Here Comes the Sun (19 page)

“No. What yuh talkin' 'bout?”

“Di girl dem.”

“What girls?” Margot shifts her attention to the computer.

“Di young, naked one dem prancing in an' out like dem own di place. And not ah soul seh one t'ing to dem. Dat neva use to happen before. Dat woman bringing in some bad energy. Alphonso need fi know 'bout it.”

Just as Kensington says this, a call comes in from room 1601, the penthouse suite. Margot picks up, her eyes on Kensington's back.

“Guest services, how may I help you?”

“Yes, I'd like to get a sundae.”

Click.

S
he smells money as soon as she walks into Georgio's room, where the shutters are open to a picturesque view of the sunset. It leaves a trail of red and violet in the sky; and a half-moon sits a couple feet away, patiently waiting its turn.

“Smoke?” Georgio offers Margot. He's a man of a few words. She met him at the last gathering held at Alphonso's villa.

“Shame on you for asking. Yuh know why I'm here.”

Though fresh from his meeting with Miss Novia Scott-Henry, he's already dressed down in a white Palm Star Resort terry-cloth robe that swallows his small, sickly frame. He looks like a skeleton with flesh—his green eyes peering at Margot from dark hollow holes, so powerful they seem to burn away the lashes. She imagines the old naked body underneath that awaits her strokes and kneading; the flaccid penis that hangs between his legs. She didn't send one of her other girls because Georgio is the biggest fish in the pond. It's his money that Alphonso needs to close the deal on the new resort. She undresses.

“Turn around,” Georgio tells her as soon as she's naked. He places his cigar inside a simple ashtray by the desk. She does as she's told, bending over right there by the swivel chair. She imagines the last sliver of the sunlight casting them in gold—Margot bent over with her legs spread, and Georgio behind her. She closes her eyes and thinks of Verdene. The weeks she has let slip by without calling her. She has told Kensington to screen Verdene's calls at the hotel.

“Who is she to you?”

“No one.”

“Suh why she calling yuh like every othah minute? It ah drive me crazy. Ah have t'ings to do, yuh nuh.”

“Just keep telling her I'm not here.”

A slight breeze embraces her, reminding her of her nakedness in this stranger's room. Margot bites her lips and sucks in her breath as she awaits Georgio's initial thrust. He's taking a mighty long time. She hears him cussing at himself.

“Is something wrong?” she asks him, turning her head slightly. She catches a glimpse of the old man sitting slumped on the bed, looking like a boy who has lost his best friend.

“Sorry,” he says, not looking up at her.

“What you mean by ‘sorry'?” Margot asks. She knows exactly what he means. She watches with annoyance and pity as the man gestures to his soft front. Georgio is shaking his head and pouring himself a drink from an expensive-looking bottle he keeps on the nightstand. Margot resists the urge to ask him to pour her some. She remains standing. She doesn't get dressed; and he doesn't instruct her to do so. She stands there for what feels like a long time. Long enough for the sun to disappear completely and the moon to spread across the night sky. She gets down on all fours. The new moon floods Georgio's room. Margot is down on both knees in front of him and takes the cigar out his mouth. She can make out the stricken look in his face when she does this. “Is there anything I can do?” she asks, taking his flaccid penis in her hand. She tugs it, gently at first. Then more vigorously. For what she knows—and has always known—is how to milk desire. Georgio stirs, tilting his pelvis as his penis hardens in her hand. Would there ever be a time, she wonders, when she will not have to do this? Only with Verdene did she begin to experience pleasure on her own terms, and not responsible solely for someone else's. She tries to shut this out by focusing on Georgio's grunts, but the thought is persistent, a nagging that has been long subdued like dark secrets she has held in her belly. It is here, while sitting in a moonlit puddle in the penthouse suite with her fist clenched around another man, that the gigantic organism she imagines her secrets to be uncoils and pushes from her navel. She doesn't take her hand away from Georgio but feels, for the first time, the sadness she ought to. It floods the room and pulls her back into the night sea. She's afraid she might drown. She remembers—too late—that Verdene had promised to teach her how to swim.

12

T
HANDI SITS IN MISS RUBY'S SHACK, FEELING THE COARSENESS OF
Miss Ruby's palms on her skin. “Yuh coming along fine.” Miss Ruby hums while she rubs Thandi. She is in a rare good mood. “In no time yuh g'wan be as white as snow white,” Miss Ruby promises.

“You mean light brown?”

“Same difference.” She touches Thandi's face. “Trus' me when I say this. Yuh g'wan see the doors open up so wide.” Thandi relaxes under the woman's hands. This is exactly what she needs. More than promises of lightness in her skin is someone's touch. Though it is far from gentle, it is just enough for Thandi. She lifts her arms above her head for Miss Ruby to get under her arms and sides. Thandi closes her eyes when Miss Ruby gets to her breasts. This circular motion reminds her of other touches. Whenever she pulls out the neatly folded towel from under her pillow at nights and rests her head on it, her fantasies turn to Charles. His light brown eyes pull her gently in a dare. Her restless fingers seek comfort inside her cotton underwear. Her own wetness surprises and shames her. Since the attack on her as a child, she hasn't touched herself this way, not even to idly put her hand there while bathing. It became a separate entity from her body, an organ with its own blood supply, something mangled and left behind. But it's not
him
who comes to mind anymore. Some nights, before Margot comes home and well after Delores and Grandma Merle fall asleep, she floats outside of her body to the ceiling. She curls up next to a pillow of guilt, afraid she has conjured the devil; but more afraid of the possibility of Delores's eyes opening, the whites of them flashing. She hears Charles.
Come
, he says. And Thandi reaches toward him, her fingers growing and growing to close the distance between them.

Miss Ruby stops her rubbing and frowns. “Yuh all right?” she asks. Thandi hugs herself and crosses her legs. A wave of shame washes over her.

“Uhm. I'm fine,” Thandi utters in a small voice, avoiding Miss Ruby's eyes. “Why?”

“Yuh jus' made a noise.”

“It wasn't me.”

Miss Ruby begins to wrap the plastic around Thandi's chest. But she still has a look of concern when she pauses again to study Thandi. Just then something shatters outside, and she hears her name: “Thandi!” Miss Ruby stops what she's doing, leaving the plastic dangling. Thandi leaps to the other side of the room to seek cover and Miss Ruby grabs a knife—one she once used to cut the heads off fish she sold—and opens the door of her shack. The door bangs on the zinc. She looks from left to right; then, up in the quivering branches of the mango tree, she sees Charles. “Hey, dutty, stinkin' bwoy! Don't mek me cut yuh backside t'day! If me eva catch yuh, me will kill yuh!” she screams.

“What yuh doing to yuhself, Thandi?” Charles shouts. Thandi can see a part of him in the mango tree just outside the window. She gasps. “How dare you! Yuh have no decency, to be spying on me this way!”

“Yuh beautiful jus' the way yuh is! Nuh mek di witch fool yuh!”

Thandi clutches her clothes to her chest. “Go away!”

“Ah not g'wan mek yuh do this to yuhself,” Charles says.

“I said go away! It's my skin.”

Just then Charles loses his balance and falls out of the tree. Thandi rushes to the window, afraid he has broken some part of himself, but he springs up like a cat and sprints through the yard, with Miss Ruby chasing him with the knife.

“Yuh damn pervert! Yuh is a shame to yuh parents! Yuh too out of order.”

Garbage cans overturn, spilling garbage. Fowl scatter around the yard like they lost their heads. The one sleeping dog scampers from its rest spot near the standpipe.

“Bomboclaaaat!”

Charles's curse triggers a surge of terror inside Thandi. Miss Ruby must have caught him. She fumbles with the zipper on her dress and leaves the money for Miss Ruby on her bench. She runs out the door and into the backyard. Too embarrassed to use the front gate, she squeezes through a small fence that was once an entrance to the sea. Thandi struggles along the seashore toward the rocky incline that will lead her to the bank of the river. This is a longer way home, but she takes it. The castle rises into view. Though unfinished, it is several stories high already, the steel foundation glistening with promise, its shadow closing in on the beach that spreads before it. She hurries along, trying hard to dodge the sun. Everything else is wilting in the drought, but the sun is getting bigger and plumper by the day.

At home, the Queen of Pearl jar is sitting before Thandi, unopened. She touches her face, where the shade is uneven, especially the areas around her eyes and mouth. But what about the rest? When will she be fair like that goddess in the painting? The one that rises out of the oyster shell? Thandi had seen the painting for the first time hanging on the wall inside Brother Smith's office, to the left of
The Last Supper
. “
She was so beautiful that Botticelli used her as his muse for a very long time,
” Brother Smith said when he caught Thandi staring at the painting. She was in awe of the woman's long orange mane and delicate cornmeal skin. She can only imagine that if you touch skin like that, it melts. To Thandi, that soft pink skin had been part of an already long to-do list: to pass the Caribbean Examination Council subjects, go to university, become a doctor, marry well. Each night she's been pushing her sketchpad aside, studying hard, falling asleep with her head in her books; pushing away Charles, her pencils, the sea.

She swallows and dips her hand inside the Queen of Pearl cream jar and lathers her face with it.

“Thandi!”

She's pulled out of her fantasy by the sound of her name.

“Thandi, it's me!” someone wails outside the shack. She goes to the window and parts the curtains, fingering the embroidered flowers that Grandma Merle sewed decades before she became mute. Charles is standing in the tall grass where Mr. Melon ties his goat to the dying pear tree and where Little Richie sits and plays with himself inside the old tire. Charles's khaki shirt is open like a cape and his pants bulge at the pockets where he probably stole mangoes from somebody's yard. His bare feet are crusted with dirt from his swim in the river. His sandy brown hair has grass in it, like he has been rolling around in the bushes too. There's no blood on him, so Miss Ruby must have missed.

“Ah know yuh in di house.” Thandi plays with the hem of her dress, winding her finger in the thread that has come undone. How can she face him after what he has seen at Miss Ruby's shack? She hugs herself as though she were still naked and his look could tear down the walls at any moment. “I know yuh can hear me,” he says.

Thandi busies herself. She dusts the furniture, sweeps the floor, fluffs the pillows on the bed that she and Margot share. When she's overheated from all the movement, she fans herself with a piece of cardboard, grateful that Miss Ruby did not have time to wrap her with the plastic, and relieved to feel just a tingle of cool air. A girlish giggle escapes her as she recalls what Charles called out to her earlier at Miss Ruby's shack. “
Yuh beautiful jus' the way yuh is! Nuh mek di witch fool yuh!
” No one has ever called her beautiful. It is a word she associates with the evening sun when it's thick and red-orange at the bottom of the sky, the blushing stars at night, the goddesses in the paintings at school. A word that brings to mind a billowing sheer curtain that rests like a fainting damsel on the back of an armchair—serene, graceful, elegant. She turns to the mirror again to look at her half bleached face.

L
ater in the week Thandi stops at Mr. Levy's Wholesale to pick up a few things for Delores. She stays by the fan that blows hot air and the smell of cat piss into the store. She itches to wriggle out of the plastic hidden beneath the uniform. But she won't give up so easily.

“Wh'appen, sweet girl?” Thandi stiffens when she hears his voice. It's as though electric wires are coursing through her in this moment, her fingers spread wide, mouth agape. She turns around to meet the jaundiced eyes of Clover, Delores's old handyman. After he hurt her he gradually came around less and less, until he slunk out of town and disappeared for years. By the looks of things he's a worse drunk than ever, though still a young man. He sneers at Thandi with the only two crooked teeth in his mouth. His skin is an ashen black that makes it look like it has been dried in the sun. With his knuckles he raps on the counter. “Missah Chin, ah wah tek so long? Gimme a pack ah cigarette!” He shoves a dollar under the opening and leers at Thandi. There is no way for her to move away from him in this small space. She hopes he will get the message and let her be if she doesn't acknowledge that he's there. But Clover reaches out and touches her on the shoulder. Always, at this very instant of physical contact, she would wake with a scream. But this is not a dream.

“Why yuh acting so?” He tilts his head like they are lovers having a harmless disagreement.

Thandi swallows, hoping her jumbled words will be measured when she utters them, standing there in her Saint Emmanuel High uniform. “Leave. Me. Alone.” She hopes the fire in her eyes is enough to scorch him, burn him up in the flames.

But Clover's jaundiced eyes become watery as the sneer broadens on his face. “Ah love a 'ooman who got some fight in har.” He grabs himself and moves closer. “Turn me on . . .”