Here Comes the Sun Page 17

  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.”

  The 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

  MARGOT 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 gracef
ul, 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.

  “Dis will mek yuh nice-nice.”

  Meanwhile, Roy, Miss Novia Scott-Henry’s waiter, takes her order. He dutifully writes down everything like he’s supposed to, nodding politely and making suggestions. He makes eye contact with Margot, who nods. When he enters the kitchen she can see right inside: the chaos of men dressed in white hovering over pots under which blue and yellow flames blaze, and yelling in patois over crates of food. “G’long wid di food before it tun col’!” “Rattry, annuh your ordah dis? Why di food come back?” “Tek yuh time wid di oil, ’less yuh waan gi di people dem heart attack!”

  She hears all this when she gets up and follows Roy, pretending to be on her way to the bathroom. He’s by the corridor waiting when she gets there. A young boy from May Pen with a beautiful face and an ugly past. He sneaks furtive glances over his shoulder as he whispers to her.

  “Di food soon come. Me will sprinkle it jus’ a likkle, since me nuh want to overdo it. Me can’t afford fi go back ah prison.”

  “No one will know seh is you. Pour everything.” Margot takes money from her purse and hands it to him. “Dis is half ah yuh pay. Yuh get di othah half after yuh empty di whole bottle.”

  Just then the chef calls the order. Serge, the assistant chef, emerges from the heat and manages to blow a kiss Margot’s way. Margot returns it and waves.

  “Ah haven’t gotten any samples in a while,” she says to Serge.

  His face lights up like the kitchen flames behind him. “All yuh haffi do is ask, beautiful,” he says, taking the time to lean against the wall with one arm over Margot’s head, his ankle crossed over the other, appraising her. Margot strokes his chest with a finger.

  “My feelings get hurt when ah don’t get nuh special taste. Is like yuh done wid me.”

  Meanwhile, Roy doctors up the order, sprinkling every last bit of powder on to the food. Serge, too caught up in Margot fingering his collar, doesn’t hurry him along. He leans closer to Margot. “Ah promise I’ll mek yuh taste di chef special tomorrow, ’bout noon?”

  “Sounds delicious,” she says, waving him back to work.

  “It done,” Roy says after Serge returns to the kitchen, holding up the empty glass bottle for Margot to see. Margot pulls out the other half of the cash and gives it to him. She watches as Roy goes out with Miss Novia Scott-Henry’s entrée. He places the food in front of her with a slight bow. Before the woman can take a bite of her meal, someone passes by and she pauses, lowering her fork. The woman engages Miss Novia Scott-Henry in light conversation, pushing a calendar and a pen to her face. Miss Novia Scott-Henry graciously signs it, and the woman leaves. Margot waits for Miss Novia Scott-Henry to take a bite of her food. She leans forward to watch her eat, watch her chew and swallow. Every muscle in her tenses as hope rushes in. A mento band begins to play the Wailers’ “Simmer Down,” replacing the violin music. Simma down, Margot, she tells herself, thinking of the promotion Alphonso will have to give her, the tragic loss of a beauty queen to scandal, the cheery faces of admiration turning to disdain. Margot makes her way back to the bar as Sweetness lifts her glass to take another sip of drink. Margot stops her.

  “Tek it easy. Yuh don’t want to be completely drunk fah dis.”

  Sweetness takes a deep breath to calm herself and grips the edge of the counter. “Me nuh sure me can do dis,” she says. “Me nuh ready yet.” This Margot hears loud and clear above the mento band. The molecules from Sweetness’s rum breath sail toward her, assaulting her. Margot reaches for the girl’s hand. But Sweetness is too fast. She grabs her purse and gets up from the bar.

  “Where yuh t’ink yuh going?” Margot calls after her.

  But Sweetness doesn’t stop. As she nears the door, a wave of vertigo hits Margot as though she’s the one who has been drugged. The buzzing inside the restaurant gets louder—the clinking of utensils on plates, the Wailers’ words via the mento band reminding her “an’ when him deh near / yuh mus’ beware”—the warning clashing with the joyous collision of conversations filled with foreign accents. She blindly hurries toward the door, narrowly avoiding bumping into guests.

  “Sweetness!”

  But the girl doesn’t turn around.

  “Sweetness!”

  Margot walks quickly outside. Paul is standing by the door to let people in and out, but Sweetness doesn’t slow her pace for him to o
pen the door. She pushes it open herself. That’s when Margot decides to use her last bit of ammunition:

  “Miss Violet can surely use some help wid everyt’ing going on wid her head!”

  Sweetness stops, or rather halts by the rosebushes like a racehorse that has approached an insurmountable hurdle. Her back is still turned and head bent. When Margot approaches her, she sees that the girl is crying. “What’s the matter with you?” She takes the girl by the hand and leads her behind the rosebushes, where she begins to massage her shoulders. “Why yuh want to ruin dis now? If yuh didn’t want to do it yuh shoulda say something before. Why fight it? I’m giving you permission now to act on it. It not g’wan jus’ go away if yuh ignore it.”

  Sweetness sniffles but says nothing as Margot massages this into her shoulder; the girl’s muscles relax under the pressure of Margot’s fingertips, her head lolling. “You’re ready . . .” Margot says to the girl’s upturned face. She kisses her gently on the lips. Sweetness’s eyes are still closed. Margot kisses her again, this time cradling Sweetness’s face with both hands. The girl tilts her head to receive her tongue. Just then Margot hears footsteps and whispering voices. A woman’s high heels. A man telling her to call a taxi. Margot pulls away from Sweetness and peers above the bushes. Paul is steadying Miss Novia Scott-Henry, who appears light-headed and filled with lively chatter.

  “I can go home on my own, Paul. No need, no need at all. Oops, was that thunder?”

  “No, that’s jus’ di band setting up.”

  “Oh, my, I need my keys. What have I done with my car keys? You took my keys!”

  Margot turns to Sweetness. “Follow me.”

  She walks toward Paul and Miss Novia Scott-Henry, Sweetness trailing a few steps behind.

  “Margot? Margot, is that you?” Miss Novia Scott-Henry says, steadying herself. “Did you hear the thunder? It’s going to pour!”

  “I wish,” Margot says.

  “What are you doing here so late?”