Here Comes the Sun(68)

Verdene fills her basket and walks to the end of the row. She has never gone this far into the arcade, but today something is propelling her. Delores is on her haunches, taking out green peas from their pods. Her expert fingers open them up quickly to let the seeds fall into a basket. Though she’s getting a lot accomplished, her mind is elsewhere. Verdene can tell, for Delores doesn’t notice her standing there watching her. “Hello, Delores.” Verdene moves inside the stall and stands over the crouched woman, who appears smaller than Verdene remembered her to be. Delores regards her face as though trying to place her. Her large eyes widen and her eyebrows touch her hairline like she has seen a ghost. “You!” Delores says. This comes out as a whisper. Verdene takes a step back to disarm her, but Delores is already struggling to her feet, her gasp turning into a body-shivering cough. Verdene wants to step forward and hit Delores’s back in order to help, but she’s afraid someone might come and think she’s trying to assault her. Delores’s cough quiets. She breathes slowly, with her fist to her mouth just in case she might have another fit. “What yuh want from me?” Delores asks when she calms down, her voice hoarse.

“I was in the area. Just came to say hello.”

Delores grimaces. “Who told you we’re on any level for dat kind of thing?”

“You never used to mind me.”

“Well, that was before I knew yuh was the devil.”

Verdene wonders if she can risk asking Delores about Margot.

“How are you?” Verdene asks.

“Why is it any of your business?” Delores retorts.

“And how is Margot? I haven’t seen her in years,” Verdene lies. She tries to sound as casual as possible, though her heart is racing. Delores makes two fists and places them on her hips.

“Yuh asking after my daughter?” Delores asks. The weight of her suspicion is heavy, like the basket of fruits and vegetables in Verdene’s hand.

“How dare yuh come here wid my dawta’s name in yuh mouth!” Delores’s eyes are flashing.

She wants to explain, but then thinks against it. “It’s not like you treated her like your daughter. You never cared about her. You never loved her. Not like—”

“You have no business coming in here, telling what kinda mother yuh t’ink I am,” Delores snaps. “She’s not like you. She has a man. A moneyman who own a hotel. So if is come yuh come to see about Margot, then yuh bettah turn back around an’ walk di other way.”

“I didn’t say—”

“I know exactly what yuh didn’t say,” Delores says through clenched teeth.

Verdene opens and closes her mouth. Delores sees through her. She knows. Has always known. It’s obvious in the way she looks at Verdene, her nostrils flared and eyes ablaze. A sneer creeps up Delores’s black ugly face.

“Margot has a moneyman,” Delores says. “A man who can provide for her. So g’weh wid yuh foreign accent an’ yuh inheritance. G’weh wid yuh nastiness! She’s not like you!”

Verdene backs away from Delores’s stall.

“She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you!”

The woman’s screams get louder and louder the farther Verdene runs. The other vendors peer from their stalls to see the commotion. They see Delores screaming, Verdene hurrying away, bumping into things and people. She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you! She’s not like you!

She runs into a young Rasta fellow who is holding a box of carved birds. She has seen him selling them on the corner. The box falls, the birds crashing to the ground, breaking. The Rasta man raises his hands to his head, his eyes wild. “Yuh bruk me t’ings dem!” He catches Verdene by the arm, his grasp tight. Her basket falls and the fruits burst open on the pavement. The overripe breadfruit, when it hits the ground, sounds like a fist punching the soft, fleshy part of a body.

“Yuh haffi pay fah di birds!” the Rasta man says, glaring at Verdene.

“Let. Me. Go,” Verdene says through clenched teeth. Her chest heaves painfully as her heart presses against her rib cage. “I said let me go!”

But the Rasta refuses. “Gimme di money fah di birds.”

“Hol’ on pon har, John-John,” says one of the other vendors. “She was messing wid Delores earlier too. Come talk ah ’bout how she love Margot.”

“What yuh do to Mama Delores?” the man asks Verdene. “What yuh do to my Margot?”

His Margot? Verdene looks into his yellow eyes. “Who are you? You let go of me, or else.”

“Or else wah?” The man draws back his fist. Behind him, the vendors chant, “Do it! Do it! Do it! Punch di sodomite in har face!”

“Only a coward hits a woman,” Verdene says in a low voice that only he can hear. “My Margot would never want you.”

The Rasta man pulls Verdene’s face to his fist or his fist to her face. Verdene—who used to block fights between her parents, and who once felt the hard knuckles of her father’s hand in her left jaw to prevent it from fracturing another bone in her mother’s petite body—has perfected a self-defense maneuver that enables her to block the man’s fist and twist his arm behind his back. He grits his teeth as she holds his hand in place.