And just as she says this, three John-crows appear. They circle low, casting dark shadows in the face of the new sun. Their black wings are like sharp edges that seem capable of slitting trees in half. Margot feels the hair rise on the back of her neck when the John-crows descend. She watches in horror as they sink their beaks into the carcass—one that could have been a sibling, a spouse, a mother, a child. Margot will never forget this image—the sight of the crows feasting on their own, their Kumina dance celebrating death.
Back in the shack, she takes her time wiping the tips of her shoes with a wet cloth soaked with bleach. She’ll be late to work today. She strips naked and puts her work clothes in a pan of water. She decides to take a shower, to scrub away any bad omen with pimento leaves. Never mind the flies and heat outside. She lathers herself with soap, grateful for the good water pressure. She never bathes outside this late in the morning after the fog lifts. But today she has no choice. She also does not feel like going back to Verdene’s house this time of day, since the washers take that path to the river and may see her.
The water feels good in the heat. Without thinking, she tilts her head back to let it run through her hair, then remembers too late that she had just gotten it creamed. She makes a mental note to schedule another hair appointment. It has to be later today, since she cannot go to the hotel looking like a crazed woman. Margot busies herself with lathering.
“Look like is you g’wan drain di entire island of di likkle wata we ’ave lef’!”
Everything inside Margot halts at the sound of her mother’s voice.
“Yuh nuh see dat we in a drought?” Delores asks. “Wah wrong wid yuh? Yuh look like a jackass, scrubbing like dat wid wata beating pon yuh head top.”
“What yuh doing here?” Margot asks, shutting off the shower. “Ah thought you were at di market.” She clumsily reaches for her towel to cover herself.
“Is suh yuh carry on when yuh t’ink nobody is here?” Delores asks. “Yuh run up di wata rate?”
“I was washing off.”
“Yuh didn’t ’ave di decency fi do dat earlier?”
“I wanted to change my clothes. I was on my way to work when I—” Margot fans away the rest of her words. She doesn’t feel like going into details with Delores about the John-crow. Delores sucks her teeth. Margot thought her mother would leave her alone, but Delores just stands there as though waiting for more explanation.
“What else yuh want?” Margot asks.
Delores shakes her head. “Sometimes ah wondah ’bout you. If me neva come back here, you might ah been in dat wata all day. Shouldn’t you be at work? Dat hotel yuh work at giving yuh di illusion dat we ’ave money fi dash weh? If yuh lose dat job, God help we! Washing off, my foot! Which sane person wash off inna broad daylight outside? Is want yuh want Likkle Richie an’ any other Peeping Tom fi see yuh?”
“Would it make a difference?” Margot asks.
“Where did I go wrong?”
“Let me pass. I have to get to work. You said so yuhself.”
Delores doesn’t move. She regards Margot closely, like she used to do when Margot was a child—when she gave her the kind of baths that were meant to cleanse her of evil.
“What is it?” Margot asks. Her voice cracks under the weight of the memory.
“Yuh t’ink ah got di sense of a gnat?”
Margot chuckles lightly, though her knees buckle. “I don’t have no time fah dis.”
“You got time fah other t’ings. T’ink ah don’t notice dat yuh don’t sleep here no more? You is a sneak, an’ God g’wan strike yuh dung.”
Margot throws her head back and laughs out loud. “I am thirty years old. Ah can sleep anywhere ah please. An’ besides, yuh soun’ like ole Miss Gracie wid har drunk, crazy self.” She is able to walk past Delores into the house. She doesn’t let on that God was the first thing she thought about this morning when she stumbled upon death in her path.
“At di end ah di day, yuh can’t seh ah neva try wid yuh,” Delores says.
Margot is glad that she’s not facing Delores; glad that she can focus on dressing herself, careful not to rip her stocking. The proof of her innocence—since she is always on trial—is in her calm, her ability to seem unaffected by anything Delores says. She tries hard in this moment not to seek comfort in the fantasy she had earlier of moving away with Verdene—a thought that skipped like a carefree child, shifting things around, making room. But try as she might, Margot cannot stop it from emerging. Neither can she protect it from Delores. Her best and safest bet is to kill it.