Nicole Dennis-Benn - Here Comes the Sun

Thandi feels sorry for hurting her this way. She shouldn’t have shouted at Margot like that. But she thought Margot would’ve understood her and taken her side. Can’t she see that Thandi wants more than this life in River Bank? More than what Margot can ever give her? Margot waits until Delores leaves before she gets up and goes outside through the back door. Thandi watches her walk past the outhouse and the tire swing where Little Richie hides. Like a divi-divi tree thrashing in the wind, she walks with her head bent forward, storming through, parting banana leaves and trampling tall grass. Thandi slips into the fuchsia dress — snug at the hips with slits on both sides — which she bought last week for the birthday party. Might as well, since no one is there to see her wear it.

Thandi stands alone on the pier that evening, watching her classmates on the dance floor. She fights away thoughts of Charles, but no one asks her to dance. No one directs her to the table with snacks and soda. A feeling of alienation creeps up on her, cold like the night air. She fidgets with a piece of napkin folded in her damp hands, standing knock-kneed in the shadows. The other girls walk right by her as though they don’t know her. Dance-hall music soars in the open air and Thandi adjusts her dress, hoping someone will ask her to dance. All the pretty brown boys have found all the pretty brown girls. The boys stir with excitement and jump on the girls’ behinds, riding them to the rhythm of the music on the dance floor and against the rails. The girls don’t seem to mind. They’re oblivious to moist foreheads, smudged makeup, and damp collarbones where sweat sparkles like glitter. The more self-conscious ones fan and dab themselves with tissue, pretending not to be concerned or flattered by the looks from other boys, lining up and waiting their turn. Their smiles and skin glow under the disco lights.

Laughter takes everyone’s minds off the awkwardness of trying to impress each other. The music changes to Dennis Brown and there’s an unspoken acknowledgment that each person should find a partner. There is one boy left standing in a corner like Thandi. Their eyes meet. His dimples are visible from her vantage point. She moves from her corner and slips between the bodies on the dance floor. The boy stands up straight. Thandi tucks her hair behind her ears, confident that he can see her lighter, brighter face. She has dreamed of this moment, approaching a fair-skinned boy as though it is her birthright. The boy holds Thandi’s stare. With a slight drop of his head, he looks her up and down as she gets closer and closer to him. As Dennis Brown’s voice hits a high note, soaring into the star-filled indigo sky, the boy’s dimples disappear and he wrinkles his nose and walks away. Thandi has been acknowledged and dismissed in the time it takes to get to the other side of the dance floor. The belly-skip of possible love with a cream-skinned mulatto is nothing compared to the vile liquid that presently shoots through her veins. Her hope wilts on its stem before it can bloom into promise. Miss Ruby was wrong. Bleaching her skin doesn’t make them see her as beautiful.

Thandi walks to the restroom with pieces of her heart cradled to her chest. On her way, she spots a familiar face. She squints to see if her eyes are playing tricks on her. Jullette is sitting with a man at the bar — a foreigner who looks more than twice her age. He’s a deeply tanned white man with silver hair, casually dressed in a white polo shirt and khaki shorts. He has one hand on Jullette’s exposed brown thigh, the other around a drink. Such an unlikely couple they are, sitting there. The man leans in and whispers something in Jullette’s ear. She laughs out loud above the music, cupping her hand over her mouth. Her face is a colorful mask of violets, greens, and reds. She playfully taps the man on the shoulder, and he drains her drink for her.

“Jullette?” Thandi calls from the end of the bar where she stands. When Jullette hears her name, she turns. The beam fades from Jullette’s face. Her eyes, which are a startling hazel from the contacts she wears, widen. She quickly looks the other way.

“Jullette!” Thandi calls again, strangely happy to see her old friend since they had fallen out. The people at the bar glance at Thandi as though she has lost her mind, with her shouting to get Jullette’s attention. But Jullette buries her face in the crook of the man’s neck and whispers something. Soon they both get up and vanish from the bar.

THE PANTRY IS EMPTY. THE OPEN CUPBOARDS BARE THEIR SKELETAL insides filled with nothing but a can of chicken noodle soup. No crackers to moisten with tea. No tea bags. The refrigerator hums, its cold breath on Verdene’s face. No eggs for breakfast either. She has no choice but to go to the market. She counts the last of the insurance money her mother left her. It’s enough to sustain her, for the time being. Very slowly, she puts on her market dress. She zips the side and watches the dress fall over her knees, covering up everything. An attempt to gain respectability like the other women. She picks up her basket, the one her mother used to carry.

Outside, the sun is bright yellow like the yolk of an egg. Its one eye holds Verdene in place. For a second she ponders starving to death, renouncing her life within the safe confines of the house. Her body will rot, and when they find her she would be unrecognizable. She imagines the community people linking hands with their children to dance around her property, singing, “ Ding-dong! The witch is dead! ”

She makes her way down the road, hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible under her white sun hat. A man and a woman cross over to the other side of the road when they see her coming. A group of boys sitting on the branch of a mango tree throw mango seeds in her path. Two little girls jumping rope in a yard stop and hold the tails of their dirty dresses closed. The mothers of the girls standing nearby in the yard gasp. They don’t say then, You see that lady’s fair skin? See how pretty? Yuh g’wan stay black an’ ugly if you stay playing in the sun. Instead, they look the other way, the sides of their eyes holding Verdene in place as they grab their daughters. “Oonuh come out the way! Mek the witch pass!” And when Verdene gets to the bar by Mr. Levy’s, the men playing dominoes outside regard her closely, until she passes near enough to hear one of them, Clover, say to his friends, “All she need is a good cocky.”

But Verdene doesn’t falter. She holds her head high, knowing they probably won’t touch her due to her foreign privilege. Had they wanted to harm her, they would’ve done so already. It’s that crisp British accent, its stroke of precision sharp like a razor’s edge. “Is there a problem, gentlemen?” Verdene asks, trying not to let her voice quaver. The men shrink under her view. They are seemingly embarrassed by her propriety. Clover takes a swig of rum from a flask, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He says nothing, only grabs his crotch and holds it. Verdene stares him down until he releases himself and drops his leer.

At the market Verdene barely sees or smells anything. She picks up fruits and vegetables and puts them in her basket. They all look bad, given that it has not rained in months. She wishes she could test their texture and smell them like her mother used to do. Verdene’s mother could do this in her sleep. She always got the best price for everything she bought. But Verdene doesn’t have that luxury. One look at her and the market vendors know she’s a foreigner, a prodigal daughter who has still not assimilated back into the culture. It must be her clipped accent and mannerisms; her willingness to wait her turn to speak when they’re speaking; the way she walks with caution, unable to be led by her hips like most Jamaican women, and always looking over her shoulder like the tourists who wander from the hotels. And in her face, the vendors from River Bank see her mother, Miss Ella, and they remember the old woman who died alone in that nice pink house on the hill. They remember the daughter who disgraced her. They remember the sin she committed. They whisper to the other vendors. “ Nuh Miss Ella dawta dat? ” And their words spread like the stench of raw fish, battered fruit, and gutter water that permeates the humid air. Some fan her away like the flies that pitch all over their produce, while others pause, their hands on their hips as though waiting for a confrontation. Verdene feels like one of the soldiers that march through the area with long rifles, her presence leaving a trail of silence and apprehensive looks. The vendors quote the highest price, stating it between clenched teeth, their eyes communicating to her that their price is final. That they would rather do without her money and have their children eat cornmeal porridge again for dinner. When she agrees to buy their produce, unwilling to fight, they grudgingly take her money. Verdene notices that they touch the bills with only the tips of their fingers.