Chapter 6
In Sinclair's last day of work before her vacation, she invited Shelly to share a drink with her. The dark-haired woman seemed pleasantly surprised and said so when she walked into the office.
"Don't worry, I'm not turning senile or anything. I just wanted to thank you for going above and beyond when I was having a rough time."
"It was for my own sanity as well as yours, trust me." Shelly threw her an arch look. "But you're welcome. I'm sure you would have kicked my ass, too, if I'd walked in here for days looking like someone had just stolen my lunch money."
Sinclair poured her a glass of whiskey and winced at the reminder of Regina. Shelly touched her hand gently in apology before taking her drink to the leather-covered window seat. She sighed as she looked down at the street below. "I'm sure going to miss your sour puss every morning."
Sinclair sat beside her with her gin and tonic in hand. "Can't say I feel the same, Shell. I'm really looking forward to being gone from here for a while."
Shelly pouted in mock pique. "And here I thought I was the new love of your life."
"No, ma'am." Sinclair gave an exaggerated shake of her head. "I'm through with love. You'll have to settle for my everlasting friendship."
Shelly smiled and a dimple appeared in the soft oval of her cheek. "I can do that."
"Would you like anything, miss?" A blue-clad flight attendant appeared at Sinclair's elbow.
"Gin and tonic, please. No ice."
After a slight nod, the woman disappeared. Before Sinclair could wonder what kind of gin they used, the woman was back, drink and napkin in hand.
"Thank you." Sinclair watched the twitch of the flight attendant's hips under the navy blue cloth as she walked away. Something in her stride reminded her of Regina. The liquor burned its way down her throat before settling with a comforting warmth in her belly. For the rest of the flight, she buried herself in a novel, ignoring the bitter taste that Regina's brief memory left on her tongue.
Sinclair stepped off the plane to a dizzying sense of home. A confusion of voices and accents bombarded her in the busy airport. She limped through them with her heavy shoulder bag and two suitcases propped up on a rolling cart with a mind of its own.
"Can I help you with your bags, miss?" a young man in jeans and T-shirt asked.
"No, thank you." Sinclair had gotten the offer at least five times since she got off the plane, but her citybred paranoia kept her from accepting any of them. Eventually she made it to the busy curbside where her father said he would meet her.
Sinclair didn't even know that she would recognize him when the time came. Sure he had sent pictures, but photos often stole the animation from your face and turned you into someone else entirely different.
She glanced at every middle-aged man she saw, searching his face for some similarity to her own or at least to the photo in her bag.
"Sinclair?"
She turned around. Her rehearsed greeting fell back down her throat.
A face from her childhood looked back at her. He wore the same thin mustache. His face, framed by long, neatly trimmed sideburns, was still narrow and handsome, even with the balding head and sleepy eyes. There wasn't a trace of gray on him anywhere. Victor Daniels greeted her with Xavier's wide guileless smile.
"Hi, Papa," she stammered when his faltering smile made her realize she was staring.
He hugged her, gathered her up through the straps of her luggage and embraced her with his warmth. He smelled like shaved wood and of the outdoors. "Sinclair. You look so much like your mother."
She smiled, not knowing what to say.
"The car is over there," he said, gesturing to a bright yellow Honda Accord, circa 1970, with fuzzy purple dice dangling from the rearview mirror. "I borrowed it from a friend," he said with a laughing mock-whisper.
Nikki and Xavier waited near the car for them. The boy stared at her with naked curiosity, while Nikki said a nervous hello and hopped into the front seat of the car. She was a bright-skinned girl with pale gray eyes and short reddish hair that stood up around her head like a tamed flame.
"The drive is short, only twenty minutes or so. After that, I'm going to have to leave you at the house for a bit while I take the car back to my friend in town and pick up my bike."
"Sorry to cause all this trouble."
"What trouble? We're glad to have you. The season's been boring anyway." He started the car. "Nikki is always saying that I don't take her anywhere. Well, I'm doing the next best thing, I brought my sophisticated daughter from America for her to talk to."
Sinclair laughed. "I'm hardly sophisticated. Sorry, Nikki. I'm a bit of a disappointment in that regard. All I can do is show you all the scars I got from living in the city, including the slash above my eye where I got mugged a couple of years ago."
That got a response out of Nikki; she turned around to look at Sinclair, trying, the accountant supposed, to reconcile her elegant appearance with the bruised, battered, and defeated victims of city crime she saw on American television shows.
"What's `mugged,' Papa?" Xavier chimed from beside Sinclair, naked curiosity lighting his features.
"That's when bad men beat you up in the street and take what you have without asking."
"That's stupid," the boy said. "Why don't they just ask for it?"
"Some people won't give up their stuff."
"Did you give up your stuff, Clair?"
"Oh, yes. I didn't have much with me but they got all I had."
"That's wrong, isn't it, Papa?" He leaned against the back of the driver's seat, straining against his seat belt so he could have a good look at his father.
"Yes, it's wrong, Xavier. But remember when I told you that there were people doing wrong all over the place and that it was up to you to do right things so you can balance them out?"
That was a big job for such a little guy, Sinclair thought with a smile. Her father caught her look and grinned.
They drove slowly from the airport, navigating through the surprisingly thick traffic that led them out of town to the more rural area where her father lived. The streets were alive with color, food vendors with their carts painted with the black, green, and gold Jamaican flag; coconut trees rustling in the light breeze; muscular and handsome boys dashing about the streets on bare feet, on bicycles, on ratty shoes, their faces predatory and sweet. On people's faces was a curious mixture of resignation and hope, their eyes darting periodically to the large jumbo jets taking off from the airport and heading for places unknown. High in the hills Sinclair could see large, looming houses painted island yellows and hibiscus reds, ocean blues-vacation colors. They looked, curiously, like sentinels, as if they were guarding, or imprisoning, the people down below.
As the car eased out of the city, the landscape changed. It became more green, twisted jungles of scenery; its sounds broken occasionally by the honking horns of other vehicles as they turned particularly narrow corners. Soon they pulled up to the front gate of the house.
Sinclair's father helped her with her bags while Nikki looked on, holding Xavier's hand. The girl seemed quiet and intense. It was only now that she got out of the car that Sinclair could get a good look at her. Her body was ... eye catching. Even in a loose T-shirt and knee-length gray shorts, Sinclair could tell that she had a body that was porn-star lush-high C-cup breasts, tiny waist, and round, full hips. It was no great mystery why Sinclair's father was with her.
The gate creaked as Sinclair opened it to allow her father to pass through with the bags. He glanced at the shoulderhigh wire-and-steel contraption with surprise.
"I need to oil that," he said, sounding like he'd noticed that creak at least a dozen times before.
The small house looked the same as it did in a long-ago photo-cozy, but beautiful, with a well-tended front garden dominated by fat hibiscus bushes sprouting red, pink, and white blooms. Two tall crape myrtle trees flanked the front gate, their pods of blossoms curling out like lavendercolored lace. From everywhere else in the yard, miniature clay women peeked out at them. They seemed mischievous but friendly. Nikki walked up to the verandah to open the door, then closed it behind them, not once letting go of Xavier's hand.
The inside of the house smelled like fresh furniture polish, a hint of lemon and Murphy's oil. Sinclair left her shoes at the front door as she'd seen the others do. The tiled floor was cool under her bare feet, a welcome change from the enfolding heat outside. Curious about the man she hadn't seen in over twenty years, Sinclair's eyes darted around the house, searching for clues to his current identity.
From his letter, she knew he was a builder and that he was now working on a mansion not far from here. His passion for woodworking was reflected throughout the house, from the handmade checker set to the wood trimmings around the windows and door, and even a low unstained table sitting at one end of the couch that seemed to have become a receptacle for drinks and the occasional reading material, if the multiple coasters and bookmarks were any indication. Then there were the beautiful handmade mahogany bookshelves. They lined the largest wall of the living room and were filled with neatly stacked books and magazines. In a single glance Sinclair saw books on astronomy, bookkeeping, cooking, stamp collecting, and Jamaican history. The bottom shelf had a few fiction titles that she reminded herself to check out later. On the walls hung framed likenesses of Marcus Garvey, Nanny of the Maroons, Paul Bogle, and some other Jamaican heroes she couldn't name. Light spilled in through two large windows above the couch. The overall effect was harmonious and comfortable. Sinclair told her father as much.
"Thank you, daughter," he said, aiming a smile her way.
"I'm going to put on some hot chocolate," Nikki said. "Anybody want some?"
"Me, me, me!" Xavier squeaked from the other end of her hand.
"Fix some for me and Sinclair too, please, sweetheart." Sinclair's father looked at Nikki with something more than fondness in his eye. Sinclair glanced from husband to wife, thinking suddenly that he was treating Nikki like a skittish colt, one who could bolt at any moment.
The young woman nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.
"This is your room for the next month," he said, showing her to a bedroom that was nearly identical to the one she had as a child. "The bathroom is down the hall and to the right, just before you get to the kitchen. Tea is going to be in the living room, so come through when you're done." He squeezed Sinclair's hand once before leaving her alone.
The bedroom door closed her in the quiet time capsule of a room. A north-facing window, the small dresser with neatly laid-out comb, toiletries, and a few porcelain figurines. All of it looked so much like her old room. Even the bed. Sinclair felt a moment of disorientation. She remembered her own bed, the one she'd bled on, not knowing what was happening to her body, not having anyone to tell, when day after day, month after month, she laid on the mattress, bleeding, imagining the death that would surely come from such massive loss of blood. Her mother was gone a week by then when, at thirteen, her stubborn child's body finally decided to change into a woman's. Her father finally had to throw the old bed away, although it had been an heirloom, her parents' first bed together. But it was bloodstained and ripe with the smell of confused womanhood and sweat. Even the wood had taken in the scent and color of blood.
Before that, the bed had been the stage for many happy memories. Her mother used to nudge her awake from it each morning to get ready for school. At barely seven o'clock, Beverly Sinclair's skin would still be softly scented with sleep. Sinclair remembered one morning when her mother had come, mock-whispering her name before crawling into bed with her. Sinclair had made a game of trying to wake her and mother and daughter ended up fighting over the covers, overcome by an attack of the giggles. At least until Victor came in with his warnings about being late for school and swung her up in his arms leaving Beverly sprawled in the covers to stare after them with her fading smile.
Sinclair unpacked her camera and put it on the dresser before digging in her luggage for her bag of toiletries. She didn't know why, at the last minute, she'd dug out the old thing. It was still heavy, still in good working order just like the day she and Gram took it home from the pawnshop.
After a quick wash in the bathroom, Sinclair slipped into the kitchen to see if Nikki needed some help. The younger woman stood at the stove grating a ball of pure chocolate into a pan of boiling water.
"Hey."
Nikki turned around, startled.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you."
"You didn't ... It's OK." Nikki's pale skin flushed. She darted a quick look at Sinclair before looking back down into the pan of water.
Sinclair apologized again. "Need any help?"
"No, it's almost ready. I can just bring it to you in the living room."
"Oh. OK." Sinclair backed away, feeling like an intruder. As she was leaving the kitchen, Nikki looked up at her and their eyes met. A smile touched the younger woman's mouth and she shook her head, a light motion that could have meant anything. "See you in a minute," she said.
Sinclair returned the smile and went to find her father and Xavier in the living room. Victor waved her over to sit beside him.
"So, how was your flight?"
"Not bad. It was quick." Sinclair tucked her bare feet under her on the couch. "I didn't have the time to worry about getting airsick or hijacked."
"Hijacked I can understand, especially living in America. You get travel sickness?"
"Just on planes, though lately I've been getting twinges of nausea in cars if I'm in one for more than an hour." When she and Gram had gone on a road trip together in their secondhand Ford Escort, loaded down with all their camping supplies and food, Sinclair had been fine. No sickness; just stomach fluttering excitement at being on the road and with her grandmother for a whole month.
Gram had been as excited as Sinclair about the trip. She'd made sandwiches; bought a tent, sleeping bags, and special camping pots. On the road, she had become talkative, willing to share stories of her past in Jamaica, about how she fell in love with a man-not Grandpa-who'd told her about the fiery mountain sunsets and white sands of New Mexico. Gifting Sinclair then, as she always had, with beautiful unforgettable moments meant to replace the emptiness that her mother's death had left behind. She had fun on that trip. They both did.
"You used to get carsick all the time when you were growing up," her father said, bringing Sinclair back to the present. "We couldn't take you on any long-distance drives. One time we were on a bus heading for Kingston and you threw up all over the back windows. Some woman didn't have her window closed."
Sinclair winced.
He laughed. "You forced your mama and me to toughen up. ,)
Nikki walked into the room. "Where should I put this?" She held up a tray heavy with steaming mugs and hot buttered toast. A soft laugh bubbled out of her when both Xavier and Victor rushed up to lend a hand with the tray. With their help, she put the heavy tray on the low coffee table, then sat back on the couch with a sigh. Sinclair shifted to make room for Nikki and Victor took her feet and put them in his lap.
"How are you doing in America, Sinclair?" her father asked around a mouthful of bread.
"I'm doing all right. Volk hasn't fired me yet. In a few years I can afford to take off for a year and travel. Maybe even start my own business with the money I have saved up." Sinclair tasted her cup of hot chocolate, surprised at its thick and creamy taste. The flavor, hinting of spices that she couldn't name, wasn't like any she remembered having in America. It was good.
Nikki looked up. "So you're rich."
"No. Not really."
"You're skinny though," Xavier said, pointing at Sinclair's bare knees, his cheeks bulging with toast.
"It's called being `fashionably thin."' She stuck her tongue out at her brother but pulled her skirt down anyway.
"Fata-fash?" His long-lashed brown eyes questioned her.
"It means that it's OK for me to be skinny." Sinclair bit into her toast with gusto as if to prove that she really did eat and eat a lot. "Really."
"Xavie." Nikki touched his head, her voice softly chiding.
Victor laughed and shook his head at his young son. "Anyway, as long as you didn't suffer because of the money you sent down here to us." Victor lifted his mug to her. "It really came in handy, especially when I lost my job at the factory a few years ago. Now that foreigners are moving to the island and want their houses built in grand style, I'm not so bad off as I used to be."
"I was relieved to hear that things worked out." Sinclair picked up another slice of the thick toasted bread. "All the money did was sit in the bank anyway. I figured that I might as well send it to someone who could put it to good use."
Victor laughed and raised his mug again. "Here's to practical daughters."
That night Sinclair lay in bed staring out at the stars and remembering. Seeing Nikki's closeness to Xavier reminded her of her childhood; of Beverly Sinclair's soft voice and the way she used to tuck in Sinclair with whispered stories of far-off lands. If Sinclair closed her eyes and took a careful breath she could almost smell the Soft Sheen spray that had clung to her mother's hair. Sinclair and her mother had been as close as Nikki and Xavier were now. Only her mother died in a freak bus accident and left Sinclair to her grandmother. It could have been worse.
From down the hall, she heard faint sounds of lovemaking. A talkative bedspring, sumptuous sighs. Xavier, whose room she'd taken over, had long ago fallen asleep on the pullout sofa in the living room, lulled by the flickering gray light from the television. Outside her window, crickets trilled, frogs croaked, the moon burned. All in a clear Caribbean sky. No police sirens, no smog, no Regina.
Hours later, the sun's flame began to replace the moon's softer glow, creeping into the window like a clumsy thief. Only then did she sleep.
Sinclair woke to a knock on the door. She tried her voice several times before it actually worked. "Come in."
Her father poked his head in. "Want to come eat with us?"
Sinclair rubbed her eyes and sat up. "Sure. Give me two minutes."
For a moment, she watched the spot from where Victor just disappeared. Then shook her head. As she fumbled in her suitcase for clothes, barely paying attention to her actions, delicate tendrils of memory began to unfurl in her mind. Twenty years ago, she had loved this man, worshipped him, and thought him the sun that revolved around her mother's earth.
She remembered now that he had been more crippled by Beverly's death than even she was, often staring down at his daughter as if he had no idea who she was, at times leaving her in the middle of a conversation about a torn button or a hemmed skirt. His eyes were so sad. Her grandmother's arrival four months later was a welcome distraction for them both. Mavis-a woman who before that had always sent cards on birthdays and holidays, who visited every Christmas and seemed so exotic with her foreign accent, flowing dresses, and sandalwood-scented hugs-fell into their lives like healing rain.
When Gram suggested taking Sinclair to America with her, her father only nodded as if he had been expecting it. He asked her how she would feel about living with her grandmother in America. Sinclair, mesmerized by Mavis's smell and distracted from her own pain by the woman's complete devotion to her, said yes, she would like that very much. At the airport Victor took her hand and squeezed it, warning her to dress well for the cold weather in her new city.
Sinclair reluctantly pulled herself from the past and shuffled to the bathroom where she washed her face and teeth. Light from the sun-filled kitchen assaulted her eyes as she walked in. Saturday morning reggae oldies played from a tiny radio on the windowsill, competing with the frantic singing of the birds outside the window. Everyone was already seated at the small kitchen table with full plates and cups in front of them. An empty chair waited for her next to Xavier.
"Good morning," Sinclair said, her voice still low from sleep.
"Callalloo, saltfish, and dumpling," her father said, gesturing to her plate. "I hope you still eat Jamaican food."
"Why would I stop?" She smiled as she sat down. "Gram raised me on it."
"Your hair looks nice like that," Nikki said shyly. Sinclair realized that she'd left her hair in its usual nighttime plaits the same moment that she noticed that her father's young wife wore her hair in a similar style.
"Thank you. Yours looks nice, too."
With her hair in fat, sectioned plaits and the tiny gold hoops in her ears, Nikki looked even younger than she had the day before. She blushed at Sinclair's compliment and broke open her dumpling.
Sinclair eyed her plate with its two fat, round breakfast dumplings and the respectably sized heap of callalloo with bits of salt-cured codfish. She hadn't tried to eat this much in a long time. But she would now. The smell of her breakfast freshly risen fried dough and the earthy spiced scent of greens-reminded Sinclair sharply of her grandmother.
"Did you cook?" she asked Nikki, breaking open the crisp, tongue-melting dough with its soft and steaming insides.
"No, Victor did." She smiled over at her husband.
Xavier smacked happily at his meal, his cheeks bulging like a chipmunk's. Under the table, his bare feet swung blissfully back and forth to the music from the radio.
"It's very good," Sinclair said after she swallowed her own mouthful. Almost as good as her grandmother's.
"Good. You'll get the chance to practice your cooking, too, while you're here." He winked.
"Hmm. I'm not sure if you want that." Her mouth quirked up around her food. "But I'll give it a try."
"You can't cook?" Nikki asked, eyes wide with surprise.
Victor chuckled. "She left us and became a modern American woman."
"What do you know about modern American women aside from the stuff they show on foreign television?" she said, pointing her food-heavy fork at her father. "All that stuff is made up, you know."
Nikki paused her chewing. "Even Cops?"
"Especially Cops."
"But you still can't cook?"
Sinclair chuckled ruefully at her father's question. "I don't cook. My boyfriend used to do all the cooking when we were together."
"And when he didn't cook, what did you do?"
"I'd get some takeout, frozen food, or just eat out."
"What did I tell you?" her father laughed, touching Nikki's arm. "A modern woman. Just as efficient as one of her frozen foods."
"I think I resent that."
"Don't take offense, daughter. We're people from different times, different cultures, and I'm just having a bit of fun." He pushed his chair away from the table. "I enjoy reading about Americans on the Web and in the papers, but unlike many of my countrymen, I don't envy you the lifestyle."
"Can you make American popcorn?" Xavier looked up from his nearly empty plate.
Sinclair nodded. "If I have the right corn, I can."
"Tomorrow?"
"OK. Tomorrow."
Despite protests from both Nikki and her father, Sinclair washed the breakfast dishes and pots, before disappearing into the bathroom to shower and wash her hair. Later, with her wet hair fluffed out to dry, she wandered out into the backyard and found her father watering the plants. The house was conspicuously empty.
"Where is everybody?"
"Nikki and Xavier went up the street for some groceries. They'll be back in an hour or two." He swept the spray of water along the length of a tall banana tree. "You lonely already?"
"Not while I have you here to keep me company."
"She's a sweet talker, just like her mother," he said to the air above his head, laughing.
Sinclair grinned and thought for the second time in as many days that this man was nothing like she'd expected. Her childhood memories of him were few, limited only to the ones that had resurfaced earlier that day and mental snapshots of him smiling down at her from a great height, his voice telling her not to forget him as she waited for a plane to take her off to America with her grandmother.
After her mother died, it was hard to see him and not think of her, and of her absence that was a constant flinching pain. Sinclair cried when Gram took her away. She didn't remember if it was with relief or sadness. The distance between her and her father made things better, so did Gram's unwavering love. Before she knew it, a year went by in America, then two, then twenty. When the reason for not seeing him faded it just seemed natural to stay away.
"Give me a hand tying back this sorrel tree," her father said, "then we can go on the verandah for a beer."
"All right."
The backyard was easily as large as the house, lined with thick green grass, banana trees loaded down with fruit, gungu pea trees with their delicate branches and leaves dotted by small purple flowers, plus at least a half a dozen other types of trees that Sinclair knew nothing about. The sorrel tree was short, the tallest branch barely reached her father's six-foot height, but its branches spread wide, spilling over and beyond the waist-high fence that separated the jungle of fruit and bean trees from the rest of the grassy backyard. Heartshaped burgundy fruit dusted with fuzz hung from its drooping branches.
"What do I do?"
"It's easy. Just hold the branches back while I tie them up with string."
Easy. Right. Forty-five minutes later Sinclair was covered in the tiny white bugs that she didn't realize lived in the sorrel tree and her skirt was dirty from where she had crouched on its hem in the mud. Her bare arms itched.
"You're a cruel man," she said to her father as she disappeared into the house to take another shower.
"Do you still want that beer?" he asked.
"You better still be offering it."
She closed the door on his laughter.