Outside, the sun is bright yellow like the yolk of an egg. Its one eye holds Verdene in place. For a second she ponders starving to death, renouncing her life within the safe confines of the house. Her body will rot, and when they find her she would be unrecognizable. She imagines the community people linking hands with their children to dance around her property, singing, “Ding-dong! The witch is dead!”
She makes her way down the road, hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible under her white sun hat. A man and a woman cross over to the other side of the road when they see her coming. A group of boys sitting on the branch of a mango tree throw mango seeds in her path. Two little girls jumping rope in a yard stop and hold the tails of their dirty dresses closed. The mothers of the girls standing nearby in the yard gasp. They don’t say then, You see that lady’s fair skin? See how pretty? Yuh g’wan stay black an’ ugly if you stay playing in the sun. Instead, they look the other way, the sides of their eyes holding Verdene in place as they grab their daughters. “Oonuh come out the way! Mek the witch pass!” And when Verdene gets to the bar by Mr. Levy’s, the men playing dominoes outside regard her closely, until she passes near enough to hear one of them, Clover, say to his friends, “All she need is a good cocky.”
But Verdene doesn’t falter. She holds her head high, knowing they probably won’t touch her due to her foreign privilege. Had they wanted to harm her, they would’ve done so already. It’s that crisp British accent, its stroke of precision sharp like a razor’s edge. “Is there a problem, gentlemen?” Verdene asks, trying not to let her voice quaver. The men shrink under her view. They are seemingly embarrassed by her propriety. Clover takes a swig of rum from a flask, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He says nothing, only grabs his crotch and holds it. Verdene stares him down until he releases himself and drops his leer.
At the market Verdene barely sees or smells anything. She picks up fruits and vegetables and puts them in her basket. They all look bad, given that it has not rained in months. She wishes she could test their texture and smell them like her mother used to do. Verdene’s mother could do this in her sleep. She always got the best price for everything she bought. But Verdene doesn’t have that luxury. One look at her and the market vendors know she’s a foreigner, a prodigal daughter who has still not assimilated back into the culture. It must be her clipped accent and mannerisms; her willingness to wait her turn to speak when they’re speaking; the way she walks with caution, unable to be led by her hips like most Jamaican women, and always looking over her shoulder like the tourists who wander from the hotels. And in her face, the vendors from River Bank see her mother, Miss Ella, and they remember the old woman who died alone in that nice pink house on the hill. They remember the daughter who disgraced her. They remember the sin she committed. They whisper to the other vendors. “Nuh Miss Ella dawta dat?” And their words spread like the stench of raw fish, battered fruit, and gutter water that permeates the humid air. Some fan her away like the flies that pitch all over their produce, while others pause, their hands on their hips as though waiting for a confrontation. Verdene feels like one of the soldiers that march through the area with long rifles, her presence leaving a trail of silence and apprehensive looks. The vendors quote the highest price, stating it between clenched teeth, their eyes communicating to her that their price is final. That they would rather do without her money and have their children eat cornmeal porridge again for dinner. When she agrees to buy their produce, unwilling to fight, they grudgingly take her money. Verdene notices that they touch the bills with only the tips of their fingers.
Verdene fills her basket and walks to the end of the row. She has never gone this far into the arcade, but today something is propelling her. Delores is on her haunches, taking out green peas from their pods. Her expert fingers open them up quickly to let the seeds fall into a basket. Though she’s getting a lot accomplished, her mind is elsewhere. Verdene can tell, for Delores doesn’t notice her standing there watching her. “Hello, Delores.” Verdene moves inside the stall and stands over the crouched woman, who appears smaller than Verdene remembered her to be. Delores regards her face as though trying to place her. Her large eyes widen and her eyebrows touch her hairline like she has seen a ghost. “You!” Delores says. This comes out as a whisper. Verdene takes a step back to disarm her, but Delores is already struggling to her feet, her gasp turning into a body-shivering cough. Verdene wants to step forward and hit Delores’s back in order to help, but she’s afraid someone might come and think she’s trying to assault her. Delores’s cough quiets. She breathes slowly, with her fist to her mouth just in case she might have another fit. “What yuh want from me?” Delores asks when she calms down, her voice hoarse.
“I was in the area. Just came to say hello.”
Delores grimaces. “Who told you we’re on any level for dat kind of thing?”
“You never used to mind me.”
“Well, that was before I knew yuh was the devil.”