Chapter 8
Sinclair dreamed about her sister's girlfriend. She woke up (swimming in rapidly disintegrating visions of Hunter smiling and stretched out on a forest floor on a bed of thick green leaves, her dark skin glistening with moisture from Sinclair's tongue.
"I think she's dreaming."
A weight pressed down on the bed beside her. From the light scent of honeysuckle, she could tell that it wasn't her father or Nikki. Sinclair opened her eyes.
"Papa told me to take you out for the day." Lydia watched her with a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She looked like she'd been up for hours in her white cotton dress that showcased her gorgeous cleavage and narrow waist.
"'Morning," Sinclair croaked from beneath the parting layers of sleep.
"'Morning." Hunter's voice greeted her from the doorway. Even in a white A-shirt tucked into belted slim-fitting jeans she managed to look like a dyke's wet dream.
Sinclair resisted the urge to grab the sheets up to her chest like a shy virgin, and instead sat up, baring her oversized Sesame Street T-shirt. She just knew that her braids were flat against her head. Not sexy. "Hey. I get the pleasure of both your company today, huh?"
"Two for one," Lydia chimed in. "Today only."
"Unless you'd rather have Lydia to yourself. I can disappear if you want."
"No, it's fine. You can even come sit on the bed if you want," Sinclair, even with her bad breath, dared to tease.
The woman called her bluff and came in to sit down on the other side of her.
Sinclair's body temperature started to rise. "I don't suppose either of you made breakfast?"
"Not yet. But Hunter could."
Hunter cleared her throat to get their attention. "Actually Hunter had just planned on buying you ladies something to eat after we leave here. So the sooner you," she looked at Sinclair, "shower and dress, the sooner you can eat."
Sinclair turned to her sister. "She's harsh, huh?"
"Yes, usually."
Sinclair left the women in her room and went to shower and dress. Twenty minutes later, with her camera bag and purse slung over her shoulder, she was ready. "Where are we going?"
"To find food."
They climbed in Lydia's car, an old Cadillac convertible with a blood-red paint job and black-and-white leather seats that looked like they'd just been peeled off a cow.
"Nice car," Sinclair murmured appreciatively, sinking into the spacious backseat. Lydia pressed a button and the roof slid back. The cool morning air snuggled into the car with them. This was the indefinable quality to mornings that Sinclair had always loved-the brightening light, the slow moving shadows that spoke of the beginning of things, and especially the crispness that lay in the air before the filth of the day could get a chance to set in. Sinclair inhaled a deep lungful of that air and sank deeper into the suede seats. She could have fit at least two other people back there with her. "Very nice."
"Don't get any ideas about my backseat, young woman."
"Don't worry. I'm sure it's nothing that you haven't thought of or done before." Sinclair met Lydia's smiling gaze in the rearview mirror.
After a sinfully good breakfast at one of Hunter's favorite restaurants, they drove through town, pointing out sights of interest, and keeping up a running commentary meant to amuse Sinclair. At times the two women were like a married couple, bickering back and forth with a spontaneous ribaldry that made Sinclair laugh, despite her minor crush on Hunter. After almost two hours driving around the island, Hunter got bored.
She turned to Lydia. "Let's go find someplace for a snack, then head over to the market in Winslow."
"You hungry already?" Sinclair turned to her in surprise.
"I'm a growing girl. This body needs its vitamins and protein."
Even though she knew better, Sinclair took a close look at the body Hunter indicated. It was perfect. Just like the last time she checked.
They stopped for food at a patty stand near the beach then leaned against the hood of the Cadillac to drink their sodas and eat the thick pastries filled with spiced ground beef. The sea lapped up on the sand a dozen feet or so away from where they stood. Only a hillock of pearl gray sand, bits of dried seaweed, and a few coconut trees separated them from the water.
"So how long do you plan on being here?" Lydia asked.
"Just four weeks, although I wish I could stay longer." Her family's warm acceptance and the resurfacing of childhood memories were making this trip even more fun than she thought it would be.
"Anybody special waiting for you back in your big city?"
"No, not really." The memory of Regina burned briefly. "I'm footloose and fancy free, as they say."
Hunter swallowed a bite of her pastry. "Who's `they' and what the devil does `footloose' really mean?"
"Ignore her, she's being difficult today," Lydia said to Sinclair.
"I am not being difficult." Hunter took a sip of her ginger beer. "This is just me all the time."
"Does it ever get tiring?" Sinclair asked, all innocence. "Being you, that is."
"Funny." Hunter stuck her tongue out at her.
Caught off guard, Sinclair giggled.
Lydia ignored their byplay. "So back to my question, why don't you have someone waiting for you over there?"
"Would it stop you if I said that I didn't want to talk about it?"
"Of course."
"Right." Hunter made a noise of disbelief. "And you have two brass ones hanging underneath that dress." She moved as if to lift Lydia's dress, then stopped herself. "Wait, that might actually be true."
"Very funny." Lydia slapped at Hunter's straying hand.
"I'm hanging out with a bunch of comedians today," Sinclair muttered.
"That's one thing that I've never been called before." Hunter said as she backed away from Lydia, laughing.
"If not comedy, then what do you do to make your living?"
"Scientist. I'm one of the computer nerds at the University of the West Indies."
"Sounds interesting."
"It is and it isn't." She flashed Sinclair a smile. "I'm glad for days like this when I can be out doing what I like. But some days it gets frustrating because of the university's substandard equipment." She shook her head. "But enough of that. The last thing I want to do is bring my work into any conversation that I have on my day off."
"Everyday can be a day off if Hunter wanted," Lydia said. "She practically works as a freelance scientist with freelance hours."
"That doesn't translate into me not working at all, Ms. Nine to Five."
Sinclair knew that Lydia was the manager of a hotel on the beach, one of the Sandals hotels, and that she sometimes worked an ungodly amount of hours during the week. This she'd gotten from low-voiced conversations with Nikki on the verandah while Xavier slept on her lap.
"I don't work nine to five any more than you do, Willoughby."
"Ohh, she called me by my last name. That means she's really upset with me." Hunter turned to Sinclair. "Have you ever seen another person who's as touchy about her job?" She laughed, then jumped away from Lydia's pinching fingers. "Neuroses aplenty, this one."
"Let's lock the car up and go down to the water," Lydia said suddenly.
Still chuckling, Hunter finished off her soda and dropped the empty bottle in a nearby trash can. "Sure. Why not?"
They went to the beach together with Lydia walking between Sinclair and Hunter. The afternoon was a pleasant amalgamation of sounds, of squalling birds, schoolgirls in their dark blue uniforms running on the sand, laughing and splashing seawater at each other. On the boardwalk beyond the sandbank, the sky juice man hawked his wares, advertising his flavors in a deep singsong voice. On the wind, Sinclair could detect a teasing hint of sage, a scent she realized that Hunter wore.
The women eventually left the beach for the market. They parked the car and headed for the tall, colorful booths that sold incense, oils, crocheted hats, and anything else a local bohemian would want to buy.
"This is nice. We have a few places like this back in America, but I never bothered to visit them for one reason or another."
"Are you a snob?" Hunter peeked around Lydia to look at Sinclair.
"Not that I know of."
"She's a snob," Lydia confirmed.
"Hey! It's not `pick on Sinclair' hour, OK? Leave me out of your little bitefests."
Hunter laughed. "Take it easy. I was only joking."
"No, you weren't, Brit."
"Oooh, she called you a name." Lydia skipped ahead of them to look at some handmade sandals.
"I hope you don't think I was being offensive."
"Not yet, but you're close." Sinclair glanced at her sister's woman. "Do you really think I'm a snob?"
"I don't know." She touched Sinclair's nose. "That turned up nose of yours gives me the idea that you might be."
She batted the finger away. "I'll remember you said that."
"Hey, what do you think of these?" Lydia called their attention to the brown sandal on her foot. A little on the plain side, it looked odd next to her own strappy, high-heeled shoe.
Hunter appeared to consider the matter. "I think it looks better here," she knelt at Lydia's feet, took off the shoe, and put it next to its mate in the booth's display.
Sinclair nodded. "I agree."
"What do you two know about fashion anyway?"
"Did she just insult us?" Hunter looked at Sinclair.
"I think she did. I don't know why. You look pretty fashionable to me."
"So do you." Hunter's voice took on a high, singing quality. "I think what you're wearing is the absolute pinnacle of rugged expatriate fashion." Her eyes swept over Sinclair's pale slacks and tube-top blouse. "Stunning."
"Why, thank you, Robin Leach. I don't even think this fashion has even reached the colonies yet, my mode is just that far ahead of the current one."
"You two are not funny."
Hunter snickered. "We think so."
Sinclair's lips twitched with amusement as she glanced at her partner in crime.
"Come on, don't be mad at us." They rushed up to Lydia from behind, fawning over her in an excess of passion, kissing her cheeks and the backs of her hands.
"A lesbian them, man." Sinclair flinched at the harsh voice. "'Specially the one in the pants."
The women kept on walking, but Hunter had stiffened next to Sinclair.
"You a lesbian?"
The other people walking near them looked around, looked at the boy who had spoken, then at the women. They did nothing.
"You want some dick in your life?"
The voices followed the women. From the corner of her eye, Sinclair saw that they belonged to four men, still boys really, with the hard muscles of laborers but none of the honest intentions.
"Pussy don't belong with pussy, you know. You need this-" he grabbed his crotch, "every time."
Lydia turned around. "Fuck off."
"Keep that as an inside thought, my dear," Hunter murmured near her girlfriend's ear. "We don't want any trouble from these assholes."
"Unfortunately, I think we already have it." Sinclair laughed nervously.
"You dykes think this is funny?"
"Not at all." Hunter stepped back. "So since nobody is amused let's just call it a day and go our separate ways. OK?"
A ring of spectators was beginning to form around them.
"No. No damn way some man-woman is going to disrespect me and walk off."
"Disrespect?" Hunter made a rude noise. "Didn't you start this?"
This was going to get ugly. Sinclair's fists tightened convulsively.
"No, man. You bitches started this. And we're going to finish it."
"Can these punks be any more clichéd?" Hunter turned to Sinclair with a sneer.
"Don't piss off the nice man, Hunter."
"What nice man would that be, sweetheart?" Not the one who was advancing closer and closer toward them.
"Any of you fucks touch me and you're dead!" Lydia hissed, anchoring her purse across her body.
The one in orange took her up on her dare. Her punch was solid, loud in the enclosed space. It set off the other three like firecrackers. They came at the women, fists flying, teeth bared. Sinclair had never felt such fear in her life, not even when she was mugged in the city. She kicked and punched, grateful that her body remembered the lessons from the self defense course she'd taken two years ago. Her elbow connected with something solid and someone howled.
"Hold her down!" Sinclair felt hands pull at her limbs, then at her blouse. Pain exploded in her side and against her face. She kicked at the body closest to her legs and felt a jolt of relief when he screamed and fell against the concrete. Hands grappled roughly at her arms and breasts. Somewhere glass shattered.
"Back the fuck up!"
Sinclair looked up to see Lydia with a broken bottle in one hand. "Get off my fucking sister or I'm going to shove this glass up your ass, then come back for your balls."
A cold fever swept over Sinclair's skin, then suddenly she was free. The boy backed away from her with his hands up. Lydia feinted closer to him, stabbing at him with the broken bottle. A hand tugged at Sinclair's and she recoiled, bringing her elbow sharply up. The body next to her staggered and cursed.
"Fuck!" Hunter's voice was loud next to her ear. "It's me, dammit! Come on. Let's go."
The mist cleared. She could see one of the boys on the ground, holding his crotch, his body gripping itself in the fetal position. His arm and back were bloody. Another held his nose, making harsh gagging noises as blood gushed between his fingers. The other was nowhere to be seen. Hunter stood next to her, gripping a rock in her bloodied fist, chest heaving. The crowd stared but did nothing. It backed away as the women emerged from their human boxing ring, thrusting their way through the suffocating heat of hostile bodies to find Lydia's car.
They didn't talk on the ride back to Lydia's house. The wind filled the silence in the car, brushing like a soothing salve over naked bruises. Lydia's face was the worst. An ugly purpling bruise smudged the right side of her mouth. In a few minutes it would start to swell. Aside from a slightly bruised mouth, Hunter's face was still intact. Little gashes decorated her knuckles and the palm of one hand where she had gripped the rock. She held that hand outside the car to let the cool breeze ease its burning. Sinclair's arms were a mottled purple where the men had held her down and her cheek had a small cut, probably from someone's ring. Right now she was just tired, her mind still shied away from the fact that grown men had done this thing to them, and no one from the market had tried to help.
When they parked in the garage, Sinclair stumbled from the car, then followed the two women into the house.
"Can I go lie down in your guest room?" she asked. "I'm a little tired."
"Sure, go ahead. I'll call Papa and let him know you'll be spending the night here."
"Thanks."
Sinclair went into the bedroom and took off her clothes. The bed was soft, but she felt suffocated, and instead of being comforted by the paintings on the walls-images of banana trees and coconut groves, of young men walking through otherwise empty city streets-she felt threatened by them. Sinclair turned away but her mind replayed scenes of the attack, the terror and violence of it. She finally got up, wrapped an oversized towel around her like a sarong, and walked through the empty sitting room and made her way to the back patio. She pulled off the towel and sank into the silken hammock with a sigh. The breeze immediately comforted her. Within moments, she fell asleep.
Moments later, voices from beyond the opened double doors interrupted her rest.
"I can't believe you're asking me that. Was I the only one getting beaten on in that market earlier?" Lydia's voice floated out on the faint breeze.
She heard the whisper of leather against flesh as someone sank into the sofa near the door.
"I'm asking you that because of what happened today. This makes being out to your family and friends even more important. When you come home with bruises from so-called god-fearing Jamaicans who beat you up for being who you are, don't you think that you could get your family to see the abnormality in that, that a person who tries to destroy or hate someone because of who and how they love isn't much of a person?"
"I don't see the perfect harmonious vision that you see. In my eyes there are no benefits to being out. For what? So that I can get my ass beat again by some boys on the corner?"
"What about your life? Don't you think that you're living it just a tad bit dishonestly?"
"This is not America, Hunter. This isn't even your precious England. I can't walk around here holding my girlfriend's hand like it's nothing. Women get raped and beaten for that kind of stuff around here."
"I'm talking about your family, your friends."
"You are so damn naive."
From her swaying hammock, Sinclair could feel the heat of her sister's frustration and hear her harsh, angry breath.
"Do you think us being more out would have saved us from almost being gang-raped in the market? Do you? Nobody tried to help us. They didn't give a damn what happens to three lesbians. They probably thought that a little forced entry was going to save our souls and pussies for Jamaica. Because surely we can't be real Jamaican women and be dykes." Lydia made a low sound of frustration. "It kills me that you women who leave here and come back understand the country so little that you bring your foreign ways here and expect us to adapt."
"Don't you ever get tired of hiding? Of lying about who you're going to see and why?"
"This is what I get tired of." Sinclair imagined Lydia gesturing to her bruised arm and the swelling at her mouth. "I get tired of being called names when I go out to get my shopping done. I wished that I lived in San Francisco or Manchester but I don't. I don't believe in Jamaicans the way that you do. I don't think they can change, or at least not soon enough for me not to be a casualty in this useless war."
Hunter sighed. So did Sinclair. This fear that Lydia was talking about, the threat of violence, could happen everywhere. She could have just as easily gotten gay-bashed walking to her apartment after a date with Regina as she could have walking down her father's stretch of country road.
"Unless you plan to date a different kind of woman from what you prefer now, I say that you out yourself almost every day. Don't you think it would be better for your family to know because you told them rather than for them to speculate and get all the facts wrong?"
"No, I don't. You need to stop thinking about what's best for me, because obviously you have no idea what I need to do or be."
"Just because I've been gone from this country for most of my life doesn't mean I understand it any less. When I was fifteen I left Jamaica. I knew that I was a lesbian then and, because of what I looked like, I was an out lesbian. It was hard for me. It was hard for the thirteen years I was in England, for various reasons, and it's going to be difficult here as well. I don't anticipate anything being easy. But I'd rather suffer the chance of someone accosting me for being a dyke than suffer the emotional violence I'd do to myself if I wasn't honest about who I am."
"I don't see it as hiding, like I said. I see it as saving my skin. And I have absolutely no problem with that." Lydia's voice was final.
The leather creaked as someone stood up. "This is a difficult conversation. We should finish it some other time. It's too soon after what happened today."
"Yeah. I guess you're right." The sofa creaked again. "I'm going to bed."
"OK. I'll just stay out here awhile and clear my head."
"All right, I'll see you in the morning." Soft footsteps gradually faded away.
Sinclair heard Hunter's low sigh. "What the blazes did I get myself into with this woman?"
In the morning it was just Lydia and Sinclair.
"She left to do some work," the younger woman said. Her voice was strained. Although it was seven in the morning, she was already made up and ready for work. With her skillfully applied makeup, it was nearly impossible to see her bruise from the fight.
"You can stay here while I go to work if you like, or I can drop you at Papa's on my way to town."
"I'll stay here. You have a good collection of books to keep me occupied all day. We can go over to Papa's for dinner after you get back."
"In that case I'll try to come home at a decent hour for a change."
After Lydia went off to work, Sinclair changed into a pair of borrowed shorts and a shirt and went to explore the large subdivision and its adjoining woods. Despite its manicured facade, the neighborhood still managed to keep many of the natural elements that made it beautiful. Sinclair took out her camera and quickly lost herself in the landscape.
By the time Lydia came home it was too late for dinner, so she just took Sinclair back to their father's, promising that they would do something less dangerous sometime soon.