“If they look in here first, they mightn’t bother.”
“Well. Don’t mind. Anyway, at least they painted up the place before you came in...” He went on, the whole time. While we nailed up the weak door and put a new bolt on the front door. Going on, then gently urging me to be careful, always look out, especially when I coming in at night, to look out for them sprangers because they like rats round here.
I looked out for them. And the hills. And Trinidad. Eyes peeled. Listening to gruesome news, daily. Tucked close under the feathery, shifting beauty. Standing on thin skin, feeling bones moving under the soles of my feet. Watching the rainbow colors of oil on dark water.
Part II
Town
Woman is boss
by Elisha Efua Bartels
Diego Martin
Jump high, jump low, somebody dead.
Afternoons in July, it comes down bucket-a-drop in Diego Martin. This particular day the sky opened up over the Northern Range right on time and the expected convectional rainfall was beating its usual rhythms on galvanize. It would be another hour or so until the rainbow fighting through the clouds won and sun kissed us again and life could continue, squeaky clean after the afternoon wash.
As I rolled over on my mattress, my eye caught #1’s work-in-progress, making me roll back over and shove my head under the pillow, hopefully blocking out art and light, at least until the latter was over for the day. I had to fall out soon to be rested enough to surpass #2’s three-day cumulative anticipation, and staring at myself was too disturbing. I wanted to take advantage of that lithe young body enough that I’d worked from yesterday, straight through the night and this morning, sending multiple stories with sidebars to keep my editor busy. I was doing for me tonight, so the knowledge that surely somebody somewhere was dead had to take a backseat.
Hours later, as Jon Stewart’s outstanding opening monologue made me gleefully imagine doing to him what I’d been planning for #2, the latter rang.
“Aye, babes. You home?”
“Yes. You coming?”
“Up the road. Waiting for your go and I there...”
“Come.” Enough time to shut down laptop, find keys, finish spliff, out incense, and stick notebook and phone in my pocket as my song pulled up outside — he always thought of shit like that, knew exactly what I needed a moment before I did, ever-ready with the blanket, water, ice cream, right tune. Being the center of someone’s universe was amazing and I couldn’t possibly be giving enough in return. His being completely in love helped cover my debt, but even so, could this level of devotion be long-term sustainable? I tried not to think too hard, reaching instead into Billie’s voice: Filled with despair / There’s no one could be so sad / With gloom everywhere / I sit and I stare / I know that I’ll soon go mad / In my solitude.
I opened the door as he reached out to knock, pleasant surprise interrupted as my phone emitted its low, discreet, single tone. I ignored it for the moment, heading for the car where I knew he’d open the door, hold it while I got in, then gently tuck it closed behind me once both legs were safely inside, knees almost caressing the dash.
People calling at that hour knew it wasn’t their turn and should expect to wait. Still, such off-night calls were rare enough that once en route, I played the message, face wringing involuntarily as I snapped the phone shut.
“Babes?”
“Nada.” I rearranged my expression. “So. Where we going?” We were always going — I didn’t entertain in #1’s space. #2 waited for my go to pull up to the house, given only when I was ready to walk out the door.
“Surprise.”
“I hate surprises.” He took me to Martin’s via the scenic route (my designation for going all the way around the Savannah with a small run up Lady Chancellor) to Cipriani Boulevard. The Savannah’s circular nature despite a lack of roundness was irresistible, populated by flowering trees, joggers, and coconut and pholourie vendors, supplemented at varying times with corn soup or snow cone vendors mobbed by Bishop’s and QRC uniforms, fellas kicking ball, parents and siblings pushing garrulous babies in strollers — the cacophonous charm of the world’s largest roundabout made it my automatic route for anywhere it could take me.
He opened my door with a spliff in the palm of the hand offered to help me out. I took both, the question still lurking behind lowered lids — could anybody remain so attentive?
At a table under the big tree in the backyard, I waved at Martin, ordering a red rum and tamarind juice as we sat. We got lifted while endnotes of another delicious night in Ruthmin’s kitchen teased my nostrils, my stomach commiserating with Tanker’s wail of longing for Lena from the speakers. I allowed one hand to drift under the table, masking the action with my legs as I reached into his lap. The phone rang again.
Same caller, no message this time.
Across the table, the other eyebrow raised. “Somebody anxious, forget what night it is?”
“Sorry, babes.”
“We good.”
I felt bad anyway.
Shortly, sliding back into the passenger seat, I looked up at him and tried to smile. “Sorry, lovin’.” I found myself saying the word twice as often lately, meaning it about half the time.
#2 took me back home, Billie’s voice slicing deeper into my mind. I hesitated at the door, hunting for a reason to turn the key — not a fitting end to my night, especially since there’d probably be little appreciation for my cutting it short to grant this request — of course I’d cancel my plans and come home to “talk” since he thought it was important enough to call, knowing full well he shouldn’t have.
The latch plunked reluctantly back from the well and I pushed, then pushed again, annoyance rising. The door was still sticking — the last flood seemed to have swelled the wood and no amount of hot sun would shrink it.
“I’m here.”
He paced the big room, all but pawing and snorting. “I hear this one might be serious.”
“What?”
“I want it to done.”
“Want what to done?” For dragging me away from a previous engagement, the least he could do was make sense.
“Him. Stop seeing him.”
“I’m sorry...” Again. Maybe I meant it.
“No. I sorry. But I can’t help it. This one different and I just... not handling it. I not trying to cramp your style, babes, but just... not this one...”
“Hear what — I need a cup of tea. I coming.” I prepped my favorite mug with Lipton Yellow Label and two teaspoons of brown sugar, turned on the fire under the kettle, and returned to the big room, dropping into the couch and silently thanking it for being the most forgiving thing in my life these days. “So, why?”
“I don’t know, and I feel shitty asking you, but I not dealing, and I don’t want this to mash us up, so I asking you to let this one go.”
“You asking plenty, wanting me to throw away a relationship because of some vague, undefined... unease. You better come better than that. I don’t know if I can agree, on principle. I mean, if I give up this, then what? What else after that?”
“You know is not like that. Come on. You trying to tell me you can’t do this one thing for us? This small sacrifice to maintain something more important?”
“And what about me? Why I have to be the one to fucking sacrifice? Why you can’t just fucking deal?” I was defensive, happy equilibrium threatened.