Lisa Allen-Agostini - Trinidad Noir

The jogger reappeared within ten minutes, which meant he had not run very far. Hemrajie thought that he had probably run up to the first side track of the road where the cane cutters walked toward the massive scales to weigh their bundles, then turned back. He was moving at a slower pace now, but Hemrajie thought he still looked fit enough to be a marathon runner. As he came closer, she looked at his face. He was not handsome, but he had a square chin. He passed the house and glanced up, and before she turned her head, Hemrajie thought she saw him raise an eyebrow in acknowledgment. He seemed to be in his late thirties but could have been older, and he was very brown but not as dark-skinned as she. He ran down the road, again ignoring the men who were drinking outside the bar.

At twenty-five past six, Hemrajie went inside to watch The Bold and the Beautiful . Afterwards, she made some sada roti and tomato choka for dinner while she listened to the seven o’clock news. The kidnapped woman was still missing, but the family had gotten a ransom demand. With the TV on, Hemrajie ate while she read three chapters of a Patricia Cornwell novel. She had a large collection of murder mysteries but found the Cornwell pathologist the most believable detective of all. After she washed the dishes, Hemrajie watched a drama on Lifetime about a woman who discovers that her perfect husband is a psychotic killer.

At ten o’clock, she brushed her teeth, showered, and creamed her skin. When she went to bed, she took out a dildo from the bedside table drawer. Feroza had given it to her ten years ago, for her thirtieth birthday. “Is a cobweb cleaner,” Feroza had said, tipsy from the wine she had drunk that evening. The two of them had gone to a restaurant for the occasion. Hemrajie had been shocked, but treated the gift as a joke, as had Feroza. But she had kept it and used it every other week or so. She would have used it more often but felt guilty. Her orgasms were much stronger with the object than with just her fingers, and she usually had two or three before she stopped. Then she would put it away, say her prayers, and lay in the darkness waiting for sleep to come. It was very quiet this night, as always, though Hemrajie thought she could hear the grinding of the factory over the way. It was only at that hour that she felt the emptiness of the house. She had thought of getting a pet, but she did not like dogs or cats. There were a few chickens in the coops downstairs which were for eating. She had plants in the front yard, though, and she reminded herself that she had to pay more attention to them now that the dry season was here.

After falling asleep, Hemrajie dreamed she was being chased. In the dream, she was able to run very fast from whoever was chasing her and she did not get tired at all.

Hemrajie was tending her plants when the jogger passed the next evening. She had just started watering the bougainvillea when she heard shoes beating a rhythm on the tarmac. Through the spaces between the bricks of the front wall, she saw him coming. He had a full lower lip and deep-set, small eyes. As he passed the big gate, Hemrajie got a better look at him. His nose was curved with flared nostrils. Small curls of hair were plastered sweatily to his neck. He passed so close to her wall that she could hear his deep breaths. But he did not see Hemrajie in her garden behind the wall, and she felt relieved.

She had done all the planting herself in the three years since her mother died. There were bougainvillea, crotons, hibiscus, oleander, sweet lime, and even a small palm tree at each corner of the front wall. But the yard was unkempt. The back of the house was bounded by a high brick wall, with piles of old wood, iron rods, barbed wire, and other rubbish. The chicken coops were there, and every month Hemrajie would twist the necks of a few birds, pluck and gut them, and put the cut parts into the freezer. She never had to buy meat. Under the house where Hemrajie parked her fifteen-year-old car was tamped dirt, but there was a concrete walkway to the small gate in the front wall and a gravel path to the larger double-gate that was only opened on the two days when Hemrajie went to the mandir and once every fortnight when she went to the grocery store. Two shallow concrete drains, black with moss, ran alongside the yard. Weeds sprang between the loose dirt that turned to mud in the wet season. Hemrajie had thought about planting lawn grass on the sides and back of the house, but that would have cost too much. So she got plants instead which filled the front yard with greenery and color and blocked the back from people’s view.

When she finished watering her plants, Hemrajie took a trowel and a watering can, opened the small gate, and went outside. She had planted frangipani, jump-up-and-kiss-me, and Easter lilies along the wall. Grunting slightly, she stooped and began digging up weeds from between the flowers. She wore a dark-blue tracksuit and felt very warm. But the tracksuit was baggy and Hemrajie was comfortable to be out on the road in it. It was only when she heard the sound of running shoes that she realized the man had not passed back. She kept her head turned away as he ran by, digging assiduously, but she felt his eyes boring into her bowed back. It seemed to Hemrajie as though long seconds were passing between each footfall. She looked around only when she could no longer hear the sound of his footsteps. He was wearing the maroon shorts again and another white jersey. His running shoes were gray with red stripes. Then a movement caught her eye, and she saw Geeta sitting on her porch. Hemrajie ducked her head and began digging again. Geeta was thirty-six, a housewife who sold barbecued chicken on the weekends outside her house. She had two children, a fourteen-year-old daughter and an eleven-year-old boy, and her husband was an accounts clerk in the Education Ministry. After a few more minutes of digging, Hemrajie got to her feet, wiping her hands on the front of her pants and picking up the bundle of weeds. Geeta, still on the porch, waved to Hemrajie, who waved back. But she knew Geeta would think she had come outside to look at the man.

It was only during a commercial break for The Bold and the Beautiful that it occurred to Hemrajie that Geeta had come out to watch the jogger too. She was not usually out on her porch in the evening because the sun hit her house directly at that hour. And Geeta was married. Although her two children had broadened her hips, she liked to wear fitted clothes to show off her still-smallish waist. She had been on her porch in a halter top and a denim skirt that reached above her knees. But Hemrajie knew that Geeta would not have come out if her husband had been home. The thought eased her mind, and she was able to concentrate on the rest of the show.

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?”