Here Comes the Sun (22 page)

“When do you think they'll be done?” she asks.

“By Christmas, maybe. Definitely by high season. More tourists come then.”

“How long ago did they start?”

Charles shrugs his shoulders. “'Bout March, thereabout.”

Where Thandi lives—the part farthest from the fork along the Y-shaped river—there is no construction activity going on. There's also no indication that what happened to Little Bay will happen to River Bank too. After all, River Bank is scrunched under the nose of a hill and the river overflows when it rains. It's not exactly a tourist attraction like Martha Brae, Black River, or Rio Bueno. Also, the beach won't be ideal for amateur swimmers, since one can easily drown if not aware of Pregnant Heidi's wrath.

“They been coming around, giving out papers,” he says.

She's sitting Indian-style with her hands on her knees, her uniform skirt falling between them, and her head turned. She fixes her eyes on the arches above her head.

“Papers?” she asks.

Charles shrugs again. “I guess for the bulldozing noise. Mama can't get rest wid all di banging and drilling.”

“We don't hear that from where we are,” Thandi says, feeling panic for the first time. She thinks back to the workmen she has noticed whenever she's over by Miss Ruby and Charles's side of the river, which is closer to the sea and fishing boats. It never occurred to her that the men were building so close. They always seemed so far. “Do you ever think they'll kick us out?” she hears herself ask.

“That won't work,” Charles says, his voice laced with something that makes Thandi suspect he has given it thought. “That wouldn't happen. We'll burn dem out first. What right do dey have fi kick people outta dem own place? Me tired of di government an' how dem mek we country open to foreigners wid money. Wah 'bout di people? If dey evah try fi get rid ah we, me will show dem who dem dealing wid.”

He focuses on her. “Yuh not hot?” He asks. “Why yuh wear dat long sweatah every day?”

Thandi looks down at her sweatshirt as though noticing it for the first time.

“Take it off,” Charles says. “It's all right, di sun not g'wan bite yuh in here.”

Very hesitantly, Thandi peels the sweatshirt over her head. She feels Charles watching her. He watches her lower the sweatshirt to the floor. “Yuh can't tek that off too?” he asks, eyeing the plastic wrapping that is still on her arms under her white uniform blouse.

“I'm not supposed to.”

“Says who?”

“Miss Ruby.”

“Why?”

“It makes my skin come faster.”

Charles sucks his teeth. “Yuh how I feel 'bout dat already.” He studies her. “I told yuh dat you're beautiful.”

She wishes that there were some kind of a distraction, but there isn't anything other than the transparent veil of silence, until he says, “My ole man was a artist. Ah eva tell yuh dat? Him use to paint everything him could get him hands on. People used to commission him to paint designs on buildings. But when him was by himself, he painted the river. Dat's all him use to paint. Dat river.” Charles looks across the yards of sand where their footprints still are, tracing them back to the river. “See how it shape? Like a Y? He would tek him pencil an' draw suh.” He moves his hand in the air to imitate the movement of drawing. “Then him would go street an' get equipment an' come back. The river was his muse. Mama always used to seh dat di river was him woman.” Charles laughs at this, and Thandi laughs with him. “When him go fish, sometimes he stay out there an' just paint pon cardboard box or paper. Then when him p'dung the paper, him would just stare out into the sea as if waiting for freedom to come.” He looks at Thandi. “If yuh ask me weh all him painting is now, I wouldn't know.”

Thandi lets the waves do the talking. She knows the story. All of River Bank knows. On the canvases of people's minds they have already painted Asafa as a selfish man who left his family behind; their wagging tongues have colored him red in the imaginations of those who never met him.

“Dat's all right, though,” Charles says. “He taught me a lot.”

T
he next day they spend time together inside Charles's shack. Thandi, having told Delores she needs to study outside the house for the day, needs a change. Her books rest untouched on the floor. Charles sits beside Thandi on the mattress, looking at her sketchpad. Thandi shifts uncomfortably as he studies each portrait she has painstakingly drawn for her project. He laughs when he recognizes the drawings: a drawing of Miss Gracie clutching her Bible; Mr. Melon walking his goat; Little Richie in the old tire swing; Macka sitting on the steps of Dino's, watching a game of dominoes with a bottle in his hand; the women with the buckets on their heads on their way to the river; Miss Francis and Miss Louise combing their daughters' hair on the veranda; Mr. Levy locking up his shop; Margot hunched over stacks of envelopes on the dining table with her hands clasped and head bowed like she's praying. She blushes when he gets to a drawing of himself by the river. When he finishes, in his best British accent he says, “I am truly honored, madam, for having this pleasure of seeing your genius.” He gives her a slight bow and she laughs, finally at ease. More seriously, he says, “Yuh is di real deal.”

“Yuh think so?”

“One hundred percent,” he says. “I like di drawings of di people. Ah like how yuh mek dem look real.”

“They are real.”

“Yeah, but you give us more. I don't know if ah making any sense. What's di fancy word yuh use fah when yuh can see inside ah person an' know dem life story?”

Thandi shrugs.

“You'll definitely win dat school prize,” Charles says, tugging her arm. When he says it, the words stroke something inside her. Charles closes the book between them.

“You didn't mind me drawing you without notice?” Thandi asks.

“Mind?” Charles guffaws.

After their night at the construction site she forced herself to study the words in her textbook, but all she could think about was Charles. Over dinner she pined for him. Her appetite for her favorite meal, tin mackerel and boiled bananas, vanished. The untouched food agitated Delores, who looked at Thandi as though she had taken sick at the table. Thandi finally fell into bed, exhausted from fantasies and unable to smell his smell in the towel she kept under her pillow.

“Yuh really passionate about dis drawing t'ing,” he says.

“It's not a thing.”

“Yuh know what ah mean.” Then, after a pause, he says, “When yuh g'wan tell yuh mother an' sister the truth?”

Thandi shrugs, his question gripping her in a way she didn't expect. “Margot is going to kill me if I tell her I'm considering art school. She was upset that I didn't drop art.”

“Give har time,” he says, his teeth parting to reveal the pink flesh of his tongue.

“She already put her foot down,” Thandi says. “Everything for her is about sacrifice.” She rolls her eyes. “I think she enjoys telling me what I should do with my life, as if she's trying to live it for me. Meanwhile, she's at the hotel, where all the jobs in this country are. I'm supposed to be the one to go to medical school and come out a distinguished pauper, while she makes all the money from tourism.”

“Is that why yuh rebelling?”

Thandi looks up. “Who says I'm rebelling? I'm not your little sister's friend anymore. I'm a woman now.” Charles raises his brow.

There is something urgent building inside her. She doesn't know where it rises from—this occasional burst of fire inside her chest. She goes over to where Charles sits and stoops before him. Charles remains silent as though he knows her mission and has agreed to be her accomplice. To leap into the fire. She brings her face to his and their lips touch.

She unbuttons her shirt for him. One by one the buttons slide from the holes. The bleached turpentine hue of her chest, smooth with the elevated roundness of her breasts, which are small and full, tapering off at nipples the shade of tamarind pods. Charles stares at her breasts wrapped like HTB Easter Buns in the Saran Wrap plastic. He regards them for what seems like a long time, as though trying to convince himself of something. He's blinking rapidly. She waits for him to do something, anything. To rip the plastic off so that she can finally breathe, to put his mouth to the small opening in her nipples where she hopes milk will flow someday for a child. All she needs is release. But it's his silence that grows, shaming her. He contemplates her with the compassion of a priest. She feels herself shrinking under his assessment of her.

“Put yuh clothes back on,” he says.

“Why?”

“Jus' put it back on.”

Charles raises himself up from the bed as though to get away from her as quickly as possible. He's no longer looking at her. She blinks back tears. She sits on the edge of the mattress, listening to the grunting hogs in the yard and the barking dogs and Old Man Basil selling brooms and cleaning brushes made of dried coconut husks. “
Broom! Broom!
” Every sound exacerbates the awkward silence inside the shack, where Thandi buttons her blouse, her back to Charles; and the flame glows inside her still.

16

M
ARGOT FOLLOWS MISS NOVIA SCOTT-HENRY TO ONE OF THE
on-site restaurants where the woman often dines alone. She knows this because it's the fourth time she has trailed Miss Novia Scott-Henry here. Margot pretends to have things to finish up at work so she can be the last one to see the woman leave, the click of her keys sounding in the whole lobby. It's one of the best restaurants in the hotel—one that requires guests to make reservations days in advance. It's a fancy place with white tablecloths, sterling silver utensils wrapped in red cloth napkins, and violin music playing “Redemption Song” in the background. But Miss Novia Scott-Henry doesn't need reservations to dine in the company of visitors, mostly couples. Alphonso has promised to take Margot here, but that promise—like the other promise he has made—has never come to pass.

Here, the waiters are graceful, carrying trays on upturned palms, necks dutifully elongated, chins jutted upward, and smiles pasted to their faces like ivory-colored masking tape. Miss Novia Scott-Henry is led to a booth in the back. Tonight the patrons are dressed down, but still regal—men in nice light-colored shirts and women in long maxi dresses with floral patterns. Miss Novia Scott-Henry is dressed as though she's going to a business function, in a severely tailored red pantsuit. She is tall, a hibiscus in a weed garden. The waiters fuss over her, and other diners look to see what all the fuss is about. They are excited to see up close for the first time the big hazel eyes that light up the tourism billboard ads, and the golden-honey-toned skin on every moisturizing commercial, including Queen of Pearl crème, which is all the rage. Some of Margot's girls use the crème, against her advice. Why would anyone want to permanently damage their skin to look like a beauty queen who was born that way?

Margot sits by the bar with Sweetness, and they observe Miss Novia Scott-Henry together. “She's beautiful, isn't she?” Margot says to Sweetness, who has kept her eyes down.

Miss Novia Scott-Henry looks very much alone sitting there by herself while everyone else has a partner, their cheery voices carrying to the front of the restaurant. The waitstaff busy themselves pouring water into glasses, placing on the tables baskets of bread and saucers with butter. Each waiter has a task, a specific routine. Like a well-rehearsed performance made up of a cast of country boys groomed to be British gentlemen with bow ties, tuxedos, and plain accents with British inflections. “
How yuh do, madame? How is yuh meal, sah? May I get you h-anything else? H-anotherrr drink, perhaps?
” Margot cringes on the inside as she listens to them. For she's sure they don't speak this way at home.

“Yuh need anyt'ing fi drink, Margot?” Foot, the bartender, asks. They call him Foot because he has only one leg, the other one a rounded stump that he favors. Nobody knows what happened to his other leg, but rumor is that it blew off in the Gulf War. This doesn't slow him down. He mixes drinks at the bar, delivering them with ease—from Bloody Marys to rum punch to just opening a bottle of ice-cold Red Stripe beer.

“A glass of water will do,” Margot tells him. But she orders a drink for Sweetness, something strong, because Sweetness has been jittery since her arrival.

“Why yuh didn't tell me dat it's her?” Sweetness finally speaks, her eyes darting nervously around the restaurant, her voice a sharp whisper. “Yuh putting me in a real bad situation. She was ah beauty queen. People love har!”

“Jus' drink,” Margot says.

She returns her attention to Miss Novia Scott-Henry, who takes her napkin from the table and places it on her lap. Another waiter comes to the table with a bottle of wine. He opens the bottle, spinning a metal opener into the cork, which gives a small pop when it's released. Miss Novia Scott-Henry lifts her glass, swirls it, puts it to her nose, then sips. She takes another sip. And another, smiling as though the wine is making her reflect on a shower of pink cherry blossom petals kissing her shoulders.
So this is how she dines
, Margot thinks—
three-course meals and wine every night
. Margot considers the wine list. The cost of a bottle could be Thandi's lunch money for a week. A month, even. Clearly Miss Novia Scott-Henry makes a lot of money and spends it on herself. No children. No word of a husband. The glass in Sweetness's hand is almost empty.

“Foot, gi har anotha one!” Margot orders.

Foot works his magic, hobbling from one end of the bar to the next on his crutch, pouring various hard liquors from the shelf into a silver mixer. He shakes it like a musician in a mento band and pours the drink into a tall glass. He slides it to Sweetness with a wink.