Here Comes the Sun(12)

“Nonsense. We build our own destiny. Didn’t nobody tell you? You once asked me what my dream was.”

“Yuh say yuh want yuh sistah to mek it.”

“An’ I want to be in control of my own destiny.”

“So let’s start wid me, then. How about we get married?”

Margot smiles. “Stop romp wid me, Maxi.” She opens the window on her side to catch the breeze. She almost closes her eyes as she tilts her head back. Finally, there’s an exhale of transient whispers that brushes against her face.

“How come some man nuh own yuh yet?” Maxi asks.

Margot turns in time to catch his sliding gaze. “’Cause I don’t want to be owned,” she says.

“Yuh nuh want children?”

“No. River Bank full wid pickney already. Why would I want to add to the pile?”

“Lots ah woman me know want pickney. Jesus Christ, as soon as me pop off, another one say she pregnant.”

“So now yuh believe in Jesus?”

Maxi sucks his teeth and shakes his head. “I an’ I believe in one God.”

“You should believe in condoms too.”

“Yuh getting fresh. Anyway, ah was trying to say dat every warm-blooded woman me know want children.”

“How yuh know dat is what dem want?” Margot asks. “Maybe is not by choice.”

“Fi tek care ah dem when dem get old an’ senile. Yuh don’t want to end up old an’ lonely wid no children.”

“I will manage,” she says, thinking about Verdene and the time they have been spending together. Just the other night they were in Verdene’s living room and Margot noticed Verdene’s slippers dangling off her feet when she rested her legs on the arm of the sofa. She imagined seeing those slippers parked next to hers on a welcome mat. Margot blinks away this memory in the beam of sunlight that spills onto the windshield when they exit the groves that flank the sides of the road.

“I nevah met a woman who like be by herself,” Maxi is saying, almost to himself. “Yuh need a man.”

“How yuh know what I need?”

“Yuh seem like a decent woman. I an’ I still cyan wrap my head ’round how yuh still single. Dat’s all.”

“Ah jus’ haven’t found di right person,” she says, thoughts of Verdene lingering like a faint smell of sun-ripe fruit.

It never feels wrong when she’s with Verdene. But late at night when the whole world seems to pause around them, leaning in like the shadows of the mango trees and the moon against the window to observe two women spooning—one adrift in sleep and the other wide awake, her breathing rapid—paranoia keeps Margot up at night. Most times it moves her out of the bed and to the sofa in Verdene’s living room. Two weeks ago it chased her from the house. She would listen to sounds outside—the chirping of crickets, the penetrating hiss of cicadas, the howling of a dog. The blackness of the unknown so stifling that Margot takes gulps of air every five seconds. Only when she’s with Verdene does she experience such panic. Every night now she smells a faint scent of burning. It disappears when she jumps up to sniff out where it’s coming from. It stays with her and she remembers the news that broke months before. It was not the main headline. Margot read it in the small section of the Star next the Dear Pastor column. Two women were burned inside their house when they were caught in bed together. Such murders aren’t taken seriously, often shrugged off as crimes of passion committed by enraged lovers—more than likely of the same sex—who were wronged. No one mourned the loss of the women’s lives, but instead rejoiced in the good judgments of karma. For what can women who refuse the loving of men expect? Verdene responded to Margot’s nerves by pulling her close, as though she was prepared to throw her body over Margot’s if she must, to protect her.

The taxi pulls up to the high iron gates of the hotel. Alan, the security guard, comes out of his little hut to open up for them. “Mawnin’, mawnin’.”

Once Maxi drives into the compound, the lobby is visible through the glass exterior. Already the concierges are busy pushing luggage on carts through the marbled interior, which boasts high ceilings and large chandeliers that glower above the champagne-colored lounge and the front desk. Gone is the rustic quality that Reginald Senior upheld until his death—a natural ambience created by vibrant colors, palm trees, and artwork by Jamaican artists. Under Alphonso’s direction, tourists now have to leave the lobby and drive half a mile to be reminded where they are. Alphonso has also loaned a few abstract paintings—geometric shapes and swirling colors—from his personal collection to the lobby. The gift shop, manned by a young woman named Portia, is right across from the check-in desk and only sells picturesque views of the island; entry to the two main restaurants—Italian and French—are diagonal from one another. Margot gives Maxi a crisp bill and gets out of the car.

“If yuh evah wake up an’ need a man, yuh know who to call.” He winks at her.

“I won’t ever need you, Maxi,” she says, waving him goodbye and walking away with her fluid stride that emphasizes everything she knows his imagination has already seen.

“Not even on a rainy night?” he asks, driving off slowly.

Margot laughs, holding her stomach and stumbling merrily to the entrance of the hotel. “We in a drought, so keep wishing.”