Here Comes the Sun (35 page)

The sun is peering above the hill, just the cap of its head rising. The sky is a clear violet blue sprinkled with leftover stars and half of a moon. Thandi quickens her pace. She has to get across the Y-shaped river to where Charles's mother lives. She might be lucky enough to get Miss Violet to tell her where Jullette lives. She opens the gate despite the yellow tape. Mary and Joseph are no longer in the pen. Someone must have taken them to sell. Or killed them. The four dogs roam the yard, their bones more visible, protruding through their skin like ridges of broken sticks. They follow Thandi, sniffing up her skirt. “Shoo! Shoo!” She waves them off. She bypasses Charles's zinc shed and goes directly to the main shack, where she knocks. There's no answer. No sound. The familiar foul smell hits Thandi when she pushes the door open. This time there are no cooing sounds to guide her as she makes her way farther inside, feeling around in the dark shack. She pauses when she gets to the upholstery curtain that shields off the bedroom. Thandi pushes it aside, looking for the woman lumped on the bed. But when she parts the curtain there is no sign of Miss Violet. Just the soiled rumpled sheets. She has already left.

Thandi backs away, nearly stumbling this time over a footstool. She goes next door to Miss Ruby's shack. Before she knocks, she sees an eviction note posted on the door. By the faded look of the paper, it seems to have been there for weeks. Thandi bangs on the door, her heart somersaulting in her chest. Her dream of finding Charles seems further away with Miss Violet gone. Miss Ruby might know something. When Miss Ruby opens the door, Thandi is surprised to see the woman's face. It appears bruised all over with purple blemishes on her cheeks. Gone is the clear salmon-colored hue she bragged about just months before. Presently she appears to have aged, her skin paper-thin, wrinkled, and blotchy like a days-old navel orange. When Miss Ruby sees Thandi staring, she fumbles with her housedress, bringing the collar up to her mouth. “What is it yuh want so early in di mawnin'?” Miss Ruby asks.

Thandi tries her best not to appear troubled by Miss Ruby's appearance. “Do you know where Miss Violet went?” she asks.

A deep scowl transforms Miss Ruby's face. “Why yuh askin' me dat fah? Me look like me keep tabs pon people? I survive by min'ing my own business.”

“Do you at least know where Jullette lives? I have to find her. I have to find Charles.”

“Where have you been? Yuh so locked into yuh books dat yuh not even know what time it is. Everybody want to know where Charles is. Him is a wanted man. Anyone who know where him is, is a rich s'maddy. Rich enough to buy a house and not be treated like shit. If I did know where dat brute was, me woulda move out long time. Suh why would you ask me such a stupid question? Now get away from me front door an' nuh come back unless yuh have money for my service.” She looks at Thandi's face. “From where ah standing, it look like yuh need more rubbing.”

“No, thank you,” Thandi says.

“Yuh sure 'bout dat? Didn't I tell you? Didn't I tell yuh dat God nuh like ugly? Look what's happening to us.”

But Thandi turns and walks out of Miss Ruby's yard without looking back.

She hurries toward the square before the sun rises entirely. She passes Miss Gracie's house and stops by the mango tree where she once spotted Charles and his gang stealing and devouring mangoes. Thandi reaches toward the lowest branch and picks one. But when she lowers the mango, she sees that it is rotting, the inside carved out by worms. She tosses it and keeps moving. When she gets to the pink house, she slows her pace. The French shutter windows are closed, but leaving the house in this early morning hour is her sister. Margot stops in her tracks when she sees Thandi. And Thandi halts too, her breath drawn so sharply that it hurts her lungs.

“Thandi, wait!” Margot says. She's opening the latch on the gate.

“You didn't have to lie to me,” Thandi says as soon as her sister approaches.

“Ah didn't think you'd understand.”

“You could have told me that it was
her
.” Thandi has this odd feeling that they are being watched from a window inside the pink house.

Margot touches Thandi on the arm. “I'm sorry—”

Thandi pulls away. She starts to run, ignoring Margot's plea for her to come back. She cuts through a grassy area, wiping away tears from her face. Her feet pound the ground, stirring up dust. She has to find Charles. Her bookbag slaps against her back the way it did that day when she chased him through the streets. When she reaches Sam Sharpe Square, she turns and turns, unsure where to look first. She doesn't know where Jullette is hiding Charles. Who could she talk to? Where can she go? She sits outside and observes the gradual chaos of the shoppers, hoping Jullette will appear. Thandi waits the whole day, until sundown and the sky becomes a stunning shade of violet and fuchsia.

On the street she spots two women in short tube dresses. One of them has rail-thin limbs. The rest of her looks like parts belonging to another woman—a high, round ass upon which one could rest an elbow, and sizable breasts that squeeze together inside the dress like two breadfruits, the way grocers display them in the square. The other woman is big all around—her voluptuous frame snug in the little elastic dress that looks like it's about to bust open when she heaves and sighs from the fitful coughs caused by the smoke from her cigarette. The women are standing together behind the veils of smoke, their eyes alert on the pedestrians. The skinny one digs into her purse for a small compact mirror. She grins to check for lipstick stains on her teeth and pats her short black wig. But really it seems as though she's trying to check out the man who just passed them by—as if to gauge if he's looking back at her. Her fat friend shakes her head when she turns and sees that the man is walking straight ahead, not even giving them a backward glance. The skinny one puts the mirror back inside her purse and rolls her eyes. Thandi approaches them.

“Can we help you?” the fat woman asks. Up close she looks a lot older than she dresses, the skin on her face ashy and drooping as though all the elasticity has been worn.

“Yes, I think so,” Thandi says, uncertain.

The two women glance at each other before they look at Thandi. “How much?” the skinny woman asks. She's wearing a lot more makeup, complete with fake eyelashes and a drawn-on mole on her upper lip.

“I—uh.” Thandi is speechless.

The women burst out laughing. “Lawd, Doreen, yuh laugh like a damn hyena! No wondah why no man nuh want yuh!”

“Shut yuh claat, gyal. Yuh laugh like faa'ting donkey.”

The fat woman taps her friend on the forehead and her friend fans her off, the way one fans off a person they're used to joking with. She turns back to Thandi. “What is it dat yuh need help wid, baby?”

“I need help finding someone. A girl name Jullette.”

“Why not look har up in di directory? What's her last name?”

“Rose.”

That's when the fat woman slaps her hand on her forehead, nearly knocking off her red wig. “Oh, Sweetness!” She hits her friend on the shoulder. “Doreen, she ah talk 'bout Sweetness!”

Doreen's eyes light up. “Oh, Sweetness! Yes, yes, me know who she is!” She turns to Thandi. Then to her friend she says, “Annette, yuh t'ink we should—”

“Big boss would know,” Annette offers, cutting off Doreen. She lights another cigarette.

“Who?” Thandi asks.

“Big boss. She come aroun' dese parts an' recruit girls. Di younger ones.”

“She?”

“Yeah, man. Is a woman who's in charge ah dese girls. We call har boss lady or big boss,” Doreen says. “She oversee everything, from how much di girls get pay to when dem get lay. Me an' Annette is we own boss. We sleep wid who we please, when we please. An' di money we earn is ours to keep.”

“How can I find her?” Thandi asks.

“Trus' me. Yuh g'wan haffi be careful. She might convince yuh to work fah har. Dat woman, from what I hear, is a snake. A vicious one.”

“So can you help me?”

The women glance at each other. Then Annette waves Thandi to follow her. She stuffs the pack of cigarettes inside her brassiere and lifts her breasts so that they stand up. She walks with a slight limp.

37

V
ERDENE FEELS AS THOUGH SHE IS PLANNING A WEDDING—OR
rather, is already at the reception, where she's tipsy with wine, drunk off merriment and hope. But something nags at her. She can't put her finger on it, but it's always there, lurking like a bad odor trapped inside the walls, seeming to strangle her in her sleep. During these sleepless nights she's cuddled next to Margot, comforted by her presence. It's nice to think about Margot's sweet dreams and avoid the inkling that has been nagging her. She hopes Margot's dreams will become hers, relieving her of any doubt.

Verdene's suspicions began with Margot's argument against hiring a lawyer. At first she didn't think anything of it, since Margot kept on harping about her big promotion and the new property. That all Verdene has to do is sign, since she holds their future in her hands. But Verdene cannot shake the guilt of selling the house for less than what her parents had put down for the property back in 1968. Why would the property be so devalued now? She's kept it quiet from Margot, but Verdene has been spending her days scanning each page of the contract, noticing more and more flaws—like the fact that the company identifies itself as a subsidiary group without mentioning its affiliate. After Margot left for work this morning, Verdene dialed Mr. Reynolds—the lawyer who did the paperwork for her mother's will, which granted her ownership of the house and property.

“Did they come by yet?” Mr. Reynolds asks Verdene over the telephone.

“They're supposed to be here soon.” She looks over her shoulder to see if the developers are at her gate. She runs her fingers through her hair and pulls slightly to alleviate the mild headache forming. “The bastards owe me money,” she says. “I should be getting quadruple what they quote here.”

“Don't do anything until I read the contract,” Mr. Reynolds says in his raspy smoker's voice. He's about seventy and has been practicing law for years—first in Britain, where he was a Rhodes Scholar who became friends with Aunt Gertrude and her husband. The last Verdene saw him was after her mother's funeral. He still has height, for his age—about six feet—with a shock of white hair and skin the color of night. A proud Maroon from Accompong, St. Elizabeth.

“Can you fax me the contract?” Mr. Reynolds asks. “I leave Montego Bay this evening for a business trip until next week, but ah can look at it when ah come back.”

Verdene closes her eyes. What will she tell Margot? That she has to delay until her lawyer looks it over? Margot already thinks that she's stalling. As though Mr. Reynolds is reading her mind over the telephone, he says, “Don't let them bully you, Verdene. Why didn't you contact me earlier?”

“I—I thought I could handle it on my own,” Verdene says, feeling like a child again who has been caught stealing Scotch Bonnet peppers. She remembers the promise she made to Margot and how drunk she was with happiness for their shared future.

“Yuh know who the company is?” Mr. Reynolds asks. “Maybe I can do some research on them through my contacts at NEPA.”

“Doesn't say on here. Just the subsidiary group.”

Mr. Reynolds lets out a long whistle over the telephone—not the melodious whistle Verdene hears the farmers blowing on their way to the fields, a stark contrast to their silhouettes limp with defeat against the dull brown of the drought. Mr. Reynolds's whistle is the tuneless, drawn-out alarm of fire trucks in London that cut corners on wet, slippery roads whose sheen reflects the bright red lights of their sirens. “Either you wait until I get back to Mobay, or risk losing your inheritance,” Mr. Reynolds says.

After the telephone call, Verdene fills a pot with water to boil some cerassee leaves to get rid of her headache. As soon as she turns on the stove, she hears knocking at her gate. Two men dressed in white shirts, dark pants, and blue hard hats are standing there, waiting for the sealed envelope with the signed contract. Verdene goes out to greet them on her veranda.

“I'm not signing this,” she tells them through the grille. She won't give them the satisfaction of robbing her this way. Uprooting people from their homes like this and having the nerve to pay them less than what their property is worth.

“Ma'am, we need your signature,” the shorter one says to Verdene. “We gave you time. We are behind on construction. You're the only property owner who hasn't signed.”

“What do you want me to do about that?” she asks the man, who looks to be in his twenties. Perhaps a new university graduate convinced that he's making a difference.

“Comply.”

“What for? You think I'm stupid like the rest?”

“Ma'am, you seem like the most reasonable one around here.” The taller one gestures to her frame behind the burglar bars, leaving off words Verdene knows he's thinking when he sees her lighter skin and hears her British accent. “Legally, we cannot do anything without your signature.”

“Legally?” Verdene laughs, throwing her head back. “Did you read this?” She holds up the paper and rattles it for emphasis. “This is illegal! Your bosses are sending you out here to do their dirty work. This house belonged to my mother. I'm not signing this without a lawyer.”

The two men glance at each other.

“May I ask who's in charge? I'd like to take this up with them.”

“Ma'am?”

“Who's in charge?” she repeats. “And stop calling me ma'am!”

“It's Sutton and Company,” the taller man says.

“I want the name of the parent company. It says here that you're a subsidiary group, but there's no information about your affiliate.”