A Simple Distance (19 page)

I hated that I couldn’t drive myself. Not on those roads. Especially at night, I lac ked confidence on the left side.

We drove in silence the entire trip, neither of us anxious to go where we had to that night.

Mr. Hill must have called ahead from his cell phone to the restaurant and driven like a sixteen-year-old boy, because he pulled up with our dinner right after us in the parking lot of the Bank Royale, just underneath Susan’s one-bedroom.

Inside, he brought us the curry: goat and chicken. And roti, to wrap it in. He also brought plastic forks and paper plates, having had the misfortune of trying to find such things in his daughter’s apartment on prior occasions. He shook his head back and forth in domestic disapproval. Susan rolled her eyes on cue. They were sweet, together like that. A team: father and daughter.

Mr. Hill offered me a plate of curry, placed his hand on my shoulder, winced at the way I butchered the pronunciation of
roti
, constitutionally incapable of keeping the
t
a
t
, repeatedly making it a
d: rodi
. We all gave up on that one. Susan’s touch, soft and confident, came from him.

We avoided direct eye contact, made light with her father and the ease of his company; he was, simply, a good man.

After dinner, we talked about how things were changing. Baobique missed the reins of a strong leader; bucked yokeless like a wild horse in a crowded room. Uncle George and Prime Minister Hill were alike in that way; even though they had stood at opposite poles, they took care to aim for the long run.

The island was in need of proper guidance. But to look around, there were few individuals with the necessary foresight and charisma to do the job. And those few, still too young to hold tight the leads. So it was all petty fighting, petty fighting.

Just like my family
, I joked. The analogy too stark to ignore. We laughed, but not really.

Susan was quiet, looked down at her plate. None of us mentioned her Marcus, a likely successor to our uncles’ old thrones.

Mr. Hill assured me,
It’s the same all over, Jean. You should have seen my brothers and sisters fight over Archie’s share of the Hill estate.

Really?
I was shocked.
But you all seem so calm.

Ha!
Susan broke her silence.

We all laughed. Really.

So maybe I can feel a little less ashamed—about being a Pascal.

Ah, but that is the true mark of a Pascal—placing shame on others.
Susan cut to the heart with surgical precision.

Our laughter stopped. Cold in its tracks.

It was time for Mr. Hill to leave.

* * *

On the white lattice along the stairway leading to Susan’s apartment, two little lizards crisscrossed paths. One tilted its head backward, blew up its throat. The other bobbed its head up and down, up and down.

* * *

We waited until we were back inside her apartment and the doors were safely shut.

Then we went at it. Fast and hard. Voices raised.

When, in God’s name, Susan, were you going to mention Marcus?
I started, claimed the moral high ground from the get-go.

I was waiting, Jean, until you, maybe, decided to answer one of my dozen damn letters
. She claimed it back.

We retreated for a moment, regrouped, went again.

I lowered my voice, metered my words.
Do you have any idea how much it hurt to see you with him like that today? What were you thinking?

It is a qualitatively different kind of abandonment when a woman leaves a woman for a man. Things are different in theory than they are in real life. I would’ve had no problem with Susan sleeping with men if she wasn’t my lover. I knew this was unfair, a bigotry of sorts. But it was, simply, how I felt.

She could have done anything else, but this—this I couldn’t take.

She let me continue. So I did.
Since I arrived, I’ve fooled myself into thinking that you and I might be falling in love; that this past year was just one bad leg of a relationship that never really ended. But the truth is, we don’t really know each other at all … Maybe we’re just two completely incompatible people.

Neither of us angry anymore, Susan spoke, explained.
I didn’t tell you about Marcus because I wanted to give us a chance first. Jean, you shut me out of your life for a very long time. Somewhere during all those months of waiting for your reply, I stopped needing an answer. Marcus was here for me. And honestly, he’s much easier to handle than you are. You make such mountains out of molehills sometimes. Such a Pascal.

Thank you for that.

I am not finished.
She wasn’t amused. Continued.
Marcus is better to me than you ever have been. He is steady. And reliable. And affectionate. And I should want him at least as much as I do you. But right now I don’t know what I want. You confuse me.

She left me an opening and I jumped straight through.
Susan, I love you. I am sorry I’ve been such an idiot. Let me show you, I can be so much better … Come back to California with me. You’ve considered it before …
Ugh. Probably not a good idea to have brought up that letter.

Right.
She sighed; then silence.

I’d lost her. When would I learn not to lead with my fists?

For a second I felt the desire to flee, but truth be told, I’d rather have been there fighting with Susan than anywhere else.

My grandmother is being buried at Godwyn the day after next. I’ll be on the afternoon flight out,
was all I could say.

This is how I cut myself open: the rough edge of a coconut, crushed for milk against the rock at Granny’s beach, pressed tight against my wrist—I pulled, knowing Grampy was wrong and the sea could not possibly heal such a wound.

I will not lose you, J. Not twice.
She was crying.

And, apparently, so was I. I felt like I was in San Francisco, not Baobique; so thick with fog I couldn’t see the bridge.

I’d sleep on the couch. Forego the mosquito netting.

* * *

Some time later, the telephone rang us awake.

I’m always on call,
Susan explained, stumbling into the living room for the phone. She answered,
This is Dr. Hill
.

But she brought the receiver to the couch, handed it to me.

I heard static, and then an apology:
Jean, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry to bother you. Your office gave me your mother’s number. She gave me this one. Something’s happened. I just need to talk.
It was Cynthia.

* * *

The morning had caught her still in bed, Sadie at an overnight with a YMCA playgroup learning social skills, when the phone rang.

Collect call from Linda Thompson. Do you accept the charges?

Yes.

Cynthia?

Linda, where are you?

At the police station.

What’s the matter?

I was attacked.
Voice cracking.

Are you okay?

No.

Cynthia’d pulled on Linda’s black polar fleece sweatpants from the way-back of the dresser drawer. She stumbled into their Volvo and ran the three stoplights leading to the station house. A fire engine waiting in front, lights flashing. A man and a woman sitting on the front steps.

Two paramedics and a cop stooped over Linda. One trying to get her to sign a waiver, one trying to take her blood pressure, and one apparently just taking up space.

Cynthia’d knelt, put her hand on Linda’s knee right in front of everybody, a move she mightn’t have done when they were still together.

What happened?

I was attacked,
Linda answered.

By who?

Those people
, pointing to the couple on the stairs.

Why?

And Linda began to cry.

It had started with the dogs. Theirs and Linda’s, none of whom were on a leash and all of whom had wanted to sniff each other. So they had. The couple’s dog, busy, would not respond to their calls. They yelled at Linda for not having hers on a leash. She’d reminded them that their dog was also unleashed. The man threatened to hurt Linda’s dog and she told him he was crazy.

Fucking dyke! Bitch! Fucking whore!
The metal clasp of the man’s leash came down on her head first, its nylon strap cutting a gash across her face. And then she was on the ground, in the dirt, under the woman; the woman straddling Linda, her husband punching and kicking and spitting. Then the woman put her face to Linda’s breast and bit down, hard as she could.

If you touch my wife I’ll kill you, you fucking dyke!

They’d let her up.

Okay. It’s over,
he said.

Not until I talk to a cop!
Linda screamed.

They jumped on her again.

This time she was able to shout.

But no one came.

Linda had lain underneath. The woman’s full weight on her chest. She’d lain as they punched, kicked, and spat. She spat back.

Again, they let her up. She followed them, asking everyone along the way, along the exercise path, for a cell phone to call the police. Everyone looking back blank. The fifth person she’d asked, a frail elderly woman, had taken pity and given her a phone. As Linda called the police, the couple started walking toward the station.

She returned the woman’s phone and collected their little dog, who had started to run to Cynthia’s, they assumed, to get help. He never would have made it. He got so lost in the tall grass along the dunes. By the time Linda got to the station, the man had already burst through the front door, announcing,
My wife’s been attacked!

Linda followed him in, bruised and welted.

The police officer was absolutely useless.
Seems like a case of he said/she said.
He took a report from Linda against the couple, and a report from the couple against Linda, while looking at their unblemished skin, Linda’s welts, bruises, and bite mark. A paramedic suggested she go to the emergency room, although the waiver she’d signed released him from actually having to drive her.

Can I use the phone?
she asked.

There’s a pay phone over there.

Cynthia had driven her to the hospital. The attending physician said Linda would be feeling effects for some time.
Severe trauma
, she’d said. Prescribed a pill for shock, and a tetanus booster. Within the next seventy-two hours, Linda would need a hepatitis check, an HIV test, and another one in six months. She should not have unprotected sex until the test results came back negative. She would need to call the district attorney, who had the power to court order the woman to have her blood drawn and tested for communicable diseases.

There was no mention of Cara that evening.

* * *

I told Cynthia I’d be home
as soon as I can
, and that
everything is going to be okay.
I promised. I told her to take care of herself, and Sadie, and Linda.
Keep safe. Keep yourselves safe
, I told her, and hung up.

The rain had come. It let down hard on the roof, mixed with the red clay of the roadside to make a mortar, walling me in. My breath shallow and fast.

J, come back
. Susan sat beside me, circled her arm around my shoulder, dug her fingers deep into my curls. Held me.

Outside
, shhhhhhh—
the rain covered us in sheets.

CHAPTER 29

Susan and I rose early from our respective beds, took turns in the shower rinsing the stick of the night from our skin, went our separate ways: she to the clinic, me to Uncle Martin’s office just blocks away along Port Commons’ single street.

I let the mosquito bites on my legs itch without scratching as I walked. The mosquitoes knew I didn’t belong in Baobique; drank their fill of me while they could. The longer I was there, the less I let them bother me. Their bites turned red and swelled on their own. Regardless of my actions, I’d scar.

By the time I arrived, Uncle Martin was already in. But he had a preliminary matter to deal with before we could turn our attention to Godwyn. He called in a young girl holding a thrashing sack by its top with a death grip to keep it closed. Something angry inside, jumping and scratching to get out. The girl cleaned the apartment complex he owned down the road. Uncle Martin turned to me and asked,
What would the criminal penalty be in the States for stealing a cat?

A cat?
I asked back, surprised at the question.

Yes. A cat.

Misdemeanor, probabl
y, I hazarded a guess, shrugged it off.

Oh! Then it’s okay.
He turned to the girl, told her to
walk out past the river and let it go.

The girl nodded, left, tight fists first—bag in grip—shut the door behind her with a thickly calloused foot.

Uncle Martin explained.
The tenant knows the rules. No cats allowed in the rental units.

So why don’t you just evict her?
Unable to be alarmed anymore.

I want her money. I don’t want her to leave. Just the cat.

I didn’t raise a stink. And we moved on.

These two worlds of mine, Baobique and California, are simply irreconcilable. It is like comparing apples to oranges, or plums to coconuts. When I’m in San Francisco, Baobique scarcely exists for me. Yet there, I have no family, no context, no blood to remind me that I, too, have ties to this earth. In Baobique, it is literally the earth that tells me who I am, where I come from, and, very possibly, who I am still to be.

My uncle’s generation was learning day by day that they were mortal. Who was left, if not me, to move us forward?

Let’s get to work,
I suggested.

And we did.

There are many ways to solve a problem. And while I’d take a written agreement over kidnapping a woman’s cat any day, it is a weak family that turns to a contract to resolve its conflicts.

But Baobique is like an onion pulled up from the ground, always peeling off another layer: layers of mountains and the valleys running through them; layers of green, constantly shifting hues; layers of truth popping out here and there from behind fast-moving clouds; layers of hate. And love. Every time I’d think I’d figured it out, something different showed its face.