How to Escape From a Leper Colony (8 page)

Jasmine is unaware of Thomas Thompson’s adoration for her. She thinks of him as the brother she never had, and in high school she went to watch his soccer games. But this island is American and soccer isn’t yet popular. No one thinks that the soccer players are valiant. Jasmine doesn’t understand the game at all and thinks the players look like overgrown squirrels fighting for a nut.

Despite the friendship of their children, Deirdre Thompson and Violet de Flaubert hate each other. They act, of course, as though they are very good friends.

2.

Violet is already crying as she eases out of her rotten station wagon and feels the heat of the fire. She knows what a burning church means. She was a child in the America of the sixties. She doesn’t understand how this hate has followed her. How her father’s Klannishness has found her on this island of black people. She wonders if somehow her father has burned down the church. Somehow he has hunted her down, and this is her punishment for marrying a nigger and having half-nigger children. Beautiful amber-colored children—the kind she had hoped for to save her father’s sins. Daughters her father would have adored if they had just been lighter skinned and straighter haired. But then Violet remembers her father is dead.

Violet thinks of all her daughters as strong. She calls them “tough as nails.” Her girls’ shyness or bookishness or violinness is their armor to face the world. A girl’s kind of trick armor. She doesn’t know her daughters very well—there are just so many of them. She doesn’t know that their armor is insufficient when battling the world.

Only four months ago Deirdre’s son, Thomas, and Violet’s daughter Jasmine went away to college in America. To the same city, but not to the same college. Violet didn’t think much of this. She thought maybe the two would meet up for coffee every once in a while.

Deirdre hoped that shy Jasmine, with her slutty name, would disappear into the sewers of the city and from her son’s mind. She hoped the girl would end up on drugs or pregnant, and that her son would end up married to an Ivy League coed with professional ambitions and cooking skills. That would show Violet—but then Deirdre would whisk away these devilish thoughts with a little prayer. She does not wish to be so evil. She was only thinking of her son. Deirdre knows Thomas wants to be president someday, but she believes that sons are fragile and in need of their mothers.

What happened with Thomas and Jasmine is common but not simple. They did meet for coffee in a chain café with a French name.

“It’s cute in here, Thomas. I like it. I’ll be coming back for sticky buns.”

Thomas frowned thinking of Jasmine here without him. This was a public place. There were many people around. He thought that this should be their place now.

“Thomas. Stop making that face and get me some sugar, no. Brown, please.”

He got up. He loved that she could barely speak to anyone for her shyness, yet she could order him to get her some sugar. She could demand brown sugar.

While he was gone Jasmine watched the other people, who all seemed pleased with their organic orange juice or chai lattes—things she had never known before. She could hear their private conversations clearly. They spoke carelessly, as though it didn’t matter who was listening. Beneath Jasmine’s new fall jacket was a silk blouse that Moby had once told her looked nice. She shifted now so she could feel it slide across her shoulders.

Thomas rested half a dozen little brown packets beside her cup. “So,” he said. “How’s chemistry?”

“I’m not taking chemistry.”

“It’s a joke. You know, like chem is so hard, so that’s all that anyone really cares about.” Perhaps this was only a joke on his campus or perhaps just in his dorm among his new friends. “So what are you taking?”

Jasmine chewed a sticky bun and sipped on her coffee. She began her list and leaned across the table so the others wouldn’t hear. “Intro to Women’s Studies. Intro to Psychology. Race and the Essay. The History of Math.”

“Aren’t you taking English comp or, like, Biology 101 or the regular stuff?”

“Yes, stupidee. Race and the Essay—that’s a composition class. The psychology is for my science credit.”

He thought to make a joke about women’s studies but then thought against it. “Race and the Essay. What you learning there?”

She sucked her teeth with annoyance. “I don’t know. We only been in class for a month or something.” She sipped her milky coffee. It was the color of her skin. “Theory and history, mostly. You know … how ethnicity marginalizes the experience with the world and is reflected on the text … and all that. The stuff we didn’t learn at St. Mark’s.”

Thomas sat up straight now and stirred his Earl Grey. He wanted to ask what “the text” was but he suddenly felt defensive. “St. Mark’s was good to us, Jasmine. I mean, I feel it really prepared me for college. Like, I know all about Plato’s cave and, like, no one else in my comp class does. I mean that’s education …” But he realized that she wasn’t paying any attention. He tried again. “Tell me about your roommate. You get along?”

He watched her face as she talked about her roommate, who had a new college boyfriend already. It seemed Jasmine didn’t care for her roommate because the girl had pushed herself onto the dorm committee. Jasmine said this might be a sign that the girl was arrogant. Thomas had to force himself not to watch Jasmine’s mouth. He thought to look into her eyes but that often made his own eyes well with tears. So he watched her forehead and her cheeks and she looked out into the street and then back into her cup of coffee.

Though Violet and Thomas are both a combination of white American and black Caribbean, they are different in color. He is a kind of yellow color. Almost like gold. Her color is muted and therefore more mysterious. This is not something that Jasmine thinks. It is what Thomas thought that day in the café as she talked and talked.

From her dorm room phone Jasmine called her mother. “I met with Thomas Thompson today.”

“Well, that’s nice,” Violet said. “How are you doing making new friends?”

“Fine. I mean I haven’t made any. My roommate is frigging annoying.”

“And a boyfriend?”

“Yeah, she already has a boyfriend. Not even a month of school yet. Can you believe it, Mom?”

“I mean you, baby. Is there a nice smart boy in your science class maybe? Remember, you want a smart man. One with a bright future.”

“Oh, Mom. You know you’re harassing me. My roommate is so …”

“She’s just having fun. Fun is okay.”

“Okay, Mom. Okay.”

Jasmine hung up without speaking to her father, but she was left wondering about him. She wondered about her mother’s insistence that she search her science class for a boyfriend. She wondered about her father’s inadequacies. She felt bad for him and mad at her mother. But Jasmine also felt that her mother had made a mistake in her choice of a husband. It was not a mistake Jasmine would repeat.

3.

“My father killed himself just like this.” Violet says this in a screechy voice though she has only meant to think it. It is not something she has said to anyone and now she has said it to the fire and to the figure ahead. She is almost hysterical with tears. There really is a church, her church, burning right in front of her. Right here on this island that was supposed to be brown skin paradise. The suicide is a secret Violet has kept from her husband and her daughters. Her parents are dead. Her children are told honorable stories. They do not seem to mind that they don’t know their white cousins, and Violet has been grateful for that indifference.

She sees with disgust that it is Deirdre Thompson there ahead, standing before the church as though just watching is serious work. As though the burning was her own doing. Deirdre who is chubby and unhappy and dangerously insecure. Violet focuses on the back of Deirdre’s head, with its short, sharp hair. She cannot help but finger her own rolling curls thankfully, and then feel ashamed for her blessed endowment. Violet cannot remember ever touching Deirdre, even in the peace during church services. But now she thinks that the goodly thing would be to move toward Deirdre, closer to the flames, so they can work this fire out as a team.

Violet hugs the ring pillow to her chest protectively, the bands sewn gently on. She gives her voice as an offering. “My mother died in the fire, too. They never said suicide, but it was.” And though she is crying, the words are very clear.

But Deirdre does not move at all, and for a second Violet thinks she should step forward and hug the thick woman. Then it comes to her like a pinch that Deirdre is the arsonist. That self-righteous cow would love to see Violet’s daughter sullied. She clenches her jaw and takes a breath. Deirdre can burn for all she cares. Instead she asks, employing her slight island accent for strength, “Can you at least fucking tell me if our babies are inside?”

Deirdre feels her shoulders and neck tighten. What is Violet de Flaubert carrying on about? Her dumb racist roots? And she has the nerve to ask the question that Deirdre herself should have asked. Deirdre hadn’t thought about anyone being trapped inside. She hadn’t thought about anybody but her son at home waiting, and now Violet is about to do the saving work. But then again, perhaps Violet has just gone mad. Deirdre wonders if this insanity is connected to the fire and why. But Deirdre knows why Violet would want to bring down the church. It is easy to know why. She has always been jealous of my family, Deirdre thinks.

Between Deirdre and Violet there is more than a fire. There is something more destructive. It is something like history and the future converted into flesh. They have children between them. And now they have their similar histories and their common futures like a leash from one to another.

Jasmine’s face went hot under her skin when her roommate explained to her that if she ever arrived at their door and saw a hair scrunchy on the doorknob she should go to the lounge and watch TV for an hour.

But the first time Jasmine saw the pink scrunchy, she sat in front of the door and waited for the animal noises to calm. Then she opened the door with her key and got in her bed—shoes and all. She could hear them in the dark talking about her. Whispering about what to do now, until finally the boy slid out of the door like a thief in the night.

The second time the pink scrunchy was ringed around the doorknob Jasmine sat in front of the door and cried. She sniffled loudly until another girl walked by in a towel and asked if she was okay. Jasmine nodded and buried her head. But the girl wouldn’t go. She sat next to Jasmine and put her arm around her. Then she offered to make her some tea. She had a forbidden electric teapot in her room. The two of them sipped green tea until past midnight and the other girl’s roommate came home.

The third time Jasmine came home to the scrunchy, she thought about barging in and demanding that the boy get out. She thought about calling her roommate a slut. But then Jasmine thought on her own sister. The youngest, who was just fourteen, and the only one of the sisters who had gone all the way with a boy. Instead of barging in the room again, Jasmine went to the girl with the teapot. But that girl’s roommate was in, and Jasmine was too uncomfortable to stay there with them both and drink tea. She asked to use their phone. “You have a great accent,” the other roommate said. “Are you from Jamaica?” Jasmine nodded her head to avoid conversation. She was calling Thomas.

The subway station was emptier than usual. The café where she was meeting Thomas was only three stops away but the ride took a long time. Jasmine was a little afraid as she sat on the train and the few people got on and off. She didn’t risk even glancing at her books. She held them to her chest and thought about the best ways to use them as a weapon. The train rumbled like a can and creaked to a stop. Her sneakers rubbed and squeaked on the ground of the dark station. She pushed her way through the turnstile and began to run. There was no one around until she burst out of the stairway and into the street. But there was the café and there was Thomas standing at its entrance. He took her books and held the door open for her.

At their table he laid the brown sugar packets on her saucer without her having to ask.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“So, what’s up? I mean, I’m glad you called and all. We haven’t talked for a good while and you didn’t return my calls, but I was just wondering …” He was doing it again. Rambling on and complaining.

“What are you?” Jasmine asked.

“What?”

“You know. White or black? What do you feel more?” It was question from her Race and the Essay class. It was a question about passing. About being something you were not or becoming something you were not meant to be. But it was also a question that she and Thomas had been thinking about all their lives.

“It’s different.” Thomas didn’t want to say the wrong thing but he wanted to be honest. He always wanted to be honest with Jasmine.

“How so?”

“At home, I feel mixed. Everyone knows my mother and father. They all know what I am.” She nodded her understanding. But he continued. “Here I feel more white, I guess. I mean, I think some people might think I’m all white even. I guess I’m white in America.”

This was the wrong answer. “You should take the class I’m taking. You’ll think more about the responsibility you have to be true to yourself.”

He slapped his spoon clumsily around in his cup. “Well, what do you feel?”

“I feel mixed here.” She stared into her tawny coffee. “Everyone asks me what I am and where I’m from. They assume I’m from Jamaica whenever I say anything. Don’t you hate that?”

“People say they can’t hear my accent at all. I have to pull out my driver’s license to prove I’m not from right here.” This wasn’t right either, so he stopped. “What do you feel like at home? Since you’re mixed up here. Do you feel black at home?”

“I just feel like myself at home. I just feel like Jasmine.” But as she said it she knew this wasn’t all true. Jasmine. What kind of name was that? Her sisters were Rose, Lily, Iris, and the youngest, fast one was Daisy. Rose and Lily seemed dignified, Iris seemed sharp and tidy, and Daisy was, well, lighthearted. But Jasmine—what a name. A little, ugly flower that gave off a strong, whorish smell.