Here Comes the Sun (9 page)

But Ella wouldn't listen. She was taken with the child, calling her Little Margot. Ella gave Little Margot Verdene's old clothes to wear. They were nice dresses that Ella had to take in, stitching up the sides, adjusting the hems, adding extra buttonholes and buttons, whatever she could do to make the dresses fit Little Margot's tiny frame.

Then one day, Verdene saw Margot crouched in a corner, crying in front of Mr. Levy's shop. Verdene stopped to help her, imagining the girl had lost her money or fallen and bruised some part of her. “
What's the mattah?
” she asked. Little Margot sniffled and told her that some children in her school were calling her
Maggot
instead of
Margot
.

“
Dey say ah dirty an' smell bad
.” The little girl was shaking as she told Verdene this, her bony shoulders shuddering, her chest heaving. Verdene didn't know what to do. She rested her hand on the girl's shoulder, and Little Margot looked up into Verdene's face, her eyes large and watery, the pupils expanding into a well into which Verdene fell. Her fall was deep, endless; one that stirred her womb with a possessiveness, a feral instinct to hunt Little Margot's bullies down.

Every time Verdene had to leave for university, Margot cried. Ella would have to appease the girl with promises. “
She'll be back to see us next week, dear.
” Then, peering at Verdene, Ella's eyes would hold in them those very questions. “
Right, darling? You'll be back to see yuh dear mother next week, right?
”

Verdene turns her attention back inside the kitchen. She switches off the faucet, realizing water has overflowed, spilling to the floor. The dishes are piled in the sink from the breakfast she made Margot this morning—one pot full of her lopsided boiled dumplings and the other with chopped-up onions, tomatoes, and saltfish. Just an hour ago Verdene sang along to Ken Boothe, feeling hopeful, unaware of this mood that has befallen her. Unaware of the ambush of memory that awaited her. The mess in the kitchen repulses her. Verdene was never a tidy cook, or a cook at all. Everything is arranged in the cupboards the way her mother left it: plates stacked on top of each other, glasses and cups separated—the fancier ones with designs for visitors Verdene never has, and the ordinary, plain ones for everyday use. Since courting Margot, Verdene has been trying to cook more often, feeling domesticated for the first time at the age of forty. Before, when she lived in London, she would heat things up in microwaves or venture to a nearby restaurant for takeout. Such habits were possible in London, where there were restaurants everywhere. Indian, Chinese, Turkish, Caribbean, Pakistani.

Cooking is becoming a private joy Verdene works hard to maintain, delving into her mother's old recipes inside the kitchen drawers among the utensils. They were mostly cake recipes. For other food, Verdene draws from memory—those evenings when she used to watch her mother cook, throwing spices and sugar and flour inside pots without measuring. Ella only knew how something turned out by tasting it. Verdene has adopted this method. As she experiments, she finds herself tasting more and measuring less. The process softens something inside her, makes her hum tunes to little songs as she chops and stirs. One would never have known how much Verdene once resented her mother for doing the exact same thing for her father when he was alive and came home with his dirtied boots and soiled clothes from building the railway.

“
Why can't he ever cook his own food or set di table?
” Verdene would ask Ella, while observing her father recline on his favorite chair with the newspaper, smoking his cigarettes and taking swigs of white rum. He sought refuge in the clouds of smoke that surrounded him and the liquor that warmed his blood. Ella was mostly dismissive of Verdene's questions, fanning her away with, “
When yuh get to this stage you'll know why.
” Verdene never knew what that meant. In rebellion (she thinks), she had never been able to give of herself this way in relationships, fearing she would have to be some man's maid, or his personal servant. As abusive as Verdene's father was, Ella worshipped the ground he walked on.

In her first marriage, Verdene failed miserably. Not because she didn't love the man—a nice devout Catholic from Guyana her aunt handpicked for her—but because she could never pretend to be that kind of a woman. But here she is, in her mother's kitchen, finally understanding what her mother meant.

When Verdene reenters the bedroom, Margot is already dressed, ready to go.

“We have to talk,” Verdene says, taking a deep, labored breath. Margot sits on the bed, her hands clasped. Verdene notices that the food remains uneaten. She also notices that Margot has been crying. Her eyes are red and the flesh around them is raw.

“What yuh want to talk about?” Margot asks. When she turns her face to the side, light catches it and Verdene is taken aback by her beauty. She walks over and sits next to the younger woman. She takes Margot's hand into hers and holds it. She lifts it to her lips, then presses it to her cheeks. Margot takes it away.

“Maybe you're right,” she says.

Verdene lets her hand drop to her side. “Right about what?”

“That I'm not ready.”

Margot sits frozen like a statue, her head held straight. The only hint that she is breathing is the slow rise and fall of her chest. Two buttons are open in the front of her blouse. Verdene catches a glimpse of the soft flesh underneath. Margot turns to look at her and repeats, “I'm not ready,” as though to convince herself.

Verdene takes Margot's hand—in the same way she did the night before the discovery of the first dead dog. “We should try again,” she says. “But I'll leave it up to you . . .” She takes a deep breath.

Margot visibly relaxes, as though she was expecting another response. Verdene feels an overwhelming urge to hold her, but she doesn't. They sit like this, both staring straight ahead, their hands in their laps. The words leave Verdene's mouth, floating above them in the bedroom, finally settling with the rise and fall of their pregnant sighs like a sheet flung over a bed.

“I only knew men,” Margot whispers, still staring straight ahead. “I always had feelings for you.” Margot is shaking her head as though she has gotten lost and is too overwhelmed with directions leading her to streets with no names. “But I'm not . . . I don't know if I . . .”

Verdene nods, but she says nothing. She focuses on the nails in the wooden floorboards, their round black heads appearing like dots. Margot rests her head on Verdene's shoulder. Her gesture seems to signal that they have stepped into an intimate circle and are joined together in this uncertainty. Breathing in deeply, Margot says, “I want you to teach me how to swim.”

5

I
T'S A COOL AND DAMP MORNING—THE WAY IT USUALLY IS BEFORE
the sun makes its appearance, sucking all possibilities dry. Margot had gotten dressed at Verdene's house, entertaining the idea of them as a couple. It's not as though this has never occurred to her before—this seed that slipped into the cavity of her chest, settling itself inside her for the last few weeks. Something triggered its growth. Perhaps it was the way Verdene held her the night before, confirming for Margot that they fit together.

Margot begins to walk with clarity through the thinning fog, cradling this idea like a newborn baby. Her mind races ahead to the possibility of leaving River Bank for a nice beachfront villa in the quiet, gated community of Lagoons—a place far from River Bank where Margot could give freely of herself, comforted by the cool indifference of wealthy expats from Europe and America. It would be like living in another country. Ever since Reginald Senior hosted a party years ago at a lavish villa in that neighborhood for a few of his friends and invited her, she has always wanted to live there. Margot was astonished by how the wealthy in Jamaica live; how for them, the island is really paradise—a woman who offers herself without guile, her back arched in the hills and mountains, belly toward the sun. For even in this drought her rivers run long and deep; her beaches, wide and tempting.

River Bank residents tend to bypass domestic positions in an area like Lagoons, going instead for the resorts. They are like ants, all of them, Margot thinks—latching on to the same bread as everyone else.
Well, let them keep nibbling away
. As far as Margot is concerned, she and Verdene will be a lot better off in a remote place without the neck strain from looking over their shoulders. Margot has it all planned out. Her promotion as general manager is in the works already. She is certain that she will get it; certain of Alphonso's feelings about her. She could use that money to live like a queen in her own country for once. Key-lime curtains and sweating glasses of lemonade in the sunroom. Grocery lists of imported goods and planting trees to complement the landscape.

As Margot moves through the expanse of her fantasy—padding lightly on the marble tiles of her dream house—she bumps into something solid on the ground. She looks down into the gutted carcass of a John-crow surrounded by flies, the rotting smell rising into Margot's open mouth. Margot pinches her nose and takes three steps backward. It has to be three—one for the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Grandma Merle would have told her to throw salt behind her too, to ward off bad luck.

“Holy Jesus!”

And just as she says this, three John-crows appear. They circle low, casting dark shadows in the face of the new sun. Their black wings are like sharp edges that seem capable of slitting trees in half. Margot feels the hair rise on the back of her neck when the John-crows descend. She watches in horror as they sink their beaks into the carcass—one that could have been a sibling, a spouse, a mother, a child. Margot will never forget this image—the sight of the crows feasting on their own, their Kumina dance celebrating death.

Back in the shack, she takes her time wiping the tips of her shoes with a wet cloth soaked with bleach. She'll be late to work today. She strips naked and puts her work clothes in a pan of water. She decides to take a shower, to scrub away any bad omen with pimento leaves. Never mind the flies and heat outside. She lathers herself with soap, grateful for the good water pressure. She never bathes outside this late in the morning after the fog lifts. But today she has no choice. She also does not feel like going back to Verdene's house this time of day, since the washers take that path to the river and may see her.

The water feels good in the heat. Without thinking, she tilts her head back to let it run through her hair, then remembers too late that she had just gotten it creamed. She makes a mental note to schedule another hair appointment. It has to be later today, since she cannot go to the hotel looking like a crazed woman. Margot busies herself with lathering.

“Look like is you g'wan drain di entire island of di likkle wata we 'ave lef'!”

Everything inside Margot halts at the sound of her mother's voice.

“Yuh nuh see dat we in a drought?” Delores asks. “Wah wrong wid yuh? Yuh look like a jackass, scrubbing like dat wid wata beating pon yuh head top.”

“What yuh doing here?” Margot asks, shutting off the shower. “Ah thought you were at di market.” She clumsily reaches for her towel to cover herself.

“Is suh yuh carry on when yuh t'ink nobody is here?” Delores asks. “Yuh run up di wata rate?”

“I was washing off.”

“Yuh didn't 'ave di decency fi do dat earlier?”

“I wanted to change my clothes. I was on my way to work when I—” Margot fans away the rest of her words. She doesn't feel like going into details with Delores about the John-crow. Delores sucks her teeth. Margot thought her mother would leave her alone, but Delores just stands there as though waiting for more explanation.

“What else yuh want?” Margot asks.

Delores shakes her head. “Sometimes ah wondah 'bout you. If me neva come back here, you might ah been in dat wata all day. Shouldn't you be at work? Dat hotel yuh work at giving yuh di illusion dat we 'ave money fi dash weh? If yuh lose dat job, God help we! Washing off, my foot! Which sane person wash off inna broad daylight outside? Is want yuh want Likkle Richie an' any other Peeping Tom fi see yuh?”

“Would it make a difference?” Margot asks.

“Where did I go wrong?”

“Let me pass. I have to get to work. You said so yuhself.”

Delores doesn't move. She regards Margot closely, like she used to do when Margot was a child—when she gave her the kind of baths that were meant to cleanse her of evil.

“What is it?” Margot asks. Her voice cracks under the weight of the memory.

“Yuh t'ink ah got di sense of a gnat?”

Margot chuckles lightly, though her knees buckle. “I don't have no time fah dis.”

“You got time fah other t'ings. T'ink ah don't notice dat yuh don't sleep here no more? You is a sneak, an' God g'wan strike yuh dung.”

Margot throws her head back and laughs out loud. “I am thirty years old. Ah can sleep anywhere ah please. An' besides, yuh soun' like ole Miss Gracie wid har drunk, crazy self.” She is able to walk past Delores into the house. She doesn't let on that God was the first thing she thought about this morning when she stumbled upon death in her path.

“At di end ah di day, yuh can't seh ah neva try wid yuh,” Delores says.

Margot is glad that she's not facing Delores; glad that she can focus on dressing herself, careful not to rip her stocking. The proof of her innocence—since she is always on trial—is in her calm, her ability to seem unaffected by anything Delores says. She tries hard in this moment not to seek comfort in the fantasy she had earlier of moving away with Verdene—a thought that skipped like a carefree child, shifting things around, making room. But try as she might, Margot cannot stop it from emerging. Neither can she protect it from Delores. Her best and safest bet is to kill it.