She cannot deny him.
Change ah we heart, O Lord. Change ah we heart.
Later that afternoon Anna calls Windsor. Her boss is sympathetic. She will temporarily assign Anna’s books to another editor, she says.
Her easy acquiescence troubles Anna. Every ambitious editor has her sights set on New York. Is there someone younger and brighter waiting in the wings to take her job? Will her position as head of Equiano still be there for her when she returns? Anna does not ask her boss these questions directly. She asks whether there are any problems brewing at Equiano. Anything she needs to know.
Her boss laughs. On the contrary, she says, sales are picking up. Urban lit is taking off. We can’t publish enough of it. There’s a huge pool of young black readers out there who are just waiting to lap it up. Urban lit, chick lit, they fly off the shelves. We even have a new category, she says. Ghetto lit! She laughs so loudly Anna has to remove the receiver from her ear.
This is not what Anna wants to hear. These are not the books she wants Equiano to publish.
“And people used to say there wasn’t a market for books by black writers,” her boss gloats. “Look at what is happening now.”
People
. Her boss means white people. Her boss means the marketplace of black readers. Her boss believes that books by black writers have no relevance to
people’s
lives.
This is the essence of racism, Anna thinks, this refusal of people to see themselves in the lives of others whose skin color is different than theirs.
Fiction best achieves the universal through the specific. It is by telling stories that are plausible, about characters who are believable, that the writer eases us into exploring the many facets of the human condition. So what if the specific characters are people of color? What if the worlds they inhabit are the worlds inhabited by other people of color? Are there universals for white people and different universals for people of color?
She grew up reading Enid Blyton. She sought adventures vicariously with the pink-cheeked English children in Blyton’s mystery novels. As an adult she found herself in the heroines of Austen’s novels. Shakespeare, Blake, Keats, Wordsworth, all spoke to her. It didn’t matter that they were English. But her boss at Windsor seems to think that the reverse is not possible, that white readers cannot find themselves in the lives of black characters.
They refuse, Anna thinks. They
refuse
to find themselves in black characters. To see the commonalities we share as human beings is to bring down the wall that separates us, that has brought considerable financial profit to many, that has allowed many to delude themselves with notions of their superiority.
And yet why did it take her so long to admit to her mother that she is an editor at Equiano, not Windsor? How many times has she asked herself this question, none of her answers sufficient to quell a recurrent gnawing at her conscience? It is not, she knows, because the writers at Equiano are black. In the beginning they were Asian and Latino as well, all writers of color, but much has since changed. Asians and Latinos now fill mainstream Windsor’s niche for exotica, Africans not far behind, now that movie stars are trumpeting Africa’s cause. No, what has caused her to withhold from her mother her new position at Windsor’s latest imprint is the kind of books Equiano serves up without apology, with pride indeed, as the literature of black writers—and the fact that in spite of this, she continues to work for them.
She tries. She names the writer whose novel she wants to publish. She is a fine writer, she says to her boss, a woman who uses the magic of language to open up a world in which her characters struggle to reconcile their private desires with their public responsibilities. Her novel tells a human story, but it is a story about people with black skin who live in communities of other people with black skin.
“I’m not sure a novel like that would earn its advance,” her boss says.
“Does that mean you’re not going to consider publishing it?”
“Yes, of course I will publish it. I trust your judgment, but I must warn you there won’t be much of an advance and not much for publicity.”
It is a death sentence. No book sells itself. Anna makes that point, and her boss listens patiently but she has already made up her mind.
“It’s the best I can offer,” she says.
This is the reason why she must return to New York. She needs to be there to fight for her writer. If the book does not sell, her boss will not publish the writer’s next novel. But she must choose what matters most. She wants,
needs
, to be with her mother.
“I’ll fax my notes,” she says.
“Take all the time you need,” her boss replies.
Her parents do not go to the Bishops’ fiftieth wedding anniversary party. The next day, Paul Bishop calls. Lydia answers the phone. He’ll be coming by in an hour, Paul Bishop says. He does not ask to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Sinclair. He simply asks Lydia to deliver his message.
Beatrice is surprised he has bothered to telephone, it being the acceptable custom for visitors to arrive without warning. It is a source of pride to the people on the island, evidence of their hospitality, that at a drop of a hat they can have a meal ready to offer the unexpected visitor. Anna remembers more than one time when she had to give up the slices of chicken breast she preferred for a thigh or leg because someone arrived at lunchtime. But Paul Bishop lives in America where such idiosyncratic (inconsiderate to some) behavior is not tolerated. He telephoned—though giving the Sinclairs merely an hour’s advance warning—and he times his arrival between breakfast and lunch so as not to inconvenience the kitchen.
Nonetheless, Beatrice Sinclair panics. She issues orders: to Lydia to take the pastels from the freezer and begin steaming them immediately; to her husband to set out drinks on the bar; to Anna to find the chocolates she brought from America. She rushes out to the garden and instructs Singh to cut bunches of red ginger lilies and pink anthuriums and have Lydia arrange them in a vase on the cocktail table in the veranda, and then she disappears into her room. When she reemerges, she is wearing one of her best cotton flowered dresses, belted at the waist. Her head is wrapped in a blue silk scarf that matches the blue flowers on her dress. There is not much hair left at the base of her head and parts of her bare scalp are visible, but she has recovered a bit from her chemo session and her complexion is bright. Her face is not drawn; her eyes are not dull.
Anna brings out the chocolates. Her mother takes them from her and scans her outfit. Wanting to please her, Anna has put on white linen slacks and a pale yellow sleeveless shirt. The colors highlight her freshly tanned skin. “Good,” Beatrice says approvingly. “You look nice, Anna. Just right.”
John Sinclair, however, has not changed his clothes. He has on the same khaki shorts and dirty T-shirt he wore the day before.
Beatrice Sinclair admonishes him: “You wanted a towel, John. I gave you a towel. Why don’t you use it instead of wiping your hands on your shirt?”
He frets with her. “What would you prefer me to do? Dress up like you or set up the bar?”
In the midst of this exchange the bell at the gate rings. Beatrice, flustered, sends Lydia to find a clean shirt for Mr. Sinclair. “Quick sharp!” She claps her hand. The bell rings again and she runs to the electric buzzer in the kitchen. She presses it and the gate opens. “Anna, you go to meet Paul Bishop,” she says.
Ordinarily Beatrice Sinclair would consider it improper for her daughter to greet a visitor in the driveway, but her husband is standing in the kitchen half naked and Lydia has gone to the bedroom for his shirt. This is not a time to insist on such social proprieties, not when a visitor of the stature of Dr. Paul Bishop could be standing in the driveway not knowing through which door he should enter the house.
Anna likes Paul Bishop right away. She finds him handsome, though not in a conventional way. When he comes out of the car, she discovers he is no more than an inch or two taller than she. And he is not well proportioned. He has a slight paunch that protrudes under his white-collared Polo shirt. It begins at his waist and hangs over the belt that holds up his tan slacks. He is as close to fifty as she is to forty, she surmises. There are sprinklings of gray on his closely cropped hair and on his thick eyebrows, but he has
presence
. This is the word that comes to Anna’s mind. When he stretches his arm out to shake her hand, his entire being seems to come alive. His jet black eyes dance; his widening smile sends ripples across his cheeks; sunlight bounces off his smooth, plum-dark skin.
“Anna, do you remember meeting me?” Even his voice, she finds, has presence. It is a deep baritone that is immensely pleasing to her. “Of course you won’t,” he says when she doesn’t respond. “You were a little thing, about four or five,”
“You couldn’t have been much older,” Anna replies.
“A boy always remembers a pretty girl. Your father brought you with him one day when he came to see my father. You were so pretty.”
It embarrasses Anna that at this moment she should be grateful to her mother for making it known to her that Paul Bishop does not have a wife. She is glad too that for her mother’s sake she is wearing one of her favorite outfits.
“All little girls at four or five are pretty,” she says self-deprecatingly, and is conscious right away that she has opened herself to inviting a compliment.
Paul Bishop obliges. “And you have remained so, I can see.”
Her parents are standing in the veranda, waiting. John Sinclair is now wearing a crisply ironed cotton plaid shirt and clean brown pants. On the cocktail table is the floral arrangement Lydia has made with the red ginger lilies and the pink anthuriums. Next to it is a white orchid in a clay pot. Beatrice Sinclair had asked Singh to cut the red ginger lilies and the pink anthuriums for the vase in the veranda. She did not ask him for the orchid.
Paul Bishop notices it immediately. He greets the Sinclairs and points to the orchid. “It’s so unusual.”
“Singh must have put it there.” Beatrice Sinclair is clearly pleased.
“Singh?”
“Mummy’s gardener,” Anna tells him. “He knows how much Mummy loves orchids. He gave her this one.”
“It’s stunning.” Paul Bishop touches a leaf. “He must really like you, Mrs. Bishop. You hardly see an orchid like this one.”
“Singh’s been with me for a long time,” Beatrice says. Did Singh anticipate Paul Bishop’s response? Did he and Lydia cook up this plan together to have her mother warm up to him? Lydia has overheard their conversations. She knows this man is a surgeon in America.
Paul Bishop admits he’s a gardener himself. An amateur, not an expert like you, Mrs. Sinclair, he says. Beatrice beams. I imagine you can’t do much in the winter, Beatrice offers sympathetically. That’s what I miss in New Jersey, Paul Bishop says. Spring, summer, and then it’s over. Would you like to see the garden? I would like nothing more, Paul Bishop says. Beatrice gives him a tour. John Sinclair accompanies them; Anna stays behind.
Lydia is waiting with a tray laden with pastels wrapped in smoked banana leaves, slices of cold ham, plates, and cutlery when they return. She is standing at the doorway. Beatrice Sinclair motions to her to come forward. She is in a good mood. Paul Bishop is full of praise for her garden. The colors! The variety! The symmetry!
“Sit, sit.” Beatrice invites Paul Bishop to take one of the wicker chairs. He sits, they all sit. Then John Sinclair spoils the festivities.
“We are so sorry,” he begins. “So sorry we couldn’t come to your parents’ anniversary celebration. Beatrice …” He casts his eyes over to his wife. She is no longer smiling. “I … We …” He struggles to find the right words that will erase the frown growing on his wife’s brow. “We don’t get around much these days.”
“I expect so,” Paul Bishop says. “There is no need to apologize. I’m leaving tomorrow and I wanted to get the chance to see you before I left.” He leans over to Beatrice. “How are you, Mrs. Sinclair?”
Paul Bishop’s question makes Beatrice uncomfortable. She covers up her discomfort by turning her attention to Lydia. “Come, come, Lydia,” she says irritably. “Don’t stand there. Offer the doctor a pastel.”
Paul Bishop shakes his head and raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “All this good food! I love pastels, but I’ve gained five pounds since I arrived on the island.” He rubs his stomach.
“You don’t have to have it if you’ve just eaten,” Anna says.
Her mother glances at her sharply. Anna clamps her mouth shut. She does not say another word.
“Lydia made these,” Beatrice says. “I think they are the best she’s ever made. Try one, Dr. Bishop.” She puts a pastel on a plate.
“How can I refuse?” Paul Bishop smiles at Lydia who grins back at him.
“Here. Let Anna remove the banana leaves from your pastel.” Beatrice points the plate in her daughter’s direction.
Anna draws back her hand as if she has been stung.
Paul Bishop is gallant. “Oh, no, Mrs. Sinclair,” he says, and takes the plate from Beatrice. “That won’t be necessary. I can do this.”
Beatrice is not to be outdone. “Anna helped Lydia make these. Didn’t you, Anna?”
With as much sternness and finality as she can muster, Anna says to her mother, “I helped Lydia wrap them. That’s all I did and you know that very well, Mummy.”
Beatrice purses her lips. Her eyebrows converge.
John Sinclair wants to clear the air. “And what will you drink, Dr. Bishop?”
“I’m not fussy.”
“Rum punch?”
“A little too early for me for alcohol.”
“Lime juice with some Angostura?” Beatrice chimes in.
“Yes. That would be good. I miss having lime juice and Angostura.”
“We’ve mixed it already.” Beatrice sends Lydia to the bar for the pitcher and glasses.
Paul Bishop turns to John Sinclair. His father has never forgotten how John Sinclair helped the oil field workers, he says. “I wouldn’t be where I am today if you had not helped him.”
“According to Dr. Ramdoolal you are one of the best surgeons in America,” John Sinclair says graciously.