The Other Side of Blue (12 page)

When I get back to my room, the door is open, and Kammi perches on the edge of my unmade bed. She holds my hinged box of sea glass in her lap. The orange juice sours in my stomach. She jerks when I enter the room.

“You had more of this glass before,” she says, as if she's going to ask a question about what I did with the rest of it. “You should do something with it.” She holds up a handful of glass pieces.

“Do something?” I slide the tray of fruit and pastries onto my dresser and take the box from her. I snap the lid shut on the sea glass. The box feels cool in my hands.

“Yes, you could turn it into jewelry. I've seen some girls do that with beads and glass. They wrap wire around it, make bracelets. You shouldn't just leave it in a box.”

Kammi's being nice, even now, and I don't want her to be.

“Don't tell me what to do.” I squeeze the closed lid as if it's Pandora's box.

Tears well in her eyes. She's probably thinking this is the month from hell and when is it going to end? Instead of running away or crying, though, she nods and crosses her arms, holding her hands against her sides, protecting herself.

“What are we going to do today?” she asks.

We?

“This is Martia's day off. She already plugged in Mother's coffee and set the timer for eight. That's when Mother will come down, not a minute before,” I say, restoring the box to the top of the dresser. It's now two hours before Mother is likely to come downstairs.

Kammi nods, as if I've told her a big secret.

“After last night, you should stay out of her way,” I say, raising my eyebrows toward the studio above us.

“Why?” Kammi's face turns up, too, as if there's a clue written on the ceiling.

“You know, the water. Saco following you around like a puppy.”

Kammi blushes, the pink undertones blossoming on her cheeks. “He wasn't following me.”

“Right, Kammi. You're supposed to be the artist, the observant one. Mother said so. You should be able to tell what a boy is up to.”

“How about Loco?” she asks shyly, but with the corners
of her mouth upturned. Because of Saco or because Mother said she was an artist, I can't tell.

“A boy named Crazy. What do you think?”

“It's just a name. He seemed very nice.”

“Compared to Mayur, who wouldn't be?”

Kammi scoots over to let me sit on the bed with her. “What should we do?”

“We” again. “We could go back to the Bindases' and ask to swim in the pool. Mrs. Bindas gave us a standing offer. I'm sure Saco is still there.” That might alarm Mother, which alone would make the trip worth it. More important, though, is what Mayur said. Maybe Saco would tell Kammi if he knows. For Kammi, he might even ask the right questions, get Mayur to give up his secret.

Even though she grins, Kammi shakes her head. “Something else.”

“Ostrich farm?” I say.

Kammi shivers. “Not again.”

“Hato Cave?”

“Are there bats?”

“The bats only fly at night.” At dusk, they swoop out of the cave to hunt. By day, they hang from the ceiling, their guano mounding up on the floor. The cave is cool, I remember, and damp. Mother stayed outside while Dad and I took the tour. The only thing I hated was when the guide took us into one chamber and turned off the lights. Dad held my hand.

“I don't think so.” Kammi shakes her head. “Not today.”

I hold up the key.

“What's that for?” Kammi's nose wrinkles, the funny way it does when she thinks something is off.

“The master bedroom.”

“Why is it locked?”

“Why do you think?”

Kammi stares at the key as if it holds a secret. “It was your parents' room. Last summer.”

“An A for you. Come on,” I say. “We have time now. Before Mother gets up. We can only go there on Martia's day off. She misses nothing.” If she found us, she'd shoo us out to the beach. To get out in the sun—“Remember the sun screening,” she would say. Blue curaçao, blue heaven. We shouldn't be locked away in the house when paradise waits outside.

The doorknob is shiny brass, almost freshly polished, with no fingerprints smudging the golden surface. My face reflected in the handle looks misshapen, as if I'm some circus freak.

I turn the key, and the latch clicks. I twist the handle and push, careful not to let the door bang against the back wall—it sometimes did last summer when Dad forgot that the hinges had been greased. The room seems the same, just musty, like any room unopened for a long time. When I close the door behind Kammi, I turn the handle carefully so that it doesn't click, even though Martia's not here. She can hear me from the kitchen crinkling a candy wrapper in my room in
the hour before
cena. “Basta,
child,” she'll say. “Enough. There will be good food for dinner, wait.” But she doesn't really mean it, since she shakes her head and lets me finish what I'm eating anyway, hiding the wrapper inside a paper napkin before tossing it in the trash. In case Mother checks. We are allies.

Slivers of light filter through the closed window shades. Bright lines cut across the wooden floor. Palm-tree linens cover the bed. The puffy pillows—the kind Mother likes—are plumped, just waiting to cradle a head.

I nod at Kammi, who tiptoes over and creaks open drawers in the bedside table. I check the tall dresser. I peek into the dark spaces behind the drawers, looking for a corner of torn paper that's gotten stuck. But there are no letters tucked away, no forgotten receipts. Everything's clean.

As she stands over an open drawer, Kammi whispers, “What are you looking for?”

“Anything interesting.” I want to say “clues” but I'm not sure she'd understand. She doesn't know everything. She doesn't know that my mother might have known Howard when my Dad was still alive. That might be a clue.

The wind starts to slap the window and the branches outside, zigzagging the morning light across the floor. With sunrise, the island heats, and the breezes start to blow landward again.

“It's time,” I say.

I turn the handle as carefully as when we entered the
room. I peek to make sure the hallway is empty. Kammi goes first, tiptoeing back to her room. As soon as she's safely inside, I tug the door closed behind me. In the stillness, the click sounds loud.

In my room I fall onto the bed and stretch out. A successful foray, even though nothing turned up. I finish breakfast, then bus my tray back to the kitchen, this time slapping my flip-flops along the floor, making as much noise as I can. Before I empty the dishes into the sink—Martia always says to leave them for her—I replace the key on its hook.

As I'm leaving the room, the coffeepot gurgles into action, and a bitter aroma seeps into the air.

K
AMMI AND I
escape the house before Mother comes downstairs for her coffee. After Kammi takes a quick dip in the sea, we find shady spots on the upper deck, just off the living room. Kammi scoots her art bin next to her lounge chair, as if she believes she might learn how to paint by instinct, just by being close to the tools of the trade. She runs her hands over the smooth wooden handles of the paintbrushes. I imagine the tickle of the coarse bristles over the tender inside of her arm.

I hold Kammi's horse series paperback, the spine now hopelessly bent, in front of me. It's so boring I can't make myself read the second chapter. Instead, I squint over the top of the page. In the distance, the sea seems to bend along the horizon and the sky pivots to counterbalance. Near the shoreline, the water is pure turquoise. I wonder which colored
pencils in the back of my closet at home I would have to blend to match the exact hue.

The French doors open. Mother holds a coffee cup in one hand and closes the door with the other, a newspaper tucked under her arm. It's the local paper, I can tell from the banner. The articles are written in Dutch or English, sometimes Spanish, and even Papiamentu, as if whoever writes the article decides which language best suits the particular story. I imagine an article about the trade deficit in formal Dutch, reviews about the best shops on the cruise-ship circuit in English, a crime report in Papiamentu.

“You're both up early.” Mother says it as if she doesn't trust us together in Martia's absence. Maybe she thinks we sneaked out last night and went back to the Bindases' beach party, swimming until dawn. Kammi's hair is damp from her morning dip. Mother's gaze takes in that fact.

I think Kammi misses the look. She's already staring down at her lap, her face beginning to turn pink. Maybe she thinks Mother can read guilt in her face about the master bedroom—for no reason, as we found nothing. Or guilt about being friendly to me, who let her swim at night at the Bindases' house in the first place, when she's here to make Mother her ally and to learn how to paint to make Howard happy.

“Dad always said the early bird catches the worm,” I say.

Mother sits down under the umbrella chair. Her coffee sloshes over the brim of her cup.

Kammi jumps up and wipes the arm of Mother's chair with her beach towel.

“Thank you, Kammi.” Mother picks up her saucer so Kammi can wipe underneath.

“You're welcome.” Kammi shifts her weight from foot to foot, still holding the coffee-stained towel.

“Just go rinse that in cold water, save Martia having to bleach that stain.” Mother dismisses Kammi. Mother has never said anything before about how to reduce Martia's workload.

Kammi scrambles into the house.

“About last night,” Mother says, slapping the folded newspaper onto the table.

I raise the book back to eye level and try to focus on reading each word, seeing each individual letter.

Kammi comes running. “Mrs. Bindas is at the door. I'll go let her in.” She disappears again before Mother can say anything. Did Saco or Mayur come with Mrs. Bindas?

“Why is she here?” Mother mutters to herself.

“Maybe for your saltwater taffy recipe. I told her how everyone brings back saltwater taffy from their beach vacations. But homemade is best.” I'm lying, but Mother can't tell for sure. After all, Mrs. Bindas did say she wanted the party to be like an American Fourth of July, though it was only June, still June.

Kammi escorts Mrs. Bindas to the deck.

“Please don't disturb,” Mrs. Bindas says, waving Mother
back into her chair. Mother had hardly moved. “I am early, but I couldn't wait.”

“I'll bring you some tea,” Kammi says.

Mrs. Bindas watches Kammi dash away again. “Such a lovely girl. It is happiness, such a girl.” Her eyes linger on the doorway.

A stiff smile settles itself on Mother's face. So practiced.

“Thank you again for the cookout,” Mother says. “The girls—and I—had a wonderful time.”

“Especially at the end. Kammi loved the night swim,” I say. Mother's smile falters.

Mrs. Bindas doesn't stop beaming. “We are being so happy. Very sorry, though, for Mayur about the swimming. There was no cause to worry us all. Boys, you know.” I try to imagine Mayur being sorry for anything.

Kammi eases the French door open with her foot. She's chosen to serve tea in the Dutch owner's expensive china, the set that's stored behind glass-door cabinets. It's nicer than the everyday set Mother's using. The bright cup, the color of yellow-winged parrots, reminds me of Mrs. Bindas herself, the way the folds of her sari drape like layered bird feathers.

Mrs. Bindas claps her hands together, then presses them to her cheeks, as if to cool them, as if Kammi has overwhelmed her. “What beautiful china. Truly Dutch, antique. I've seen the pattern in collectors' catalogs. Thank you, my dear.”

Kammi grins and settles herself on the deck chair, turning it to be part of the circle.

With miniature silver tongs, Mrs. Bindas grasps sugar cubes one at a time, dropping a total of three into her cup, and adds a splash of cream. She stirs with the tiny spoon Kammi tucked on the saucer. The art of arrangement: Kammi has the gift, too, like Mother. But Kammi's seems real. Not practiced.

How can Kammi be so open when she is the stranger here?

“You must be very tired, from hosting the cookout.” Mother hints that Mrs. Bindas shouldn't stay long.

“The servants, they do most of the work. Having friends and family visit, it is no chore.” Mrs. Bindas sips tea, her bejeweled fingers glimmering in the morning sun that's crept onto the deck, chasing the shade away. Soon, the only shadows will be underneath the deck.

Mother slips her sunglasses from atop her head onto her nose. Shields in place, like some force field in a science fiction movie. Waiting to hear why Mrs. Bindas has come.

I squint at the sea again, watching the sparkling water, the play of light over color.

“Last night, after the girls left, Mayur and his cousins, they had the best idea.” Mrs. Bindas sips more tea. So here comes the reason for her visit.

Mother presses her sunglasses against the bridge of her nose. Maybe she's getting another headache.

Kammi nudges my foot. She grins when I look her way.

I betray nothing. No reaction for Mother to study. But I am curious. Maybe there is a way to find out more from Mayur.

“The boys are going to hike Mount Christoffel. Next Saturday morning, very early. While the air is still cool. They suggested inviting Cyan and Kammi. Dr. Bindas and I think this is a splendid idea.”

“A hike?” On the surface, Mother's voice gives nothing away, but I hear her undertone of disapproval.

“Oh, the girls, they will be very safe.” Mrs. Bindas places her cup and saucer on the table delicately. “Dr. Bindas, he will go along. They'll take a, how do you say? A picnic lunch.”

“A picnic? Oh, that's sounds fun,” Kammi says, looking at Mother, probably trying to read her behind her glasses.

“Not too rigorous?” Mother asks.