Margot sits frozen like a statue, her head held straight. The only hint that she is breathing is the slow rise and fall of her chest. Two buttons are open in the front of her blouse. Verdene catches a glimpse of the soft flesh underneath. Margot turns to look at her and repeats, “I’m not ready,” as though to convince herself.
Verdene takes Margot’s hand—in the same way she did the night before the discovery of the first dead dog. “We should try again,” she says. “But I’ll leave it up to you . . .” She takes a deep breath.
Margot visibly relaxes, as though she was expecting another response. Verdene feels an overwhelming urge to hold her, but she doesn’t. They sit like this, both staring straight ahead, their hands in their laps. The words leave Verdene’s mouth, floating above them in the bedroom, finally settling with the rise and fall of their pregnant sighs like a sheet flung over a bed.
“I only knew men,” Margot whispers, still staring straight ahead. “I always had feelings for you.” Margot is shaking her head as though she has gotten lost and is too overwhelmed with directions leading her to streets with no names. “But I’m not . . . I don’t know if I . . .”
Verdene nods, but she says nothing. She focuses on the nails in the wooden floorboards, their round black heads appearing like dots. Margot rests her head on Verdene’s shoulder. Her gesture seems to signal that they have stepped into an intimate circle and are joined together in this uncertainty. Breathing in deeply, Margot says, “I want you to teach me how to swim.”
5
IT’S A COOL AND DAMP MORNING—THE WAY IT USUALLY IS BEFORE the sun makes its appearance, sucking all possibilities dry. Margot had gotten dressed at Verdene’s house, entertaining the idea of them as a couple. It’s not as though this has never occurred to her before—this seed that slipped into the cavity of her chest, settling itself inside her for the last few weeks. Something triggered its growth. Perhaps it was the way Verdene held her the night before, confirming for Margot that they fit together.
Margot begins to walk with clarity through the thinning fog, cradling this idea like a newborn baby. Her mind races ahead to the possibility of leaving River Bank for a nice beachfront villa in the quiet, gated community of Lagoons—a place far from River Bank where Margot could give freely of herself, comforted by the cool indifference of wealthy expats from Europe and America. It would be like living in another country. Ever since Reginald Senior hosted a party years ago at a lavish villa in that neighborhood for a few of his friends and invited her, she has always wanted to live there. Margot was astonished by how the wealthy in Jamaica live; how for them, the island is really paradise—a woman who offers herself without guile, her back arched in the hills and mountains, belly toward the sun. For even in this drought her rivers run long and deep; her beaches, wide and tempting.
River Bank residents tend to bypass domestic positions in an area like Lagoons, going instead for the resorts. They are like ants, all of them, Margot thinks—latching on to the same bread as everyone else. Well, let them keep nibbling away. As far as Margot is concerned, she and Verdene will be a lot better off in a remote place without the neck strain from looking over their shoulders. Margot has it all planned out. Her promotion as general manager is in the works already. She is certain that she will get it; certain of Alphonso’s feelings about her. She could use that money to live like a queen in her own country for once. Key-lime curtains and sweating glasses of lemonade in the sunroom. Grocery lists of imported goods and planting trees to complement the landscape.
As Margot moves through the expanse of her fantasy—padding lightly on the marble tiles of her dream house—she bumps into something solid on the ground. She looks down into the gutted carcass of a John-crow surrounded by flies, the rotting smell rising into Margot’s open mouth. Margot pinches her nose and takes three steps backward. It has to be three—one for the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Grandma Merle would have told her to throw salt behind her too, to ward off bad luck.
“Holy Jesus!”