Margot refocuses on Thandi’s hair—the kinky curls that wrap around her finger like black silk when she stretches them. Thandi and Margot sit near the open window, taking in the cool breeze and mosquitoes that land on their flesh. They take turns squashing the fattened insects on their arms and legs, wiping off bloodied palms with old newspaper or tissue. They never know whose blood stains their palms; and rarely does it matter, considering that if it belongs to either one of them, then it’s the same.
The thing Margot looks forward to the most whenever she’s home is braiding her sister’s hair. It’s the only reason why she’s here tonight and not at the hotel or at Verdene’s, where there’s a generator. She finds enjoyment in the softness of her sister’s hair. Margot is older than Thandi by fifteen years, an age gap that makes Thandi regard Margot more as a second parent than an older sister. When her sister was a baby with a head full of curls, Margot discovered that in the braiding she found escape from various men’s untying, unclasping, and unbuckling. It was in this soft, delicate texture that the roughness of the other touches faded. The braiding has been a ritual ever since.
“Ouch!” Thandi pulls Margot back to the present.
“What’s di mattah?”
“You’re pulling again!”
“I’m sorry,” Margot says, feeling something greater slip from her fingers when her sister yanks her head away this time.
“Careful wid har hair!” Delores says, reeling from the stove with the dripping wooden spoon. “Yuh t’ink she’s a playt’ing?”
Margot sucks her teeth while pulling balls of dark hair from the fine-toothed comb and wrapping them inside tissue so that she can burn them later.
“Yuh always in dat child’s hair like yuh don’t have yuh own.”
“She has swimming lessons tomorrow,” Margot says in defense, though there was a letter sent from the school concerning Thandi’s lack of participation in swimming. According to the letter, her sister had to sit out swimming class eight times this term, saying she had her period. This became a concern for the school. Margot knows that Thandi hates water, save for taking showers. But she has always made sure that her sister learns how to swim, paying for the lessons anyway no matter how many times she fails to show up. It’s also the one excuse Margot holds on to for braiding Thandi’s hair.
“Then let me do it,” Delores says.
Margot holds the comb as if it’s a weapon. “You always think I’m hurting her.”
Thandi is quiet. Delores steps back and dries her hands on the front of her dress. She wipes sweat from her upper lip, then goes back to stirring the pot. Without turning around she says, “Mr. Sterling increase di rent again.”
“Again?” Margot asks, continuing to comb Thandi’s hair. “But him increase it jus’ two months ago.”
“Yuh already know is so dat man stay,” Delores says, stirring harder. “T’iefing culprit.”
Margot looks down into the roots of her sister’s hair. She brushes the curls, meticulously tames them, avoiding the weight of her mother’s frustration on her shoulders. “I want to put down something for a house,” she hears herself say. It sounds as if someone else is speaking—someone crouched inside the dark shadows in the corners of the shack. “I want to move us from dis rat hole. It don’t mek no sense why we have to stay here an’ keep paying dat man rent. We don’t even have real electricity.”
“Yuh sure ’bout dat?” Delores asks, pausing with the wooden spoon to look at Margot, her eyes hardening. “Yuh been working in dat hotel fah god knows how long, saying di same damn t’ing. If ah didn’t know bettah ah woulda t’ink yuh spending it pon yuhself.” Her eyes seem to have electricity running through them. The only source on the entire island. Their shadows clash in the dim light when Delores steps closer with the spoon. If it weren’t for her sister pressing her head between her legs as if to allow her to carry on, Margot would have snatched the wooden spoon out of her mother’s hand. Who knows what she would’ve done with it? Margot knows that Thandi gets uneasy with confrontations like these between her and Delores. She becomes anxious, watchful, acquiring the fidgetiness of a kitchen mouse and doing everything in her power to resolve the issue. Margot swallows the boiling-hot fury inside her for Thandi’s sake. “Delores, yuh know very well dat everyt’ing I earn goes into Thandi’s education. And into dis blasted place.”
“We all know dat hotel work is good work,” Delores charges. “Yet we can’t see di fruits ah yuh labor. We ovah here barely holdin’ on. Thandi ’ave har exam in June, di rent piling up, we haffi pay Clover money fah di electricity—”
“We owe Clover nothing,” Margot says between clenched teeth. “Not one cent!”