“I hate you, Lewis,” she hissed. She said it over and over again. Harsher. Louder. Faster.
Speechless, Lewis stood watching her, understanding her rage but thinking she was overreacting, wondering if there was anything he could do to not hear her, hoping that her eruption was some kind of spontaneous scream therapy that would leave her purged afterward so they could go back to the original issue. He swallowed his pride and put on his meekest voice and tried to get her to hear him. But it was like responding to a blitzkrieg with bows and arrows. The more he tried, the more frustrated he became, and each time that he swallowed his pride it came up again with a bitter coat of bile that made it harder to keep down.
“I hate you too,” he said limply. But she didn’t seem to hear him. It was as if she had chanted herself into a trance, like one of those Pentecostal women in the storefront church beside his father’s liquor store in Baltimore.
“IhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyou …”
Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore and he snapped.
“Fuck you,” he said. He had grown tired of taking the high road. “Fuck you, Sylvia!”
It felt good. He turned to walk away.
His hubris, though, had caught her attention. “Where are you going?” she demanded.
“Fuck you, Sylvia,” he repeated.
He stood with his back to her and she could see his shoulders heaving with rage. He sounded resolved, which upset her, because it meant that she hadn’t stung him hard enough, that he hadn’t paid the full price. Desperate to make him writhe, she concocted a mix of venom.
“Where’re you going?” she screamed. “To fuck Margaret Weir? That fucking whore you were chatting to when you had me waiting in the cold outside the Blue Note?”
Lewis turned around.
“Maybe you don’t have to pay her,” she continued. “Maybe you lent her money like you lent Ian. And what is she paying you in? Blow jobs?”
“Shut your fucking mouth!” he yelled.
She went on, retching up undigested feelings about him.
Stunned by the deluge, by its suddenness, by its volume, by its violence, Lewis stood still, although he wanted to run. Words like pompous, insensitive, selfish, snob, shallow, opportunistic, venal, and materialistic rained down on his head, until their bitterness shocked him into action.
“Me?” he shot back. “Me? Sylvia, you say all this shit about me. What about you? If I’m all this and we’re together, what does it say about you? You can’t say anything about me without saying it about yourself, Sylvia. ‘Show me your company and I’ll tell you who you are.’ Ever heard that?”
He paused and wiped saliva from the corners of his mouth.
“You’re a sorry bitch, Sylvia,” he said with a mocking laugh. “You are one sorry bitch. Talking about me like that as if—shit, you said it outta your own mouth, Sylvia: if I wasn’t who I am you wouldn’t be with me … said it with your own mouth at Claire’s …”
She began to reply but, emboldened by the obvious shift in power, he bulldozed her.
“You call Margaret a whore, Sylvia? Then what are you? A … a … a call girl? A … a … an escort? Or should I be a little literary and say strumpet … or courtesan … or … slattern? At least Margaret is honest. She sleeps with whoever attracts her, whether it be preacher or pimp. Doctor or deli clerk. You, on the other hand, choose men by rank, by position … profession, stature … status. Of course you wouldn’t be with me if I was a cop or a fireman or a … an accounting clerk. I know that. And I wouldn’t be with you if you were a word processor or a lab technician. You, though, are trying to make me feel bad for feeling this way. And I refuse. Who knows, Sylvia, maybe you want me to feel bad because you feel bad about your whorish interest in me. I don’t feel bad, Sylvia. I’m a whore and I accept that about myself. You’re a whore and you don’t. In fact you can’t.”
Sylvia got up and walked to the window, her shoulders rounded and her head slung low.
She seemed so frail to him, and he began to feel sorry for her, but his anger overrode his affection. His face bore a faint smile, but his victory felt hollow, like that of a boxer who has killed his opponent in the ring. He had to face the possibility that he had perhaps gone too far, that there were limits in even the most savage battles. So he walked over to her and stood behind her, wondering what to do next. Speak to her? Touch her? His hand reached out and touched her shoulder.
“Take it off,” she said stonily.
He kept it there, wanting to maintain some kind of connection between them.
“Take it off,” she repeated. “I’m a whore, remember. Why would you want to touch a whore?”
Earnestly wanting to defuse the tension, but wary of losing his edge, he decided to be philosophical. Maybe it was the right philosophy but just spoken in the wrong voice to the wrong person. Or maybe the air was so flammable that any admixture of right and wrong ingredients would have had the same result.
“Cause we’re both whores,” he replied.
She whipped around to confront him and her hand accidentally smacked him in the mouth, splitting his lip. And before he could stop himself he had slapped her in the face.
Whap! Bap! She took the lick and hit him back.
Then they froze. Eye to eye they stared. Neither one evincing fear, pain, or remorse, anger or love. Just resolution. Without shifting her stare, Sylvia slid the ring off her finger and pressed it into Lewis’s palm. He closed his fingers around it.
“So that’s it, huh?”
“I guess,” she answered.
They stood there for a minute. Then began to cry.
Bundled in a hooded parka, Sylvia walked him to his car, where they stood quietly as it began to sleet.
After he left she went back to her apartment and made some tea, then sat on the couch with her legs beneath her and watched TV. How long would it have taken her to leave Lewis if they hadn’t fought? she wondered. Another month? After two years of marriage? Around their seventh anniversary? Then a more immediate question arose. How would she handle the news of her breakup with Lewis? Tell people before they asked? Or could she trust them to be delicate and not inquire?
She continued to watch TV but it wasn’t distracting her enough, so she called Diego. He was out, so she called Claire.
“Can I call you back?” Claire asked as soon as Sylvia said hello. “I’m on the phone long distance with Ian.”
“Okay,” Sylvia replied. “Call me.”
When Claire mentioned Ian, Sylvia remembered that he’d sworn her to secrecy about Lewis and Margaret and the loan. Fuck, she’d broken her promise too, which was a screwed-up thing to do—understandable, but screwed-up nonetheless. She decided how to handle that situation in an instant, though: shut the hell up until something came out of it. Ian was too unpredictable.
Claire called back an hour later.
“Hello,” Claire said with a sigh, “How are you?”
Sylvia heard distress in her voice. “Okayish,” she replied, “but you don’t sound so good.”
“Sylvia, what the fuck am I gonna do with Ian? I got a call from him. He and Fire had a big fight and he … I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?” Sylvia asked, piqued by the mention of Fire’s name.
“Sylvia, I need to talk to you. My bike is in the shop and Ian may call back. Can you come over?”
Fire. The name sent Sylvia’s mind tumbling. Had she not met him, she wondered, would all of this have happened with Lewis? As the cab skimmed over the Brooklyn Bridge, the windshield wipers resembling desperate hands trying to wipe away tears, she reflected on their meeting and couldn’t help but smile. She began to think of what it was going to be like when they saw each other again. She didn’t know if he knew she was coming, and she hadn’t asked Jane, because she’d been procrastinating about facing the possibility of … well … she wasn’t sure … a number of things … danger? disappointment?
<
br /> She closed her eyes to get away from the world. When she opened them, the world was still there, appearing more eldritch than before, the reflection of nearby emergency lights oozing through the frosty, rain-streaked glass like something from the imagination of Stephen King.
Claire lived in a big apartment in a half-shabby building on a partially gentrified block in the East Village. The lights were off and the room was lit with shimmering candles.
“I’m gonna roll a J,” Claire said as Sylvia sat on an Ashanti footstool. “Want some?”
Sylvia thought for a second, then accepted. She hadn’t smoked a spliff in years.
“Take off your coat and gloves,” Claire said.
“I’m still cold.”
“Suit yourself.”
Claire sat cross-legged on a Turkish cushion and rolled the herb in tobacco leaves, talking as she worked.
“Ian and Fire got in this big fight in Jamaica … I mean a fistfight, not just words … and now they’re not talking. I asked Ian what they fought about, and he said ask you. According to him you know. So I’m asking you. He couldn’t tell me anything intelligent. I guess he was high.”
“I don’t know what Ian is talking about,” Sylvia replied.
Claire shrugged her shoulders and gave her the spliff. She took a long drag and blew the smoke through the corner of her mouth and handed it back to Claire, who savored it with a murmur.
“You want some music?” Claire asked.
“Sure.”
Claire put on some Black Uhuru and came back to her seat.
“My life is in shit,” Claire said emptily, staring through Sylvia and beyond. “I feel so betrayed. Do you know that Ian has sold pieces to Lewis behind my back?”
“No,” Sylvia replied quietly.
“Ian told me he had to get it off his chest … he couldn’t hold it anymore. I had to drop him, Sylvia. I had to drop Ian. I’ve suffered too much with him for him to do this to me. Pardon me, but nothing Lewis does surprises me.”
“I left him,” Sylvia heard herself saying.
“Gooood,” Claire replied. “I’m gonna sue them … Ian and Lewis.”
“Gooood,” Sylvia heard herself saying.
“Did you give Lewis back his ring?” Claire asked.
“Yesssss,” Sylvia replied.
“Baaaad,” Claire said. “Never give back a ring. You never know when you’re gonna be broke.”
“Truuuuue.”
“You miss Lewis, Sylvia?”
“Noooo.”
“Whyyyyy?”
“Don’t … know.”
“Still love im?”
“Nooooo.”
“Goooood … because … I’m gonna fuck im up … baaaaad.”
“Gooooood.”
“You hear that drum? That’s Sly Dunbar. Drum roll sounds like thunder. That’s the sound you hear on Judgment Day … a big drumroll … and you have to account for all the fucked-up things you do.”
“Sad … but true.”
Sylvia got back to her apartment around eleven. She felt better on the ride home than she had on the way out. She and Claire had been good for each other. They shared their feelings in a woman kind of way … tender without being sappy … open without being self-conscious … frank without being arrogant. Afraid of what might meet her eyes, she hadn’t examined her tingling face. Claire hadn’t mentioned anything, so it couldn’t be bad, she thought, as she switched on the bathroom light. There was a slight ridge about an inch long on her cheek, and a little nick where one of his fingernails must have scratched her. The subtlety of the damage was no consolation though. The man had hit her. Before this … this incident … she knew what she would’ve done to any man who laid a hand on her. She’d often recited the list in her mind. Cut off his balls. Burn him with oil. Stab him in his sleep.
As she stood there looking in the mirror now, she realized that she did not have in her the dark avenger. Nor had she known that she would feel this way—embarrassed more than angry. She reached toward the bruise. Stopped short. Held her hand an inch away and felt her skin reacting to the cooling shadow. Her lips parted like the skin of an orange, showing the white of her smile underneath, as she felt again the sting of his flesh on her palm. She’d gone toe to toe with him. That was good. For what it meant to him more than for what it meant to her. To her it meant she didn’t take shit. To him it meant the same. But she had always known this. Apparently he didn’t.
She began to undress, smiling still. Then she saw the pools of blood beneath her skin where his lips had recently trampled her shoulders. She was a part of this, wasn’t she? How could he have walked across her if she hadn’t lain down beneath him? Whyyyy?! she screamed inside. Tell me! Whyyyy? Why did you let this happen to you? Why didn’t you leave if you knew you didn’t love him? And you call Margaret a whore? What are you then? Whyyyy? She ripped open the medicine cabinet and grabbed a pair of scissors, scattering bottles and tubes, smashing jars, dispersing pills like pollen; then hacked the clothes from her body, raking her skin without flinching. Whyyyyy? She was naked now. Gathered around her like wet leaves were her clothes, soaked in Listerine and rubbing alcohol. I hate you, she thought. I really fucking do. From the scraps of cloth she fished a roach she’d brought from Claire’s … lit it with the lighter that she used for disinfecting pins and tweezers. I hate you. I hate you. I really do. She began to hear a new voice in her head. It sounded like hers but with a new inflection.
So wha you sayin … you jus bruk up wid a yute you was engage to, dat you know seh you never really love? So wha you engage fo den? Wha kine a life you did expect fe live wid him? Happy? No? So why you deh wid him fo? Me no believe dat. Come on … you is a attractive, intelligent, talented woman. You no need no man fe status. Wha bout love? Oh … ah see … you learn fe love status. But him mus did make you feel good some o’ de time though? Well, at least you being fair. But most o’de time him make you feel nutten at all is wha you sayin? And a whole heapa time him make you feel bad. So why you never leave? Security? Wha kinda security? You have a degree and a nice apartment, a likkle lump in de bank, a profession. But you did waah fe make sure you nevah lose these things … you did waah keep up … you did fraid fe slip. I see. You cyaah really explain it, nuh true? Cause you no really understan it. You cyaah even understand why me a-make dis in a big ting. Me know wah you a-tink, y’know—dat everybody dweet so is a normal thing … fe go fe status insteada love. Me can see you point, y’know. Me know how it go. It tough out deh fe de woman-dem. Man hard fe fine. And after you love plenty bad one when you young it easy fe say love no so important again when you feel age a-run you down. But tink pon it now. It did wort it? You cyaah answer? Don’t worry. Me and you know dat you know.
Her head was a cup. Her thoughts were clattering dice. Smoke pimp-rolled across her tongue in a blue-gray velvet suit.
And Fire, she thought. What will it be like to see him? What will he say when he hears my voice? How will I explain myself, my fears, my failings, without breaking down? She was standing where he’d stood that time … that time …
The alcohol fumes were stinging her nose. Questions. Questions. Tumbling like a diviner’s bones. Oh, shit. She grabbed her head. The splifftail slipped from between her fingers.
Flames flew toward her, beaks sharp and orange, like fluttering birds-of-paradise.
* * *
Fire, meanwhile, was slouched in the Land Rover outside Mr. Bartley’s bar, alone in the empty square. The headlights stared toward the horizon, a faint line between black water and black sky. It was the time of night when the sea shed its bluster and hugged the feet of the embankment and confessed with a lisp to the presence of pain, the constant prick of the broken bones of the sons and daughters of Africa. The Caribbean sea, frivolous by day, does not rest well at night. It murmurs. It whimpers. It wheezes under the weight of guilt.
A dog barked. Up on the main road a truck honked its horn. A rock-steady riff, dry and ashy like waifish feet, hop-scotched t
hrough the open door.
The sounds of the world were calling, but Fire didn’t answer.
Where was Ian? Teego and Buju were siding with him. They hadn’t said anything, but he knew. He hadn’t heard from either of them since the fight. Well, if is so, is so. You shouldn’t mash down de man so, Buju had said. Teego had just looked away and shook his head. They were simple men, he was thinking now. They didn’t understand the power of words.
He didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until he opened them. A blade of lightning chased its sound above his head. There was a crack, which had startled him; then the sky split apart like smoldering wood. It would rain soon.
Where was Ian? he wondered, as he raised the tarpaulin. Miss Gita would be home soon. He had to find her boy. That’s what he was, a boy. Maybe Buju and Teego were right. As a man, he should’ve known better. But look at what the boy had done. He’d unfettered dangerous thoughts and feelings. The letter was a pen full of perilous words, words that had roamed his mind in packs and cornered his wounded self-esteem, yelping as they sank their teeth in and pulled it down.
He was thinking of writing to her again now. Dear Sylvia, On the flight back to London I locked myself in the bathroom and cried so hard …
Dear Sylvia, If your clit was a spliff I’d smoke it …
Dear Sylvia, The only woman I’ve ever loved as much was my mother …
According to I-nelik, the two women resembled each other. That’s your mother, the dread had said, peering at Sylvia in carnival dress. They had been viewing the stolen image on the edge of a hilly grove in the back of the family land, taking shade beneath a nasberry bush beside the radioactive spring they called the Jah-cuzzi. They’d been going there since his teenage years to soak and talk and burn a stick of weed, which they treated like a sacrament for communing with nature, the living, breathing temple of God.
At the time he’d been back from London about two months, he was thinking now as he secured the canvas, and was carrying an extra thirty pounds from trying to eat away the depression that was eroding his soul. He’d been having ice cream daily, at least a quart, and had backslid to red meat, mainly pork, which he’d fry in coconut oil and smother in butter sauce and eat with buttered mashed potatoes and mounds of buttered rice. Depressed, he’d begun to lock himself away in his room. He stopped answering the phone, and stopped going out, and told Miss Gita to tell everyone he was still away in England. When he wasn’t eating he lay awake in bed, fighting sleep and memory. Sleep was more dangerous. Memory he could challenge while awake. In sleep he was defenseless. She would float on his dreams like spilled crude oil and make him cry like a drowning gull.
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