Here Comes the Sun(11)
Thandi gathers her belongings and walks out the door.
“Braeeeeeeee! Hee-haw, he-hawwwww.” The sound starts as a single whisper, then builds into a low resonating force that pushes Thandi out the door faster. She almost runs to get away from the sound. She wishes she could unhear it, or, best, stand up to it. Tell her classmates that she’s not a donkey. That her being from a rural area does not mean she should be associated with farm animals. But her inability to do this only fuels her anger.
3
MARGOT TAKES COMFORT IN HEARING THE CRUNCH OF HER feet on the dirt road, the chirping of birds from the crosshatch of branches, and the buzzing of wasps around the poinciana trees. There’s a silence that seems to hold its breath at the sound of the gravel. Not unlike her coworkers, who seem to cease breathing and stop what they are doing when they see her approaching at work. And certainly not unlike Delores, whose whole body seems to halt at the sound of Margot’s voice. All her life her presence has brought about pauses and silences louder than the white-hot sun and screaming crickets at the height of dusk. Even the sky, an arch of blue, seems to veer away from her with its distance.
It’s strange how people always sense her. Before she approaches them, they look up and over their shoulders. It’s as though she brings a change of weather in her dove-gray suit amid the languorous ease of a dry, hot day. Her gait and hotel uniform seem to reprimand the locals for their displays of idleness. Perhaps she serves as a reminder of their lost livelihoods as farmers and fishermen. Walking down River Bank Road, the heels of her pumps worn by dirt, Margot attracts the looks of men holed up inside Frenchies for a heavy breakfast of boiled yam, banana, ackee, and saltfish before going off to their various handyman jobs in Montego Bay. She also draws the attention of women carrying buckets of water on their heads, their mouths curved with malice and necks stiff with resentment. There are some howdies and nods, but mostly stares. Some of the men holler, “’Ey, beautiful.” But Margot has never slept with any of the men in River Bank. Though in her line of work she f*cks anyone who can afford it, being with a man from her area is beneath her. Their fantasies alone have colored their lenses, easing their tension around her just a little. With her they become as unquestioning and generous as children, even protective, her high, swaying backside and firm calves making them forget why they were annoyed that she—whom their women describe as Miss High an’ Mighty—barely says hello to them and refuses to take their job applications with their crab-toe request for menial work at the hotel. She knows that mothers watch to see if she stops to open a palm full of sweeties for their children. And when she doesn’t, they suck their teeth loud enough for her to hear them say, “What a selfish ’ooman. Mean like star apple tree. Not even pickney ’im mek nyam outta ’im hand. No wondah why she barren.” Margot doesn’t have woman friends. She likes to think that maybe it’s for her own sake and theirs. In the beauty parlor some of them greet Margot with reserved shyness, but in their hot heads under the hair dryers she can tell they have already marked her as a threat.
By the time she gets to the square, she has seen enough dropped gazes and begins a purposeful stride to the taxi stand. There too, breaths are drawn, as though the drivers are looking to see who she’ll pick to carry her to the palace today. Mostly, they like to give her their information so that she can recommend their services to tourists who need rides. Some might even use the drive as an opportunity to pick her brain about job prospects as a kitchen boy, chef, server, housekeeper, maintenance man, concierge—anything that can get them through the door of the hotels, beating out the crowd of applicants. But Margot always goes with Maxi—if not for his indifference to working in the hotel, then for his ability to see her as just Margot. She never feels obligated to do him any favors. His smile eases the tension that has stiffened her back.
“How yuh doin’ today, baby girl?” Maxi says, starting his ignition. Buju Banton’s “Wanna Be Loved” plays on the car radio as Maxi backs out into the street. Margot fiddles with the pair of black, green, and gold boxing gloves on the rearview mirror.
“Been bettah. Dis heat is no joke. Can’t wait to get some ice when I reach work.”
“Yuh looking good. Look like is you producing all di heat.” Maxi manually rolls down his side of the window with the knob and puts one hand out to catch the wind; the other one steers the car.
“Don’t tell dat to yuh neighbors. Dem already ’ave me up fah wearing this uniform.”
Maxi sucks his teeth. “Mek dem g’weh. Is jealous dem jealous.”
“Can’t wait to leave dis godforsaken place.”
“Is it dat bad? We live by di sea. How much people can say dat? Give t’anks.”
“Maxi, shut up wid yuh blessings nonsense. This is no paradise. At least, not for us.”
“Yuh t’ink I don’t know? Trus’ me, I an’ I see di struggles of di people every day. Dem look at people like you an’ see where dem job went. Yuh can’t blame dem. But yuh also can’t say yuh not thankful fah what Jah give we.”
“So River Bank is what God give we?” A bitter chuckle escapes Margot. “Stolen land?”
“Correction. We are di stolen people. Dis is our temporary land. Jah wouldn’t give us what ’im didn’t intend fah us to ’ave. Him soon move we again to a bettah place. Maybe back to Africa.”