Here Comes the Sun(86)

“Shut yuh claat, gyal. Yuh laugh like faa’ting donkey.”

The fat woman taps her friend on the forehead and her friend fans her off, the way one fans off a person they’re used to joking with. She turns back to Thandi. “What is it dat yuh need help wid, baby?”

“I need help finding someone. A girl name Jullette.”

“Why not look har up in di directory? What’s her last name?”

“Rose.”

That’s when the fat woman slaps her hand on her forehead, nearly knocking off her red wig. “Oh, Sweetness!” She hits her friend on the shoulder. “Doreen, she ah talk ’bout Sweetness!”

Doreen’s eyes light up. “Oh, Sweetness! Yes, yes, me know who she is!” She turns to Thandi. Then to her friend she says, “Annette, yuh t’ink we should—”

“Big boss would know,” Annette offers, cutting off Doreen. She lights another cigarette.

“Who?” Thandi asks.

“Big boss. She come aroun’ dese parts an’ recruit girls. Di younger ones.”

“She?”

“Yeah, man. Is a woman who’s in charge ah dese girls. We call har boss lady or big boss,” Doreen says. “She oversee everything, from how much di girls get pay to when dem get lay. Me an’ Annette is we own boss. We sleep wid who we please, when we please. An’ di money we earn is ours to keep.”

“How can I find her?” Thandi asks.

“Trus’ me. Yuh g’wan haffi be careful. She might convince yuh to work fah har. Dat woman, from what I hear, is a snake. A vicious one.”

“So can you help me?”

The women glance at each other. Then Annette waves Thandi to follow her. She stuffs the pack of cigarettes inside her brassiere and lifts her breasts so that they stand up. She walks with a slight limp.





37


VERDENE FEELS AS THOUGH SHE IS PLANNING A WEDDING—OR rather, is already at the reception, where she’s tipsy with wine, drunk off merriment and hope. But something nags at her. She can’t put her finger on it, but it’s always there, lurking like a bad odor trapped inside the walls, seeming to strangle her in her sleep. During these sleepless nights she’s cuddled next to Margot, comforted by her presence. It’s nice to think about Margot’s sweet dreams and avoid the inkling that has been nagging her. She hopes Margot’s dreams will become hers, relieving her of any doubt.

Verdene’s suspicions began with Margot’s argument against hiring a lawyer. At first she didn’t think anything of it, since Margot kept on harping about her big promotion and the new property. That all Verdene has to do is sign, since she holds their future in her hands. But Verdene cannot shake the guilt of selling the house for less than what her parents had put down for the property back in 1968. Why would the property be so devalued now? She’s kept it quiet from Margot, but Verdene has been spending her days scanning each page of the contract, noticing more and more flaws—like the fact that the company identifies itself as a subsidiary group without mentioning its affiliate. After Margot left for work this morning, Verdene dialed Mr. Reynolds—the lawyer who did the paperwork for her mother’s will, which granted her ownership of the house and property.

“Did they come by yet?” Mr. Reynolds asks Verdene over the telephone.

“They’re supposed to be here soon.” She looks over her shoulder to see if the developers are at her gate. She runs her fingers through her hair and pulls slightly to alleviate the mild headache forming. “The bastards owe me money,” she says. “I should be getting quadruple what they quote here.”

“Don’t do anything until I read the contract,” Mr. Reynolds says in his raspy smoker’s voice. He’s about seventy and has been practicing law for years—first in Britain, where he was a Rhodes Scholar who became friends with Aunt Gertrude and her husband. The last Verdene saw him was after her mother’s funeral. He still has height, for his age—about six feet—with a shock of white hair and skin the color of night. A proud Maroon from Accompong, St. Elizabeth.

“Can you fax me the contract?” Mr. Reynolds asks. “I leave Montego Bay this evening for a business trip until next week, but ah can look at it when ah come back.”

Verdene closes her eyes. What will she tell Margot? That she has to delay until her lawyer looks it over? Margot already thinks that she’s stalling. As though Mr. Reynolds is reading her mind over the telephone, he says, “Don’t let them bully you, Verdene. Why didn’t you contact me earlier?”

“I—I thought I could handle it on my own,” Verdene says, feeling like a child again who has been caught stealing Scotch Bonnet peppers. She remembers the promise she made to Margot and how drunk she was with happiness for their shared future.

“Yuh know who the company is?” Mr. Reynolds asks. “Maybe I can do some research on them through my contacts at NEPA.”

“Doesn’t say on here. Just the subsidiary group.”

Mr. Reynolds lets out a long whistle over the telephone—not the melodious whistle Verdene hears the farmers blowing on their way to the fields, a stark contrast to their silhouettes limp with defeat against the dull brown of the drought. Mr. Reynolds’s whistle is the tuneless, drawn-out alarm of fire trucks in London that cut corners on wet, slippery roads whose sheen reflects the bright red lights of their sirens. “Either you wait until I get back to Mobay, or risk losing your inheritance,” Mr. Reynolds says.