arm, I reached out and held on to the side of the wall. By the time I lifted up her head—heavy and soft like a big fruit, and she gasped at the air, Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez was there.
I got out of the water, and ran into the house to get towels. When I came back, he was kneeling beside his wife, and she was sitting on a chair, holding her head. Her nightdress was sticking to her and she was so thin I felt sorry for her. Joe was sitting on the ground with his hands over his face so I could only see his eyes. She said she didn’t know what happened, she just felt her head spinning and lost her balance. She was feeling much better now. “Thank God for Celia,” and she laughed. When she wrapped a towel around her and went inside, I thought she seemed okay.
Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez ran his fingers through his hair. He looked concerned. Then he stood up, and for the first time I noticed his hands, neck, and face were much darker than the rest of his body. I thought, You are a white man; without your clothes you are thinner than I would have imagined. And then I wondered why I was thinking about how white or thin or fat he was.
WE WERE SUPPOSED to stay another night at Avalon, but after Helen Rodriguez went inside, and we were all drying off in the sun, we heard her call out. I looked back at the house. She was standing tall and straight on the balcony. The ledge around the bottom of the balcony made her look as if she was floating. She said, “I want to leave.”
Alone, Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez made his way around the other side of the island, first by swimming, and then climbing through the dense foliage, over the ridge, to the only other inhabited house, where—luckily—the owner was able to lend him a boat to carry us all back to the mainland.
Later Marva told me that madam didn’t like having guests in her house, and that’s probably why the whole thing happened.
“You never notice how empty this place is. And the doctor knows plenty people. Madam doesn’t like to entertain. She doesn’t like people in her home. You ask William, he knows about this.”
Then Marva said, “As long as it had nothing to do with you.”
“Why would it have anything to do with me?”
WE NEVER WENT back to Avalon.
FIFTEEN
ONE MORNING DURING BREAKFAST, DR. RODRIGUEZ brought in the mail as usual, and while sorting through it, he got up and passed me a letter. I knew at once it was from Aunt Tassi; I recognized Vera’s careful and neat handwriting. The envelope had been stamped at the general post office in Scarborough.
He said, “Good news, I hope.”
I said, “Yes, sir. I’m sure of it,” and put it in my apron pocket.
I kept the letter for a week before I opened it.
Dear Celia,
Thank you for your telegram. It was in the house for two months. Uncle Roman put it somewhere and forget to tell me.
I am happy you are okay. When Uncle Roman told me the things you said that day, that you hated me, that I had never been a mother to you, and how you hated your cousins because they were spoiled, and then I saw you took the money I’d been saving all this time, I was very sad. But I start to worry when we didn’t hear anything for so long. Celia, no matter what you think I always did my best.
Love, Aunt T
That night, I took the letter, went outside, and sat on the bench outside my room. I read it again. Then I looked up through the branches of the trees to the sky and it was black and empty as if there was nothing there. There were no stars and no planets and no piece of a moon. Everything was still as if it was a picture I was looking at. And for the first time since I had left Black Rock, I started to cry.
I cried for all the bad things that had happened to me. For what Roman did. I cried for when I had yellow fever; I cried for living with a family I didn’t know. I cried for Aunt Tassi and her ignorance. For my dead mother and for my English father, wherever he was. I cried for Vera and Violet, who, like me, didn’t know their real father, but worse than me, had Roman Bartholomew for a father. Aloud, I said, “They even call him daddy.” I cried for Alexander Rodriguez. I cried for the future. I cried for all the things that Mrs. Jeremiah had warned me about; for the hard life I would make for myself. At last, the river that ran to and from my heart had burst its banks.
SO WITH ALL this, I didn’t hear Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez come into the yard. I didn’t know he was there until he was suddenly standing in front of me. He gave me a fright and I got up at once. The light from my room fell across his face; he looked different.
“What is it, Celia? I heard you from inside the house.”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” I wiped my eyes, and looked down at the ground.
Then he said, “Celia, please sit,” and I noticed that he didn’t say it in the same way as when I first came to the house and we were in the living room and he showed me a list of chores. He didn’t say it in the way a man speaks to a girl, or in the way that a master speaks
to a servant, or an employer speaks to an employee. He said it in a way that a man speaks to a woman. In a way I didn’t recognize. I didn’t know what to do, so I sat down on the bench with my back straight and without looking at him.
“Is it something in the letter? Is it something someone said to you? Are you unhappy here?” I could feel his eyes all over me, searching like two police lights.
He pulled a strand of hair from my cheek where it was stuck and tucked it behind my ear. My back stiffened. And then he turned my face toward him. I must have looked at him as if he was mad but it didn’t seem to make any difference to what happened next.
“You are quite lovely when you are sad,” he said, and put his face against my neck and his thick hair fell against it. I could smell Bay Rum. This was his smell; the woody, spicy smell I knew to be his; I caught it first thing in the morning at breakfast. It lived in his office. Sometimes, when he had been holding Consuella, I smelled it on her skin. He didn’t look at me when he said, “For months I have wanted to tell you how lovely you are. I hope I don’t alarm you.” If he had looked at me, he would have seen that I was extremely alarmed. So much so I could not speak. I could not move. I said to myself, What is this? What is this going on here? Then a light spilled over the yard and I got up. Standing outside my room, in the half-light, Dr. Emmanuel Rodriguez looked at me as if we knew each other very well. I wanted to say, I don’t know you. I thought I knew you, but I don’t know you at all.
I COULDN’T SLEEP.
The following morning I got up early and laid the breakfast table. I was glad to see William. In the doorway, while he put on his yard boots, I asked him about his mother. I wanted to know if the rain had flooded the hill like before. And what about Solomon, I hadn’t seen him in a couple of weeks, and were there any breadfruits growing at the back of the house. William was surprised. Smiling, he asked how come I want to know so much now when he’s here every day. I told him I had been meaning to ask him these things but I hadn’t had a chance; it didn’t mean I hadn’t been thinking about them.