“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.
After the telephone call, Verdene fills a pot with water to boil some cerassee leaves to get rid of her headache. As soon as she turns on the stove, she hears knocking at her gate. Two men dressed in white shirts, dark pants, and blue hard hats are standing there, waiting for the sealed envelope with the signed contract. Verdene goes out to greet them on her veranda.
“I’m not signing this,” she tells them through the grille. She won’t give them the satisfaction of robbing her this way. Uprooting people from their homes like this and having the nerve to pay them less than what their property is worth.
“Ma’am, we need your signature,” the shorter one says to Verdene. “We gave you time. We are behind on construction. You’re the only property owner who hasn’t signed.”
“What do you want me to do about that?” she asks the man, who looks to be in his twenties. Perhaps a new university graduate convinced that he’s making a difference.
“Comply.”
“What for? You think I’m stupid like the rest?”
“Ma’am, you seem like the most reasonable one around here.” The taller one gestures to her frame behind the burglar bars, leaving off words Verdene knows he’s thinking when he sees her lighter skin and hears her British accent. “Legally, we cannot do anything without your signature.”
“Legally?” Verdene laughs, throwing her head back. “Did you read this?” She holds up the paper and rattles it for emphasis. “This is illegal! Your bosses are sending you out here to do their dirty work. This house belonged to my mother. I’m not signing this without a lawyer.”
The two men glance at each other.
“May I ask who’s in charge? I’d like to take this up with them.”
“Ma’am?”
“Who’s in charge?” she repeats. “And stop calling me ma’am!”
“It’s Sutton and Company,” the taller man says.
“I want the name of the parent company. It says here that you’re a subsidiary group, but there’s no information about your affiliate.”
“Wellington Estate, ma — I mean, miss.”
“Wellington? Like the rum and coffee plantation?”
“They also own properties on the coast. Alphonso Wellington is the one in charge.”
Alphonso. The one Margot works for? The one who promoted her to general manager for his new hotel? Somewhere remote and off the beaten path, according to Margot. Verdene covers her mouth with one hand as everything takes shape in her mind. How many nights has Margot been with her, knowing that this would happen? Verdene reaches for the doorknob.
“I–I have something on the stove, if you don’t mind,” she says. “Let your boss know that my lawyer will be in touch.”
“Miss, we can’t—”
But Verdene stops listening as the door closes behind her. She takes slow, careful steps toward the kitchen, seeing but unseeing. She sits at the table and cradles her pounding head in her hands. Margot knew how much this house meant to her. Not once did she let on that she was aware of the details of this development. The night when Verdene returned to the house shaking with relief from surviving the meeting at Dino’s, Margot gave her a bath. She had climbed inside the tub with her and gently cooed in her ear that it’s a sign for them to leave River Bank. “You, me, and Thandi can live together in the house I bought. For us.”
“I’m not letting them destroy my mother’s house.”
“You’re a property owner. You’ll get your money’s worth.”
“I need a lawyer before I make any decisions.”
“Why go through all that trouble to hire a lawyer and drain the life insurance money Miss Ella left you? For what? For them to read a couple pages that you can read yourself? All I’m asking is for you to trust that I can take care of you. Consider my offer. The new house is in a gated community where no one will bother us. You don’t have to suffer like you suffered here. This house might be your mother’s legacy, but our new house is ours.”