“Do me a favor, Kensington?” Margot says, her voice as bittersweet as molasses.
“What’s that?” the girl asks, looking at Margot with hopeful eyes that incense Margot even more. She resists the urge to slap the girl. Instead, Margot issues a warning. Or more like a sound piece of advice. “If yuh want to stay here for a long time, then mind yuh own business,” she says.
With that Margot cuts her eyes and turns to the window behind them. Alphonso is unpredictable, so she imagines the executive office watching him closely like a ticking bomb. Suddenly the door flies open and Alphonso marches out.
“Gimme that manila folder over there!” he demands, pointing to the hidden file cabinet where there are over a hundred manila folders—all of which are going to be entered into a secure computer system to keep records of the hotel finances and guest information. Murphy is bringing the computers in tomorrow. All five Gateway computers are being shipped from America. Kensington springs up to find the folder Alphonso is referring to. She hesitates when she sees that all of them are identical. Asking Alphonso to clarify would reveal her incompetence.
He’s drumming his fingers on the counter and glances at his gold Rolex. His platinum wedding band glistens on his cream hand. “Am I going to wait here all day?”
Margot steps in seamlessly, subtly. It’s she who moves to give Alphonso the folder. She has been fingering it all along, knowing he would need it in this meeting. It has all the budget information she helped him compile. As she gives Alphonso the folder, their hands touch. They pause, suspended like two birds holding the ends of the same worm. Margot clears her throat and takes her hand away. She smoothes her skirt over her thighs as though she has been caught with it inched up to her waist. Like the day they got caught in the conference room—the only time Margot has ever been inside it.
“You’re welcome!” she says to Alphonso too loudly, though he says nothing. When he returns to the executive office, Margot rests her chin in her palm. Kensington clears her throat.
“What?” Margot asks.
“Nothing,” Kensington says.
“Ah thought so.”
6
ON HER WAY TO WORK, DELORES NOTICED THE BARREN FRUIT trees, the wilting flowers, and the brown, brittle grass all sucked dry. Dogs were lying on their sides with their tongues out, goats leaned against the sides of buildings and fences, and cows moved about with exposed rib cages, gnawing on sparse land. Children crowded around standpipes to bathe or drink from the little water that trickled out; the younger ones sat inside houses on cardboard boxes, sucking ice and oranges, while some accompanied their mothers to the river with big buckets. Meanwhile, idle men hugged trees for shade, or took up residence at Dino’s, pressing flasks of rum to their faces. God is coming after all, Delores thought.
But while the God-fearing people become intent on staking their claim in heaven, crying, “Jesas ’ave mercy!,” Delores prepares for another day of work. For money has to be made. With the sun comes that heat. They go hand in hand like John Mare and his old donkey, Belle. Delores fans herself with an old Jamaica Observer. Her bright orange blouse is soaked with sweat, like someone threw water and drenched her under the armpits, across the belly, all the way down to her sides. Two other vendors couldn’t take the heat, so they packed up their things and went back home. The rest, including Delores, sucked their teeth: “Dem really aggo give up a day’s work because ah di heat? Ah nuh Jamaica dem born an’ grow? Wah dem expec’?”
Delores wipes the sweat off her face with a rag she tucks inside her bosom. She prepares for business as usual. Mavis, who has the stall next to Delores, is fully covered from head to toe. She reminds Delores of one of those Muslim women she sees sometimes—on very rare occasions—walking in the square with their faces covered.
“Di heat is good fi yuh skin. Mek it come quicker,” Mavis says, adjusting the broad hat on her head. Delores fans away the woman, who has been trying different skin-lightening remedies since Delores has known her. Delores has already dismissed the woman as off. Like Ruby, who used to sell fish and is currently selling delusions to young girls who want more than apron jobs. Poor souls think a little skin-lightening will make the hoity-toity class see them as more than just shadows, slipping through cracks under their imported leather shoes.
“Why yuh nuh try drink poison while yuh at it?” Delores asks the woman.
Mavis rolls her eyes. “If me was as black as you, Delores, me woulda invest me money inna bleaching cream. Who want to be black in dis place? A true nobody nuh tell yuh how black yuh is.”