Here Comes the Sun (10 page)

M
argot watches Alphonso talking to the administrative staff in his office—the higher-ups who run his hotel resort when he's not around. Alphonso is pacing as he gives orders, looking like a boy balancing a crown on his head while walking a tight rope. Through the tilted louver windows with curtains that separate the front desk from the conference room, she can hear and see a few things—Dwight, the branch manager, clutching his pen in his tight fist as Alphonso paces before him; Simon, the activities coordinator, who is in charge of all the in-house entertainment at the hotel; Boris, the head of hotel security and a former police sergeant; Camille, Dwight's assistant, who struggles to write down every sentence coming out of the four gentlemen's mouths during the meeting; and Blacka, the accountant and Alphonso's right-hand man, looking like a pharaoh sitting with his arms folded and chest puffed, silently observing.

“Yuh t'ink I'm running a farm here? Yuh t'ink is chump-change people paying to stay at my resort?” Alphonso barks. “You are all incompetent!”

Dwight sits forward, dropping his pen. “Is who yuh t'ink yuh talking to dat way? If it wasn't fah all of us in here, this hotel wouldn't be open! Yuh father never intended fah you to take ovah . . . It was yuh brother. If Joseph never died in that car accident yuh wouldn't be no god dat you is now! He knew yuh was a disgrace! So don't you come in here now, telling us you're dissatisfied. We're not the fault why di hotel losing money!”

Alphonso pounces at Dwight and grabs him by the collar. Boris and Simon jump up to pull them apart. When he's free, Dwight fixes his tie and adjusts the collar of his pin-striped shirt as Alphonso calms himself. The other men, excluding Blacka, give Alphonso a look that reminds Margot of the way the other hotel employees look at her, when they whisper within earshot, “
Who does that Margot think she is? She act like she is some big s'maddy. Yuh see di way she walk around here like she own di place?
”

But Margot is somebody. She knows, for example, that she can do a better job than Dwight, who is a buffoon. Because of him the hotel isn't doing well. His fancy degree, expensive suits, and luxury cars don't hide the fact that he's incompetent. What makes Dwight favorable is the fact that he's Alphonso's second cousin and went to private school with him at Ridley College in Canada. Margot knows deep down that no hotel would've hired Dwight had it not been for his Wellington family name—Dwight, who shows up late, flashing his watch and telling others to be on time; Dwight, who overlooks complaints and any details having to do with the comfort of the guests; Dwight, who leaves the majority of the work to his assistant, Camille—who in Margot's opinion wastes her time every evening sitting on his lap. Poor girl chose the wrong Wellington to screw.

Margot returns to her seat at the front desk with Kensington. She can barely concentrate on checking people into the hotel.

“What yuh t'ink dey saying?” Kensington asks her. She's whispering.

“It's none of our business,” Margot snaps.

“You an' him not friend?” Kensington asks.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Margot whips around to face a brazened Kensington. The girl shrugs. “You know . . . him laugh up, laugh up wid yuh sometimes. So I thought oonuh was friends.”

The girl looks down at the surface of the desk in front of her, drawing heart-shaped patterns with her finger. She's rail-thin with a height on her, always fidgeting with the waistband of her uniform skirt, which is too wide, though it hangs well above her knees. Had it not been for her high color, Kensington wouldn't be considered beautiful. Or even be considered for the job. The girl was hired as a part-time secretary last summer after graduating from high school, but ended up staying longer. Now she thinks she has a right to make assessments about Margot and Alphonso's relationship.

“Just continue to do yuh work, Kensington,” Margot says, in the authoritative voice she uses when wielding her seniority.

“How do you do it?” Kensington's tiny voice pierces the uncomfortable silence that follows Margot's order.

“How do I do what?” Margot asks.

Behind Kensington's head the palm trees blow wavelike in a breeze that brings the smell of the sea inside the open lobby. Margot is grateful for this breeze, for it cools her boiling blood as she watches Kensington stringing her words together.

“People are talking. Russ, Gretta, an' all ah dem.”

Margot cuts her off before she can list every one of the lower staff—the maids, the cooks, the groundsmen—people who begrudge her because she sends Kensington to buy her patty and cocoa-bread at lunchtime from Stitch so that she doesn't have to pass by them and get into their idle gossip about management.

“Do me a favor, Kensington?” Margot says, her voice as bittersweet as molasses.

“What's that?” the girl asks, looking at Margot with hopeful eyes that incense Margot even more. She resists the urge to slap the girl. Instead, Margot issues a warning. Or more like a sound piece of advice. “If yuh want to stay here for a long time, then mind yuh own business,” she says.

With that Margot cuts her eyes and turns to the window behind them. Alphonso is unpredictable, so she imagines the executive office watching him closely like a ticking bomb. Suddenly the door flies open and Alphonso marches out.

“Gimme that manila folder over there!” he demands, pointing to the hidden file cabinet where there are over a hundred manila folders—all of which are going to be entered into a secure computer system to keep records of the hotel finances and guest information. Murphy is bringing the computers in tomorrow. All five Gateway computers are being shipped from America. Kensington springs up to find the folder Alphonso is referring to. She hesitates when she sees that all of them are identical. Asking Alphonso to clarify would reveal her incompetence.

He's drumming his fingers on the counter and glances at his gold Rolex. His platinum wedding band glistens on his cream hand. “Am I going to wait here all day?”

Margot steps in seamlessly, subtly. It's she who moves to give Alphonso the folder. She has been fingering it all along, knowing he would need it in this meeting. It has all the budget information she helped him compile. As she gives Alphonso the folder, their hands touch. They pause, suspended like two birds holding the ends of the same worm. Margot clears her throat and takes her hand away. She smoothes her skirt over her thighs as though she has been caught with it inched up to her waist. Like the day they got caught in the conference room—the only time Margot has ever been inside it.

“You're welcome!” she says to Alphonso too loudly, though he says nothing. When he returns to the executive office, Margot rests her chin in her palm. Kensington clears her throat.

“What?” Margot asks.

“Nothing,” Kensington says.

“Ah thought so.”

6

O
N HER WAY TO WORK, DELORES NOTICED THE BARREN FRUIT
trees, the wilting flowers, and the brown, brittle grass all sucked dry. Dogs were lying on their sides with their tongues out, goats leaned against the sides of buildings and fences, and cows moved about with exposed rib cages, gnawing on sparse land. Children crowded around standpipes to bathe or drink from the little water that trickled out; the younger ones sat inside houses on cardboard boxes, sucking ice and oranges, while some accompanied their mothers to the river with big buckets. Meanwhile, idle men hugged trees for shade, or took up residence at Dino's, pressing flasks of rum to their faces.
God is coming after all
, Delores thought.

But while the God-fearing people become intent on staking their claim in heaven, crying, “Jesas 'ave mercy!,” Delores prepares for another day of work. For money has to be made. With the sun comes that heat. They go hand in hand like John Mare and his old donkey, Belle. Delores fans herself with an old
Jamaica Observer
. Her bright orange blouse is soaked with sweat, like someone threw water and drenched her under the armpits, across the belly, all the way down to her sides. Two other vendors couldn't take the heat, so they packed up their things and went back home. The rest, including Delores, sucked their teeth: “Dem really aggo give up a day's work because ah di heat? Ah nuh Jamaica dem born an' grow? Wah dem expec'?”

Delores wipes the sweat off her face with a rag she tucks inside her bosom. She prepares for business as usual. Mavis, who has the stall next to Delores, is fully covered from head to toe. She reminds Delores of one of those Muslim women she sees sometimes—on very rare occasions—walking in the square with their faces covered.

“Di heat is good fi yuh skin. Mek it come quicker,” Mavis says, adjusting the broad hat on her head. Delores fans away the woman, who has been trying different skin-lightening remedies since Delores has known her. Delores has already dismissed the woman as off. Like Ruby, who used to sell fish and is currently selling delusions to young girls who want more than apron jobs. Poor souls think a little skin-lightening will make the hoity-toity class see them as more than just shadows, slipping through cracks under their imported leather shoes.

“Why yuh nuh try drink poison while yuh at it?” Delores asks the woman.

Mavis rolls her eyes. “If me was as black as you, Delores, me woulda invest me money inna bleaching cream. Who want to be black in dis place? A true nobody nuh tell yuh how black yuh is.”

“Kiss me ass, gyal! An' g'weh wid yuh mad self!” Delores throws down the old newspaper.

Just then John-John—the young dread whom Delores has known since he was a boy who helped his mother sell goods at the market—stops by with a box of the birds he carves out of wood. He was always creative—ever since Delores has known him—making keepsakes from scraps to occupy his time, since he didn't go to school. Because he and Margot were playmates, Delores has treated him more like a son. Now a grown man supporting children of his own, he makes birds, which he gives Delores to sell for him and collects half of what she makes from the sales. He sees the women arguing, sees his opportunity, and seizes it by defending Delores. “Ah, wah Mavis do to you, Mama Delores? Here, let me handle it. G'weh, Mavis, an' leave Mama Delores alone. Yuh nuh have bettah t'ings fi do? Like count out di ten cents yuh get fi yuh cheap t'ings dem? Yuh son sen' yuh money from America, an' yet yuh stuck inna dis place?”

Mavis whips around to face him like a player caught in the middle of a dandy-shandy game. “A an' B having ah convahsation. Guh suck yuh mumma, yuh ole crusty, mop-head b'woy!”

But John-John puts down his boxes of birds, a grin on his face as though he's enjoying this exchange. “Every Tom, Joe, an' Mary know dat yuh don't get no barrel from America. A lie yuh ah tell. When people get barrel from America dem come moggle in dem new clothes.” He struts in the little space between them to mimic models on a runway. “But yuh still dress like a mad'ooman, an' yuh look like one too wid dat mask 'pon yuh face!”

The other vendors in the arcade erupt in boisterous laughter, their hands cupped over their mouths, shoulders shuddering, and eyes damp with tears. Mavis adjusts her hat, and touches her screwed-up face with the bleaching cream lathered all over it like the white masks obeah women wear. “A true yuh nuh know me,” she says, her mouth long and bottom lip trembling. “My son send me barrel from foreign all di time. Ah bad-mind oonuh bad-mind!”

“Nobody nah grudge yuh, Mavis,” Delores says. “John-John jus' saying dat it nuh mek sense if di clothes dat yuh son sen' from America look like di ugly, wash-out clothes yuh sell. American clothes not suppose to look suh cheap. There's a discrepancy in what's what!” The other vendors' laughter soars above the stalls, flooding through the narrow aisles where the sun marches like a soldier during a curfew. Delores continues, “Is not like yuh t'ings sell either. Usually di tourist dem tek one look, see di cheap, wash-out, threadbare shirt dem then move on. Not even yuh bleach-out skin coulda hol' dem!”

“G'weh!” Mavis says. “Yuh only picking on me because yuh pickney dem don't like yuh!” Satisfied after delivering the final blow, Mavis retreats into her stall with a smirk Delores wishes she could slap away. But she can't move fast enough; John-John is already holding her back. Her hands are frantically moving over John-John's shoulder, wanting to catch the woman's face and rip it to shreds. That smirk holds the weight of scorn, of judgment. She should never have told Mavis that morning that her birthday came and went without a card from either Thandi or Margot. Well, she didn't expect a card from Margot, but Thandi should've remembered. Every year Thandi gives her something—last year it was a necklace made of small cowrie shells; the previous year were petals from dried flowers used to decorate the inside of a card; the year before that was a bracelet with coral beads strung by yarn. And this year, nothing. Setting up her items took longer than usual at the beginning of the week. She's always the first to have everything presented well enough for the tourists to come by, but this week she struggled with the simplest task of covering the wooden table with the green and yellow cloth. One of the figurines had fallen, breaking in half during setup. Delores felt off. The thought of spending the entire day selling made her feel like she was carrying an empty glass and pretending to have liquid in it. She confided this to Mavis, because she wanted someone to talk to at the time. How she has been selling for years and has never felt this way. How Margot, and most recently Thandi, couldn't care less if she dies in this heat a pauper. And in the heat of this very moment, Mavis has called her out. Mavis—with her crazy, lying, bleaching self—knows that Delores's children hate her. Mavis—the woman with nothing good to sell and who can never get one customer to give her the time of day—knows Delores's weakness. That smirk Delores itches to slap off her face says it all; and even if Delores succeeds in slapping the black off the woman (more than the bleach ever could), it won't erase the fact that Mavis probably has a better relationship with her son than Delores will ever have with her daughters.