Then one day, Verdene saw Margot crouched in a corner, crying in front of Mr. Levy’s shop. Verdene stopped to help her, imagining the girl had lost her money or fallen and bruised some part of her. “What’s the mattah?” she asked. Little Margot sniffled and told her that some children in her school were calling her Maggot instead of Margot.
“Dey say ah dirty an’ smell bad.” The little girl was shaking as she told Verdene this, her bony shoulders shuddering, her chest heaving. Verdene didn’t know what to do. She rested her hand on the girl’s shoulder, and Little Margot looked up into Verdene’s face, her eyes large and watery, the pupils expanding into a well into which Verdene fell. Her fall was deep, endless; one that stirred her womb with a possessiveness, a feral instinct to hunt Little Margot’s bullies down.
Every time Verdene had to leave for university, Margot cried. Ella would have to appease the girl with promises. “She’ll be back to see us next week, dear.” Then, peering at Verdene, Ella’s eyes would hold in them those very questions. “Right, darling? You’ll be back to see yuh dear mother next week, right?”
Verdene turns her attention back inside the kitchen. She switches off the faucet, realizing water has overflowed, spilling to the floor. The dishes are piled in the sink from the breakfast she made Margot this morning—one pot full of her lopsided boiled dumplings and the other with chopped-up onions, tomatoes, and saltfish. Just an hour ago Verdene sang along to Ken Boothe, feeling hopeful, unaware of this mood that has befallen her. Unaware of the ambush of memory that awaited her. The mess in the kitchen repulses her. Verdene was never a tidy cook, or a cook at all. Everything is arranged in the cupboards the way her mother left it: plates stacked on top of each other, glasses and cups separated—the fancier ones with designs for visitors Verdene never has, and the ordinary, plain ones for everyday use. Since courting Margot, Verdene has been trying to cook more often, feeling domesticated for the first time at the age of forty. Before, when she lived in London, she would heat things up in microwaves or venture to a nearby restaurant for takeout. Such habits were possible in London, where there were restaurants everywhere. Indian, Chinese, Turkish, Caribbean, Pakistani.
Cooking is becoming a private joy Verdene works hard to maintain, delving into her mother’s old recipes inside the kitchen drawers among the utensils. They were mostly cake recipes. For other food, Verdene draws from memory—those evenings when she used to watch her mother cook, throwing spices and sugar and flour inside pots without measuring. Ella only knew how something turned out by tasting it. Verdene has adopted this method. As she experiments, she finds herself tasting more and measuring less. The process softens something inside her, makes her hum tunes to little songs as she chops and stirs. One would never have known how much Verdene once resented her mother for doing the exact same thing for her father when he was alive and came home with his dirtied boots and soiled clothes from building the railway.
“Why can’t he ever cook his own food or set di table?” Verdene would ask Ella, while observing her father recline on his favorite chair with the newspaper, smoking his cigarettes and taking swigs of white rum. He sought refuge in the clouds of smoke that surrounded him and the liquor that warmed his blood. Ella was mostly dismissive of Verdene’s questions, fanning her away with, “When yuh get to this stage you’ll know why.” Verdene never knew what that meant. In rebellion (she thinks), she had never been able to give of herself this way in relationships, fearing she would have to be some man’s maid, or his personal servant. As abusive as Verdene’s father was, Ella worshipped the ground he walked on.
In her first marriage, Verdene failed miserably. Not because she didn’t love the man—a nice devout Catholic from Guyana her aunt handpicked for her—but because she could never pretend to be that kind of a woman. But here she is, in her mother’s kitchen, finally understanding what her mother meant.
When Verdene reenters the bedroom, Margot is already dressed, ready to go.
“We have to talk,” Verdene says, taking a deep, labored breath. Margot sits on the bed, her hands clasped. Verdene notices that the food remains uneaten. She also notices that Margot has been crying. Her eyes are red and the flesh around them is raw.
“What yuh want to talk about?” Margot asks. When she turns her face to the side, light catches it and Verdene is taken aback by her beauty. She walks over and sits next to the younger woman. She takes Margot’s hand into hers and holds it. She lifts it to her lips, then presses it to her cheeks. Margot takes it away.
“Maybe you’re right,” she says.
Verdene lets her hand drop to her side. “Right about what?”
“That I’m not ready.”