Here Comes the Sun (23 page)

“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 open 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?”

“I should ask you the same question,” Margot replies, scanning the woman's face. Her eyes are wide like a drunken person determined to display cognition. But she fails miserably, tripping over some invisible thing on the ground. Paul has to hold her up again. “I'm on my way home,” she says. “I want to beat the storm.”

“I don't think you should drive like this,” Margot says.

“No, no. I feel great. Just need to get to my caaa . . .”

Miss Novia Scott-Henry stumbles again and Margot springs into action, breaking the woman's fall. She shoos Paul away. “I got this.”

One week of lying awake at night, sweating through her pillow as the plan grows, white-knuckling the chair in the office every time she sat and watched the woman. So this act of kindness has become a part of the masquerade; so much so that it's hard to distinguish what's rehearsed from what's authentic. She instructs Sweetness to help her carry Miss Novia Scott-Henry to the penthouse suite upstairs. Margot fidgets with her clutch, not knowing at first where to put it. She lifts the woman's free arm over her neck and carries her to the room. Sweetness balances her weight on the other side.

“Where yuh taking me?” Miss Novia Scott-Henry asks.

“To a room upstairs,” Margot says. “You're in no position to drive.”

“I'm fine.”

“You'll stay here for the night. I promise, Sweetness will take good care of you.”

U
pstairs, Margot opens the door to the suite and switches on the light. The burgundy drapes are drawn, and there, inside the closet next to the bathroom, is the recorder. They put the woman on the bed, lowering her gently. She's half awake and half asleep. Margot backs away to pour the woman a glass of water. She slips the rest of the drug into the glass and stirs in case the previous dose wears off too early. “Just make yourself comfortable,” Margot says to Miss Novia Scott-Henry when she watches her take a sip of the water. She watches her lips pucker and the soft rise and fall of her throat as she drinks.

“Thanks a lot, Margot,” the woman says, lying back down on the bed, her arms spread.

Margot instructs Sweetness to undress and climb onto the bed next to Miss Novia Scott-Henry. For a moment the girl hesitates. Margot dares her with her eyes. The girl obeys, slipping out of her dress like a child. Margot retreats into the closet to hide and fishes for the disposable camera she carried. She watches as Sweetness leans forward and undoes the woman's buttons. The woman stirs, but only a little. Sweetness rises to the challenge. She takes charge, looking like a lioness perched on all fours, her back arched, her magnificent rear swooping up from her spine, and her hands like paws. Miss Novia Scott-Henry inches closer to Sweetness once the coolness from the air conditioner tickles her nakedness. She scoots closer to the warmth Sweetness's body offers, and matches her pulse. But that illusion is the drug's secret drive—the control it tricks her into believing is hers, the excitement, the promise, the rubbed-down edge of fear. Her mind is no longer able to outsmart her body, for her body knows by instinct what it ought to do. Every single muscle of her body seems to be trembling, quivering, twitching. They are magnificent, the both of them, moving like silkworms. Margot misses Verdene this way, lowering the camera after capturing enough pictures of Miss Novia Scott-Henry and Sweetness. She is forced to turn away from the sight of them, her own hunger—her own primal want—begging to be assuaged. Margot takes her things, the recorder, and, for good measure, Sweetness's clothes, shoes, and handbag too. She tiptoes out the door, leaving it open for this private dream to become public.

17

D
ELORES COMES HOME FROM THE MARKET AND IMMEDIATELY
begins to cook dinner, her stocky frame pouring over the small stove. She wipes her face with the collar of her blouse and stirs the cowfoot soup, mindlessly dashing into it salt and pepper and pimento seeds, talking to herself about the day's sales.

“Ah told di man twenty dollah. Jus' twenty dollah. Him so cheap that him pull out a ten. Say him want me to go down in price. But see here, now, massah. What can ten dollah do?” She laughs and leans over to taste the soup, her face scrunching as always as she reaches for more salt. “Eh, eh!”

“Mama, I have something to show yuh,” Thandi says, taking small steps toward Delores, clutching the sketchpad filled with her drawings. The fire is high under the pot, and the house smells of all the spices. “What is it now?” her mother says. “Have you seen yuh sistah since mawnin'?”

“No, Mama.”

“Where the hell is that girl?” Delores turns to Thandi, her eyes big and wide like a ferocious animal. “Ah tell yuh, yuh sistah is siding wid the devil. Several nights in a row she coming home in di wee hours. Is which man she sleeping wid now, eh?”

“I don't know. She neva tell me anything.”

Delores laughs, throwing her head back so that her braids touch the back of her neck. She seeks the counsel of the shadows in the kitchen, the ones that lurk from the steady flame of the kerosene lamp. “Yuh see mi dying trial?” she says to the shadows. “Now she keeping secrets from me.” She turns back to Thandi. “You tell yuh sistah that if she have a man, him mus' be able to help pay Mr. Sterling our rent. Our rent was due two days ago. Two days! And Margot deh 'bout, playing hooky wid god knows who. Or what.”

Thandi remains silent, hugging the sketchpad to her chest. It steadies her. She considers her mother's back, the broad shoulders, the cotton blouse soaked with perspiration, the strong arms that look as though they could still carry her, the wide hips, the swollen feet shoved inside a pair of old men's slippers. She listens to her mother talk to the shadows crouched in every corner of their shack. Thandi looks away from each of them, her eyes finding her mother's back again. “I want to draw,” she says out loud. Delores stops moving. She turns around to face Thandi.

“So why don't you sit and draw?” Delores asks. “See di table dere. Draw.”

“I mean I want to do it for a living. I want to—”

“Hold on a second.” Delores puts both hands on her hips, her big chest lifting as though filling with all the wind and words she would eventually let out to crush Thandi's dreams. “Yuh not making any sense right now. Yuh not making no sense a'tall, a'tall.”

“I am really good at it,” Thandi says. Her fingers tremble as she turns each page, showing her mother sketch after sketch. Her mother takes the book from her and examines a drawing of a half-naked woman standing in front of a mirror. Thandi is certain she recognizes the mirror. It's the one on the vanity. Thandi holds her breath as her mother studies the image. Brother Smith says she's good. “
You're a natural, Thandi.
” All she has to do is strengthen her portfolio. Thandi looks at the page her mother is looking at, wishing that she had been more precise with parts of the sketch that seem amateur under her mother's scrutiny. She balances her weight on both legs, wringing her hands, then putting them to her sides, since she doesn't know what else to do with them. Delores is silent for a long time. Too long. “What yuh think?” Thandi finally asks. “I was working on it for Mother's Day, but it took longer than I thought.”

But Delores is shaking her head. “Yuh draw dis?” she asks Thandi without taking her eyes off the woman on the paper.

“Yes,” Thandi responds. “It's for you. A belated Mother's Day gift.” But Delores returns the book to Thandi without saying a word. She resumes cooking, stirring the pot of cowfoot soup.