Nicole Dennis-Benn - Here Comes the Sun

Margot loosens her grip around her mother’s neck, but her hands don’t fall. “Yuh have yuh place in hell,” Delores growls.

Margot stands there with her hands around her mother’s neck; but the evil look in her mother’s bulging eyes is not enough to make her do what she thought she could. She wants desperately to press her face into the bosom of the woman she wishes had loved her, would hold her, rock her gently, stroke her hair. But Delores only spits in Margot’s face, the slime running down Margot’s right cheek, a thick and slow-moving tear.

VERDENE APPEARS ON THE VERANDA, FLOATING LIKE A GHOST in her nightgown. She doesn’t move to open the grille to let Margot inside. They look at each other for what seems to Margot like an eternity. The chirping of the crickets grows around them. Verdene parts her lips like she’s about to say something. The shadow of the moon, big and round, cuts her face in half. Her eyes fall to Margot’s overnight bag. Margot tilts her head to the side, her eyes moist with all the words she wants to say. They weigh heavily, pressed like a rock against her rib cage. If only Verdene would let her inside. “Please?” she asks her lover. But Verdene lifts her head to the ceiling, sucking her quivering lip. When she lowers her head, Margot sees tears in her eyes too.

“Who do you think you are?” she asks.

Her voice is the scratch of a nail, a small cut that burns; it pierces the blackness around them.

“Just let me in, please?” she asks.

“How dare you, Margot? How dare you abandon me when I needed you? And now you come back begging me to let you in?”

“Please?”

Margot watches her move to open the grille, each click of the bolt loosening something inside her, this simple act of mercy.

Inside, the house is immaculate. With her back to Margot, Verdene picks up one of the pillows from the sofa, fluffs it, and puts it back. Margot watches Verdene’s back, the boniness of it. She has gotten down to just skin and bones, the way her vertebrae stick out — round, protruding marbles in the back of her neck, visible through the sheer nightgown she wears. Margot suppresses the urge to wrap her arms around Verdene from behind. When Verdene turns around and peers at her out of a pair of hollow dark circles, Margot’s hand finds the base of her own throat.

“You may have the couch,” Verdene says. “I’m going to bed.”

She walks off, leaving Margot alone in the living room. Miss Ella’s pictures are back, staring at her from each frame as though reprimanding her: Why have you hurt my daughter this way? She goes to Verdene’s room and peers through the crack of the door, watching Verdene remove her nightgown in front of the full-length mirror. Her body is leaner than Margot remembers. Her frailty more pronounced, like she can be broken into many pieces. A slow suicide is what it looks like. Margot pushes the door open, and Verdene drops her hands to her sides. She catches Margot’s frown in the mirror. She doesn’t move to cover herself. Margot walks toward her, and very gently clutches Verdene’s bony shoulders. Her hands travel the length of Verdene’s arms; and Verdene begins to weep softly. Margot turns her around and hugs her. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. She lowers her lips to Verdene’s, but Verdene pushes Margot away. “Don’t touch me,” she hisses.

Margot disobeys her. Even as Verdene hits her, pounding her back lightly with her fists, then slapping her with big, open-handed slaps, Margot bears it. There are no screams, no shouts, just the sound of Verdene’s slaps on Margot’s back. Verdene fights and fights while Margot continues to cling to her. Margot closes her eyes as Verdene’s blows pour down, for in this very moment she finally feels something more intense than she has ever felt. She feels alive, fighting for the one thing she thought was not meant for her. This feeling grips her, bringing tears and a deep sense of relief. The overhead light blinks as though all Verdene’s rage has been transmitted to the fixture. The slaps begin to weaken, until they stop for good.

ON HER WAY HOME, THANDI TELLS CHARLES WHAT CLOVER DID to her when she was nine. Charles is silent as she talks. Thandi is not sure if he’s brooding or listening. He’s still holding her hand, but she feels him stray somewhere in the dark. Peenie wallies swoop around them, dotting their path with glowing orange lights. It sounds strange to hear herself speaking to anyone about this. Delores would tell her never to wash dirty clothes in a public river. “ Dese people are human beings like you an’ me, ” Delores said, referring to the priests in the confessionals at school. “ Dey hear yuh secret an’ judge yuh jus’ di same. ” But Charles is different. Thandi feels at ease talking to him. Each word that leaves her mouth surprises her, dares her to tell more, and relieves her of a burden. Charles stops walking and turns to face her. He cups her chin with both his hands. Through the dark she makes out the glistening in his eyes, the ferocity of his voice when he speaks. “Him will haffi pay fah what he did,” he says. His words are urgent.

“Charles, I’m fine,” she says. “It happened long ago.”

“If yuh was fine, yuh wouldn’t have fight me like dat earlier.” He’s shaking his head, swatting away the peenie wallies that linger between them. Thandi can see a sense of purpose come into him — a gleam in his eyes — which might have washed down onto his cheeks had he not balled his hands into tight fists. It’s a gleam she has seen in the past when he used to come over to the shack to collect Delores’s leftovers. A shame that shaped his childhood and has now been projected onto her — stale, discarded, tainted goods. Frantically she searches his face for any hint of this, but finds it shut, inscrutable. “No, him mus’ learn him lesson,” he insists. “What he did was a crime.”

“What will you do to him?”

“Don’t worry ’bout dat.”

“Don’t do anything that will cost you. Yuh know he’s a drunk. He can do anything.”

Charles pulls away from her. A scowl transforms his face and twists it so that he talks from the side of his mouth. He walks a few steps ahead, his shoulders mounting like hills. Thandi runs to catch up with him. She tugs at his shirt. “What yuh going to do?” But he doesn’t answer. He turns to her, just short of her gate. Mr. Melon is untying his goat. He’s walking in their direction. When he approaches the both of them, he tips his hat. “Howdy.” Charles and Thandi mumble a greeting to the older man. After he passes, Charles says, “Don’t worry about what ah g’wan do. I’ll take care of everything.” He kisses Thandi and leaves her standing at her gate, panicked.

···

The next afternoon a crowd is gathered outside of Dino’s Bar to watch Charles and Clover roll on the dusty ground like two lizards. Macka, the bartender, is trying to pry them off each other, but he stumbles backward when Charles pushes him off, the man falling over a group of small schoolchildren squatting nearby. The children scatter like mice, then return when Macka gets up and brushes himself off. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” the little boys yell. This brings more people to the scene — mothers who are just walking from the river with buckets on their heads. The women stop and lower their buckets to scoop their children close. This is not surprising to them, since the normal meanness that the heat and the sun brings is compounded by the drought, which provokes fits of rage. They set their eyes too on the young girl madly screaming, clamping both hands to her face, a woman in despair. “Stop it! Stop it!” This sets off mild whispers among the women, for they have only heard her speak just a decibel above a whisper. Always proper.