Bliss (15 page)

"No, not really." The memory of Regina burned briefly.
"I'm footloose and fancy free, as they say."

Hunter swallowed a bite of her pastry. "Who's `they' and
what the devil does `footloose' really mean?"

"Ignore her, she's being difficult today," Lydia said to
Sinclair.

"I am not being difficult." Hunter took a sip of her ginger
beer. "This is just me all the time."

"Does it ever get tiring?" Sinclair asked, all innocence.
"Being you, that is."

"Funny." Hunter stuck her tongue out at her.

Caught off guard, Sinclair giggled.

Lydia ignored their byplay. "So back to my question, why
don't you have someone waiting for you over there?"

"Would it stop you if I said that I didn't want to talk about
it?"

"Of course."

"Right." Hunter made a noise of disbelief. "And you have
two brass ones hanging underneath that dress." She moved
as if to lift Lydia's dress, then stopped herself. "Wait, that
might actually be true."

"Very funny." Lydia slapped at Hunter's straying hand.

"I'm hanging out with a bunch of comedians today,"
Sinclair muttered.

"That's one thing that I've never been called before."
Hunter said as she backed away from Lydia, laughing.

"If not comedy, then what do you do to make your living?"

"Scientist. I'm one of the computer nerds at the University
of the West Indies."

"Sounds interesting."

"It is and it isn't." She flashed Sinclair a smile. "I'm glad
for days like this when I can be out doing what I like. But
some days it gets frustrating because of the university's substandard equipment." She shook her head. "But enough of
that. The last thing I want to do is bring my work into any
conversation that I have on my day off."

"Everyday can be a day off if Hunter wanted," Lydia said.
"She practically works as a freelance scientist with freelance
hours."

"That doesn't translate into me not working at all, Ms.
Nine to Five."

Sinclair knew that Lydia was the manager of a hotel on the
beach, one of the Sandals hotels, and that she sometimes
worked an ungodly amount of hours during the week. This
she'd gotten from low-voiced conversations with Nikki on
the verandah while Xavier slept on her lap.

"I don't work nine to five any more than you do,
Willoughby."

"Ohh, she called me by my last name. That means she's really
upset with me." Hunter turned to Sinclair. "Have you ever
seen another person who's as touchy about her job?" She
laughed, then jumped away from Lydia's pinching fingers.
"Neuroses aplenty, this one."

"Let's lock the car up and go down to the water," Lydia
said suddenly.

Still chuckling, Hunter finished off her soda and dropped
the empty bottle in a nearby trash can. "Sure. Why not?"

They went to the beach together with Lydia walking between Sinclair and Hunter. The afternoon was a pleasant amalgamation of sounds, of squalling birds, schoolgirls in their
dark blue uniforms running on the sand, laughing and splashing seawater at each other. On the boardwalk beyond the
sandbank, the sky juice man hawked his wares, advertising
his flavors in a deep singsong voice. On the wind, Sinclair could
detect a teasing hint of sage, a scent she realized that Hunter
wore.

The women eventually left the beach for the market. They
parked the car and headed for the tall, colorful booths that
sold incense, oils, crocheted hats, and anything else a local
bohemian would want to buy.

"This is nice. We have a few places like this back in
America, but I never bothered to visit them for one reason or
another."

"Are you a snob?" Hunter peeked around Lydia to look at
Sinclair.

"Not that I know of."

"She's a snob," Lydia confirmed.

"Hey! It's not `pick on Sinclair' hour, OK? Leave me out of
your little bitefests."

Hunter laughed. "Take it easy. I was only joking."

"No, you weren't, Brit."

"Oooh, she called you a name." Lydia skipped ahead of
them to look at some handmade sandals.

"I hope you don't think I was being offensive."

"Not yet, but you're close." Sinclair glanced at her sister's
woman. "Do you really think I'm a snob?"

"I don't know." She touched Sinclair's nose. "That turnedup nose of yours gives me the idea that you might be."

She batted the finger away. "I'll remember you said that."

"Hey, what do you think of these?" Lydia called their attention to the brown sandal on her foot. A little on the plain
side, it looked odd next to her own strappy, high-heeled shoe.

Hunter appeared to consider the matter. "I think it looks
better here," she knelt at Lydia's feet, took off the shoe, and
put it next to its mate in the booth's display.

Sinclair nodded. "I agree."

"What do you two know about fashion anyway?"

"Did she just insult us?" Hunter looked at Sinclair.

"I think she did. I don't know why. You look pretty fashionable to me."

"So do you." Hunter's voice took on a high, singing quality. "I think what you're wearing is the absolute pinnacle of
rugged expatriate fashion." Her eyes swept over Sinclair's
pale slacks and tube-top blouse. "Stunning."

"Why, thank you, Robin Leach. I don't even think this
fashion has even reached the colonies yet, my mode is just
that far ahead of the current one."

"You two are not funny."

Hunter snickered. "We think so."

Sinclair's lips twitched with amusement as she glanced at
her partner in crime.

"Come on, don't be mad at us." They rushed up to Lydia
from behind, fawning over her in an excess of passion, kissing her cheeks and the backs of her hands.

"A lesbian them, man." Sinclair flinched at the harsh
voice. "'Specially the one in the pants."

The women kept on walking, but Hunter had stiffened
next to Sinclair.

"You a lesbian?"

The other people walking near them looked around,
looked at the boy who had spoken, then at the women. They
did nothing.

"You want some dick in your life?"

The voices followed the women. From the corner of her
eye, Sinclair saw that they belonged to four men, still boys
really, with the hard muscles of laborers but none of the honest intentions.

"Pussy don't belong with pussy, you know. You need
this-" he grabbed his crotch, "every time."

Lydia turned around. "Fuck off."

"Keep that as an inside thought, my dear," Hunter murmured near her girlfriend's ear. "We don't want any trouble
from these assholes."

"Unfortunately, I think we already have it." Sinclair
laughed nervously.

"You dykes think this is funny?"

"Not at all." Hunter stepped back. "So since nobody is
amused let's just call it a day and go our separate ways.
OK?"

A ring of spectators was beginning to form around them.

"No. No damn way some man-woman is going to disrespect me and walk off."

"Disrespect?" Hunter made a rude noise. "Didn't you
start this?"

This was going to get ugly. Sinclair's fists tightened convulsively.

"No, man. You bitches started this. And we're going to
finish it."

"Can these punks be any more clicheed?" Hunter turned
to Sinclair with a sneer.

"Don't piss off the nice man, Hunter."

"What nice man would that be, sweetheart?" Not the one
who was advancing closer and closer toward them.

"Any of you fucks touch me and you're dead!" Lydia
hissed, anchoring her purse across her body.

The one in orange took her up on her dare. Her punch was
solid, loud in the enclosed space. It set off the other three like
firecrackers. They came at the women, fists flying, teeth
bared. Sinclair had never felt such fear in her life, not even
when she was mugged in the city. She kicked and punched,
grateful that her body remembered the lessons from the selfdefense course she'd taken two years ago. Her elbow connected with something solid and someone howled.

"Hold her down!" Sinclair felt hands pull at her limbs,
then at her blouse. Pain exploded in her side and against her
face. She kicked at the body closest to her legs and felt a jolt
of relief when he screamed and fell against the concrete.
Hands grappled roughly at her arms and breasts. Somewhere
glass shattered.

"Back the fuck up!"

Sinclair looked up to see Lydia with a broken bottle in one
hand. "Get off my fucking sister or I'm going to shove this
glass up your ass, then come back for your balls."

A cold fever swept over Sinclair's skin, then suddenly she
was free. The boy backed away from her with his hands up.
Lydia feinted closer to him, stabbing at him with the broken
bottle. A hand tugged at Sinclair's and she recoiled, bringing
her elbow sharply up. The body next to her staggered and
cursed.

"Fuck!" Hunter's voice was loud next to her ear. "It's me,
dammit! Come on. Let's go."

The mist cleared. She could see one of the boys on the
ground, holding his crotch, his body gripping itself in the
fetal position. His arm and back were bloody. Another held
his nose, making harsh gagging noises as blood gushed between his fingers. The other was nowhere to be seen. Hunter
stood next to her, gripping a rock in her bloodied fist, chest
heaving. The crowd stared but did nothing. It backed away
as the women emerged from their human boxing ring, thrusting their way through the suffocating heat of hostile bodies
to find Lydia's car.

They didn't talk on the ride back to Lydia's house. The
wind filled the silence in the car, brushing like a soothing
salve over naked bruises. Lydia's face was the worst. An ugly
purpling bruise smudged the right side of her mouth. In a few
minutes it would start to swell. Aside from a slightly bruised
mouth, Hunter's face was still intact. Little gashes decorated
her knuckles and the palm of one hand where she had
gripped the rock. She held that hand outside the car to let the
cool breeze ease its burning. Sinclair's arms were a mottled
purple where the men had held her down and her cheek had
a small cut, probably from someone's ring. Right now she
was just tired, her mind still shied away from the fact that
grown men had done this thing to them, and no one from the
market had tried to help.

When they parked in the garage, Sinclair stumbled from
the car, then followed the two women into the house.

"Can I go lie down in your guest room?" she asked. "I'm
a little tired."

"Sure, go ahead. I'll call Papa and let him know you'll be
spending the night here."

"Thanks."

Sinclair went into the bedroom and took off her clothes.
The bed was soft, but she felt suffocated, and instead of being
comforted by the paintings on the walls-images of banana
trees and coconut groves, of young men walking through otherwise empty city streets-she felt threatened by them. Sinclair turned away but her mind replayed scenes of the attack, the
terror and violence of it. She finally got up, wrapped an oversized towel around her like a sarong, and walked through the
empty sitting room and made her way to the back patio. She
pulled off the towel and sank into the silken hammock with a
sigh. The breeze immediately comforted her. Within moments,
she fell asleep.

Moments later, voices from beyond the opened double
doors interrupted her rest.

"I can't believe you're asking me that. Was I the only one
getting beaten on in that market earlier?" Lydia's voice floated
out on the faint breeze.

She heard the whisper of leather against flesh as someone
sank into the sofa near the door.

"I'm asking you that because of what happened today.
This makes being out to your family and friends even more
important. When you come home with bruises from so-called
god-fearing Jamaicans who beat you up for being who you
are, don't you think that you could get your family to see the
abnormality in that, that a person who tries to destroy or
hate someone because of who and how they love isn't much
of a person?"

"I don't see the perfect harmonious vision that you see. In
my eyes there are no benefits to being out. For what? So that
I can get my ass beat again by some boys on the corner?"

"What about your life? Don't you think that you're living
it just a tad bit dishonestly?"

"This is not America, Hunter. This isn't even your precious
England. I can't walk around here holding my girlfriend's
hand like it's nothing. Women get raped and beaten for that
kind of stuff around here."

"I'm talking about your family, your friends."

"You are so damn naive."

From her swaying hammock, Sinclair could feel the heat of
her sister's frustration and hear her harsh, angry breath.

"Do you think us being more out would have saved us from almost being gang-raped in the market? Do you? Nobody tried
to help us. They didn't give a damn what happens to three
lesbians. They probably thought that a little forced entry was
going to save our souls and pussies for Jamaica. Because surely
we can't be real Jamaican women and be dykes." Lydia made
a low sound of frustration. "It kills me that you women who
leave here and come back understand the country so little that
you bring your foreign ways here and expect us to adapt."

"Don't you ever get tired of hiding? Of lying about who
you're going to see and why?"

"This is what I get tired of." Sinclair imagined Lydia gesturing to her bruised arm and the swelling at her mouth. "I get
tired of being called names when I go out to get my shopping
done. I wished that I lived in San Francisco or Manchester but
I don't. I don't believe in Jamaicans the way that you do. I don't
think they can change, or at least not soon enough for me not
to be a casualty in this useless war."

Hunter sighed. So did Sinclair. This fear that Lydia was
talking about, the threat of violence, could happen everywhere. She could have just as easily gotten gay-bashed walking to her apartment after a date with Regina as she could
have walking down her father's stretch of country road.