“When do you think they’ll be done?” she asks.
“By Christmas, maybe. Definitely by high season. More tourists come then.”
“How long ago did they start?”
Charles shrugs his shoulders. “’Bout March, thereabout.”
Where Thandi lives — the part farthest from the fork along the Y-shaped river — there is no construction activity going on. There’s also no indication that what happened to Little Bay will happen to River Bank too. After all, River Bank is scrunched under the nose of a hill and the river overflows when it rains. It’s not exactly a tourist attraction like Martha Brae, Black River, or Rio Bueno. Also, the beach won’t be ideal for amateur swimmers, since one can easily drown if not aware of Pregnant Heidi’s wrath.
“They been coming around, giving out papers,” he says.
She’s sitting Indian-style with her hands on her knees, her uniform skirt falling between them, and her head turned. She fixes her eyes on the arches above her head.
“Papers?” she asks.
Charles shrugs again. “I guess for the bulldozing noise. Mama can’t get rest wid all di banging and drilling.”
“We don’t hear that from where we are,” Thandi says, feeling panic for the first time. She thinks back to the workmen she has noticed whenever she’s over by Miss Ruby and Charles’s side of the river, which is closer to the sea and fishing boats. It never occurred to her that the men were building so close. They always seemed so far. “Do you ever think they’ll kick us out?” she hears herself ask.
“That won’t work,” Charles says, his voice laced with something that makes Thandi suspect he has given it thought. “That wouldn’t happen. We’ll burn dem out first. What right do dey have fi kick people outta dem own place? Me tired of di government an’ how dem mek we country open to foreigners wid money. Wah ’bout di people? If dey evah try fi get rid ah we, me will show dem who dem dealing wid.”
He focuses on her. “Yuh not hot?” He asks. “Why yuh wear dat long sweatah every day?”
Thandi looks down at her sweatshirt as though noticing it for the first time.
“Take it off,” Charles says. “It’s all right, di sun not g’wan bite yuh in here.”
Very hesitantly, Thandi peels the sweatshirt over her head. She feels Charles watching her. He watches her lower the sweatshirt to the floor. “Yuh can’t tek that off too?” he asks, eyeing the plastic wrapping that is still on her arms under her white uniform blouse.
“I’m not supposed to.”
“Says who?”
“Miss Ruby.”
“Why?”
“It makes my skin come faster.”
Charles sucks his teeth. “Yuh how I feel ’bout dat already.” He studies her. “I told yuh dat you’re beautiful.”
She wishes that there were some kind of a distraction, but there isn’t anything other than the transparent veil of silence, until he says, “My ole man was a artist. Ah eva tell yuh dat? Him use to paint everything him could get him hands on. People used to commission him to paint designs on buildings. But when him was by himself, he painted the river. Dat’s all him use to paint. Dat river.” Charles looks across the yards of sand where their footprints still are, tracing them back to the river. “See how it shape? Like a Y? He would tek him pencil an’ draw suh.” He moves his hand in the air to imitate the movement of drawing. “Then him would go street an’ get equipment an’ come back. The river was his muse. Mama always used to seh dat di river was him woman.” Charles laughs at this, and Thandi laughs with him. “When him go fish, sometimes he stay out there an’ just paint pon cardboard box or paper. Then when him p’dung the paper, him would just stare out into the sea as if waiting for freedom to come.” He looks at Thandi. “If yuh ask me weh all him painting is now, I wouldn’t know.”
Thandi lets the waves do the talking. She knows the story. All of River Bank knows. On the canvases of people’s minds they have already painted Asafa as a selfish man who left his family behind; their wagging tongues have colored him red in the imaginations of those who never met him.
“Dat’s all right, though,” Charles says. “He taught me a lot.”
The next day they spend time together inside Charles’s shack. Thandi, having told Delores she needs to study outside the house for the day, needs a change. Her books rest untouched on the floor. Charles sits beside Thandi on the mattress, looking at her sketchpad. Thandi shifts uncomfortably as he studies each portrait she has painstakingly drawn for her project. He laughs when he recognizes the drawings: a drawing of Miss Gracie clutching her Bible; Mr. Melon walking his goat; Little Richie in the old tire swing; Macka sitting on the steps of Dino’s, watching a game of dominoes with a bottle in his hand; the women with the buckets on their heads on their way to the river; Miss Francis and Miss Louise combing their daughters’ hair on the veranda; Mr. Levy locking up his shop; Margot hunched over stacks of envelopes on the dining table with her hands clasped and head bowed like she’s praying. She blushes when he gets to a drawing of himself by the river. When he finishes, in his best British accent he says, “I am truly honored, madam, for having this pleasure of seeing your genius.” He gives her a slight bow and she laughs, finally at ease. More seriously, he says, “Yuh is di real deal.”
“Yuh think so?”
“One hundred percent,” he says. “I like di drawings of di people. Ah like how yuh mek dem look real.”
“They are real.”
“Yeah, but you give us more. I don’t know if ah making any sense. What’s di fancy word yuh use fah when yuh can see inside ah person an’ know dem life story?”
Thandi shrugs.
“You’ll definitely win dat school prize,” Charles says, tugging her arm. When he says it, the words stroke something inside her. Charles closes the book between them.
“You didn’t mind me drawing you without notice?” Thandi asks.
“Mind?” Charles guffaws.
After their night at the construction site she forced herself to study the words in her textbook, but all she could think about was Charles. Over dinner she pined for him. Her appetite for her favorite meal, tin mackerel and boiled bananas, vanished. The untouched food agitated Delores, who looked at Thandi as though she had taken sick at the table. Thandi finally fell into bed, exhausted from fantasies and unable to smell his smell in the towel she kept under her pillow.
“Yuh really passionate about dis drawing t’ing,” he says.
“It’s not a thing.”
“Yuh know what ah mean.” Then, after a pause, he says, “When yuh g’wan tell yuh mother an’ sister the truth?”
Thandi shrugs, his question gripping her in a way she didn’t expect. “Margot is going to kill me if I tell her I’m considering art school. She was upset that I didn’t drop art.”