Here Comes the Sun (28 page)

Thandi walks to the restroom with pieces of her heart cradled to her chest. On her way, she spots a familiar face. She squints to see if her eyes are playing tricks on her. Jullette is sitting with a man at the bar—a foreigner who looks more than twice her age. He's a deeply tanned white man with silver hair, casually dressed in a white polo shirt and khaki shorts. He has one hand on Jullette's exposed brown thigh, the other around a drink. Such an unlikely couple they are, sitting there. The man leans in and whispers something in Jullette's ear. She laughs out loud above the music, cupping her hand over her mouth. Her face is a colorful mask of violets, greens, and reds. She playfully taps the man on the shoulder, and he drains her drink for her.

“Jullette?” Thandi calls from the end of the bar where she stands. When Jullette hears her name, she turns. The beam fades from Jullette's face. Her eyes, which are a startling hazel from the contacts she wears, widen. She quickly looks the other way.

“Jullette!” Thandi calls again, strangely happy to see her old friend since they had fallen out. The people at the bar glance at Thandi as though she has lost her mind, with her shouting to get Jullette's attention. But Jullette buries her face in the crook of the man's neck and whispers something. Soon they both get up and vanish from the bar.

23

T
HE PANTRY IS EMPTY. THE OPEN CUPBOARDS BARE THEIR SKELETAL
insides filled with nothing but a can of chicken noodle soup. No crackers to moisten with tea. No tea bags. The refrigerator hums, its cold breath on Verdene's face. No eggs for breakfast either. She has no choice but to go to the market. She counts the last of the insurance money her mother left her. It's enough to sustain her, for the time being. Very slowly, she puts on her market dress. She zips the side and watches the dress fall over her knees, covering up everything. An attempt to gain respectability like the other women. She picks up her basket, the one her mother used to carry.

Outside, the sun is bright yellow like the yolk of an egg. Its one eye holds Verdene in place. For a second she ponders starving to death, renouncing her life within the safe confines of the house. Her body will rot, and when they find her she would be unrecognizable. She imagines the community people linking hands with their children to dance around her property, singing, “
Ding-dong! The witch is dead!
”

She makes her way down the road, hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible under her white sun hat. A man and a woman cross over to the other side of the road when they see her coming. A group of boys sitting on the branch of a mango tree throw mango seeds in her path. Two little girls jumping rope in a yard stop and hold the tails of their dirty dresses closed. The mothers of the girls standing nearby in the yard gasp. They don't say then,
You see that lady's fair skin? See how pretty? Yuh g'wan stay black an' ugly if you stay playing in the sun.
Instead, they look the other way, the sides of their eyes holding Verdene in place as they grab their daughters. “Oonuh come out the way! Mek the witch pass!” And when Verdene gets to the bar by Mr. Levy's, the men playing dominoes outside regard her closely, until she passes near enough to hear one of them, Clover, say to his friends, “All she need is a good cocky.”

But Verdene doesn't falter. She holds her head high, knowing they probably won't touch her due to her foreign privilege. Had they wanted to harm her, they would've done so already. It's that crisp British accent, its stroke of precision sharp like a razor's edge. “Is there a problem, gentlemen?” Verdene asks, trying not to let her voice quaver. The men shrink under her view. They are seemingly embarrassed by her propriety. Clover takes a swig of rum from a flask, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He says nothing, only grabs his crotch and holds it. Verdene stares him down until he releases himself and drops his leer.

At the market Verdene barely sees or smells anything. She picks up fruits and vegetables and puts them in her basket. They all look bad, given that it has not rained in months. She wishes she could test their texture and smell them like her mother used to do. Verdene's mother could do this in her sleep. She always got the best price for everything she bought. But Verdene doesn't have that luxury. One look at her and the market vendors know she's a foreigner, a prodigal daughter who has still not assimilated back into the culture. It must be her clipped accent and mannerisms; her willingness to wait her turn to speak when they're speaking; the way she walks with caution, unable to be led by her hips like most Jamaican women, and always looking over her shoulder like the tourists who wander from the hotels. And in her face, the vendors from River Bank see her mother, Miss Ella, and they remember the old woman who died alone in that nice pink house on the hill. They remember the daughter who disgraced her. They remember the sin she committed. They whisper to the other vendors. “
Nuh Miss Ella dawta dat?
” And their words spread like the stench of raw fish, battered fruit, and gutter water that permeates the humid air. Some fan her away like the flies that pitch all over their produce, while others pause, their hands on their hips as though waiting for a confrontation. Verdene feels like one of the soldiers that march through the area with long rifles, her presence leaving a trail of silence and apprehensive looks. The vendors quote the highest price, stating it between clenched teeth, their eyes communicating to her that their price is final. That they would rather do without her money and have their children eat cornmeal porridge again for dinner. When she agrees to buy their produce, unwilling to fight, they grudgingly take her money. Verdene notices that they touch the bills with only the tips of their fingers.

Verdene fills her basket and walks to the end of the row. She has never gone this far into the arcade, but today something is propelling her. Delores is on her haunches, taking out green peas from their pods. Her expert fingers open them up quickly to let the seeds fall into a basket. Though she's getting a lot accomplished, her mind is elsewhere. Verdene can tell, for Delores doesn't notice her standing there watching her. “Hello, Delores.” Verdene moves inside the stall and stands over the crouched woman, who appears smaller than Verdene remembered her to be. Delores regards her face as though trying to place her. Her large eyes widen and her eyebrows touch her hairline like she has seen a ghost. “You!” Delores says. This comes out as a whisper. Verdene takes a step back to disarm her, but Delores is already struggling to her feet, her gasp turning into a body-shivering cough. Verdene wants to step forward and hit Delores's back in order to help, but she's afraid someone might come and think she's trying to assault her. Delores's cough quiets. She breathes slowly, with her fist to her mouth just in case she might have another fit. “What yuh want from me?” Delores asks when she calms down, her voice hoarse.

“I was in the area. Just came to say hello.”

Delores grimaces. “Who told you we're on any level for dat kind of thing?”

“You never used to mind me.”

“Well, that was before I knew yuh was the devil.”

Verdene wonders if she can risk asking Delores about Margot.

“How are you?” Verdene asks.

“Why is it any of your business?” Delores retorts.

“And how is Margot? I haven't seen her in years,” Verdene lies. She tries to sound as casual as possible, though her heart is racing. Delores makes two fists and places them on her hips.

“Yuh asking after my daughter?” Delores asks. The weight of her suspicion is heavy, like the basket of fruits and vegetables in Verdene's hand.

“How dare yuh come here wid my dawta's name in yuh mouth!” Delores's eyes are flashing.

She wants to explain, but then thinks against it. “It's not like you treated her like your daughter. You never cared about her. You never loved her. Not like—”

“You have no business coming in here, telling what kinda mother yuh t'ink I am,” Delores snaps. “She's not like you. She has a man. A moneyman who own a hotel. So if is come yuh come to see about Margot, then yuh bettah turn back around an' walk di other way.”

“I didn't say—”

“I know exactly what yuh didn't say,” Delores says through clenched teeth.

Verdene opens and closes her mouth. Delores sees through her. She knows. Has always known. It's obvious in the way she looks at Verdene, her nostrils flared and eyes ablaze. A sneer creeps up Delores's black ugly face.

“Margot has a moneyman,” Delores says. “A man who can provide for her. So g'weh wid yuh foreign accent an' yuh inheritance. G'weh wid yuh nastiness! She's not like you!”

Verdene backs away from Delores's stall.

“She's not like you! She's not like you! She's not like you!”

The woman's screams get louder and louder the farther Verdene runs. The other vendors peer from their stalls to see the commotion. They see Delores screaming, Verdene hurrying away, bumping into things and people.
She's not like you! She's not like you! She's not like you! She's not like you! She's not like you! She's not like you! She's not like you! She's not like you! She's not like you! She's not like you! She's not like you!

She runs into a young Rasta fellow who is holding a box of carved birds. She has seen him selling them on the corner. The box falls, the birds crashing to the ground, breaking. The Rasta man raises his hands to his head, his eyes wild. “Yuh bruk me t'ings dem!” He catches Verdene by the arm, his grasp tight. Her basket falls and the fruits burst open on the pavement. The overripe breadfruit, when it hits the ground, sounds like a fist punching the soft, fleshy part of a body.

“Yuh haffi pay fah di birds!” the Rasta man says, glaring at Verdene.

“Let. Me. Go,” Verdene says through clenched teeth. Her chest heaves painfully as her heart presses against her rib cage. “I said let me go!”

But the Rasta refuses. “Gimme di money fah di birds.”

“Hol' on pon har, John-John,” says one of the other vendors. “She was messing wid Delores earlier too. Come talk ah 'bout how she love Margot.”

“What yuh do to Mama Delores?” the man asks Verdene. “What yuh do to my Margot?”

His Margot?
Verdene looks into his yellow eyes. “Who are you? You let go of me, or else.”

“Or else wah?” The man draws back his fist. Behind him, the vendors chant, “Do it! Do it! Do it! Punch di sodomite in har face!”

“Only a coward hits a woman,” Verdene says in a low voice that only he can hear. “
My
Margot would never want you.”

The Rasta man pulls Verdene's face to his fist or his fist to her face. Verdene—who used to block fights between her parents, and who once felt the hard knuckles of her father's hand in her left jaw to prevent it from fracturing another bone in her mother's petite body—has perfected a self-defense maneuver that enables her to block the man's fist and twist his arm behind his back. He grits his teeth as she holds his hand in place.

“When a woman says to let her go, you let her go!”

These words come from someone else. Must be from someone who is standing in the crowd, watching this taking place. For Verdene no longer recognizes her own voice.

“You heard me?” the woman—that other woman—says.

The Rasta man lets Verdene go, his eyes wide with fear. He watches Verdene pick up her basket, which is empty. He says nothing. Neither does the crowd that has gathered. Verdene suppresses the urge to cry. Not in public for all of these people to see how humiliated she really is. One by one she gathers the contents of her basket, knowing she will never return to buy produce from these people again. When she thinks she's done, someone hands her an apple. Verdene looks up, from the clawlike fingers with blackened nails clutching the apple to the face of the woman.

“I believe this belongs to you,” the woman says; her face is a web of lines as though someone had taken off her skin, crumpled it like paper between fists, then put it back on.

Verdene hesitates before taking the apple, meeting the woman's cataract-blue eyes. Miss Gracie grins with all her rotting teeth.

“Yuh mek Eve bite di apple,” Miss Gracie says, the accusation like the jab of a needle. “Now tek it back! Tek it back an' go to hell weh yuh come from, yuh serpent!” She flings the apple at Verdene, hitting her in the head. Verdene drops her basket and runs, aware of the crowd stirring again with victory. “Yes, Mama Gracie, show har who run t'ings! Lick har backside! Buss har head!”

The Rasta man, who has suddenly regained his voice, shouts, “Next time me see yuh, you g'wan pay!”

Verdene hurries out of the market, realizing for the first time that Delores had been standing there in the crowd, her eyes red like the devil. It's as though she had orchestrated the whole thing.

“G'long, yuh blasted sodomite! An' nuh come back!” Delores says.

Delores's final words hit Verdene like a rock in the back. Verdene picks up her pace and runs.

24

D
ELORES WATCHES THE WOMAN FLEE. THE EVIL THE SODOMITE
has brought to the arcade makes her shudder. Of all the days, Verdene picked today to come to harass her.

“But what is it yuh want from me, Lawd Jesus?” Delores asks, her head tilted to the steel-blue sky. It must be a sign. An omen. Miss Ella's daughter has never been up to any good. She poisoned Margot all those years ago, made her sick in the head for months. Margot was never the same after she became friends with that Verdene girl.

Margot was ten years old when Delores came home from work one day and saw her beaming. Immediately the muscles in Delores's chest tightened at the sight of white teeth peering through brown flesh. Something seemed odd about it. For some reason, the joy and innocence in her daughter only infuriated her. Had Margot known what life could become for girls like her, she would never grin like that. And the wider the little girl grinned, the more Delores's muscles contracted within the cavity of her chest.