That night, Hemrajie went to bed an hour early. She felt tired and thought this was because of the work she had done in the garden.
“I feel I should start taking some exercise,” Hemrajie told Feroza.
“Why?” Feroza asked. She was off for the weekend. Hemrajie had not sat on her porch for the past two evenings, finding that she was always busy with something inside the house or in the back with the bird pens.
“I do some work in the garden, and I find it leave me out of breath.”
“Maybe you overexert yourself.”
“And the doctor say my sugar kinda high.”
“Ent you went for that check-up three months ago?”
“Yes. He tell me I should start taking exercise.”
“Gardening is good exercise.”
“I always do that. I was thinking of going for a walk in the evening.”
Feroza took a sip of her coffee, which was still hot. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“You will come with me?”
“Girl, look at me. I thin like a rake. You want me to disappear?”
“A li’l walking wouldn’t make you disappear. Besides, you yourself say you breathing hard just from walking up the stairs.”
“I’se get enough exercise with them patients,” said Feroza.
“Oh gosh, come nah. I want the company.”
Feroza took another sip of coffee, put down her cup, and unfolded her newspaper. “Oh, all right. When you want to start?”
“Tomorrow should be a good day,” said Hemrajie.
The next evening, when the shadows had grown long, Hemrajie walked down to the corner to meet Feroza. “Which way you want to go?” Feroza asked. She was already waiting in front of the bar, wearing red track pants and a yellow T-shirt. Her pale arms protruded like sticks from the sleeves. Two men, Ricky and Vishnu, were sitting at one of the outside tables drinking beer.
“Let’s walk down, nah,” said Hemrajie. “I don’t want to walk toward the sun.” They headed into the village. Hemrajie walked with a light-footed stroll. But she noticed for the first time that Feroza had an odd gait. They were walking slowly, but she extended her legs out fully and swung her hands almost up to her flat chest, as though moving at a fast clip. And as Hemrajie saw the jogger round the corner ahead, she wished she had come out alone.
“Just now,” she said. “My shoe feeling loose.”
Feroza stopped and waited while Hemrajie stooped and pretended to tie her shoelaces. The jogger came up to them.
“Evening,” he said. Hemrajie did not look up, and Feroza did not answer. He passed by and Hemrajie rose and they began walking again.
“Why you didn’t tell the man good evening?” asked Hemrajie.
“I thought he was going to make some stupid comment.”
“Why?”
“He look so. You know how Trini men is.”
“Oh.” They continued walking until they reached the corner.
“Turn back here?” Feroza said. The stretch of road beyond had no houses, but ran through a small forest.
“Yes,” said Hemrajie. “We could reach the next end of the village and call it a day. That is a good distance for the first time out.”
“Hm! Like you ambitious. The jogger fella inspire you or what?”
“Don’t be silly,” said Hemrajie. They headed back past the bar, which already had more men, past Hemrajie’s house, and toward the end of the village. Hemrajie was perspiring, but Feroza’s skin looked as cool as ever. They were both breathing more heavily. They passed the last house, a wooden structure on poles with a concrete annex behind, where a family of ten lived — Ameena and her husband Paul, their four children, Ameena’s mother, and Paul’s younger brother, his girlfriend, and their baby. “A little further?” Hemrajie said, glancing at Feroza.
Feroza, who had begun to slow, took a deep breath. “We have to watch out for them trucks,” she said. “You know them drivers does drive mad sometimes.”
“We won’t go too far.” The man was coming back. Hemrajie put a pleasant expression on her face, but instead of saying good evening as she intended, she just watched him. He nodded at her, without speaking, and passed. He had an unhandsome face, as she had thought, with sharp cheekbones and a set mouth. He was unshaven.
“He look kinda dougla,” said Feroza.
Hemrajie glanced over her shoulder, where the man was already at the curve of the road. “You find? He look pure Indian to me.”
“He kind of dark.”
“I darker than he.”
“You Indian dark. He look dark like Negro people.”
“You want to turn here?” asked Hemrajie.
“Sure.”
As they began walking back, a taska truck roared by, its giant cage rattling.
It was one month later that the accident, and the rape, happened. Hemrajie and Feroza had begun walking regularly. It was only in the first week that Hemrajie’s thighs and ankles hurt. But she lost two pounds, and that encouraged her to continue. Feroza cut down to one cigarette when they sat on the porch, which they now did after their walks. They knew the people in the village had watched them at first, tongues wagging, but that soon stopped. The man continued to jog and would raise an eyebrow when he passed them. He never smiled. Feroza decided she did not like him.
“But why?” Hemrajie asked her.
“My blood just don’t take him,” she said.
“But you never talk to the man.”
“You don’t have to talk to somebody for your blood not to take them.”
“Okay,” said Hemrajie.
This conversation occurred after the day the jogger passed them at the bar when there was a promotion for a new brand of rum, and many men who were not from the village were liming outside. Hemrajie and Feroza had been walking back, and the man passed them from behind. He was wearing a pair of green and black shorts they had never seen before.
“Like he running faster these days,” Hemrajie had said to Feroza.
“Hm.”
Then they’d heard someone outside the bar say, “But watch how the Gruesome Twosome staring down the fella!” Hemrajie and Feroza pretended that they had not heard. But Feroza did not go home till after dark that evening, and Hemrajie missed The Bold and the Beautiful. They stopped walking to the bar and began heading in the other direction, and the next time they passed the jogger he nodded as usual. But Feroza said he was looking at them funny.
The accident happened on a Sunday. There were not many cars passing on the road, but the evening sun was very bright. Hemrajie and Feroza had planned to walk, and had already put on their tracksuits, but then changed their minds because it was so hot. They sat on the porch, Hemrajie drinking iced tea and Feroza, because of the heat, drinking iced coffee while she read the newspaper. The jogger passed by. He was wearing his maroon shorts and a blue jersey.
“He good to run in this heat,” Hemrajie said.
“I think he ready for the marathon,” said Feroza. The man passed the last house, running steadily, and vanished around the corner. A taska truck came out from the cane field, turned onto the road, and made its way toward the distant chimney. The canes would soon be harvested and then the land would look very big and very flat.
“They find the woman body,” Feroza said. “The one who get kidnap last month.”
“I thought the family pay the ransom.”
“They still kill she.”
“Anybody get arrested?”
Feroza sniffed. “Police does arrest police?”
“They do when is a Indian officer, you never notice?”