Prologue

Sheila and I entered the brick tenement building on East 226th Street in The Bronx. It was a warm Saturday evening in May, and she’d taken me to dinner to celebrate my graduating summa cum laude from Lehman College, with a bachelor’s in world history.
“Thank you so much for dinner,” I said, struggling less to shed my Antiguan accent.
Sheila grinned. “We had to celebrate your accomplishments. Uncle Delmont and Tanty Lucinda couldn’t be here, so I just wanted to do something to show you how proud we all are.”
I smiled back and turned to put my key in the door of Sheila’s second-floor apartment. As soon as we stepped in, the living room lights flicked on, and people shouted, “Surprise!”
Startled, I stumbled back a bit on Sheila.
Sheila grabbed my shoulders and squeezed. “I just didn’t think dinner would be enough.”
Hanging on to my smile, I shuddered a bit. The crowd of people overwhelmed me. I could see that most of the guests were my cousins, and a few were their friends. I took a deep breath and told myself, it’s just a house party. It’s not a club. It shouldn’t be too bad.
Soca music pulsated through the speakers, too giant for the tiny living room. I looked down at my feet, noticing that the plush, multicolored rug had been removed, revealing the polished wood floors. People pulled me into their arms and congratulated me from all different directions. I continued to remind myself that it was just a house party and did my best to steady my feet in my heels, for fear of tripping and falling. Sheila didn’t allow smoking in the apartment, but the scent of ganja wafted off the clothes of some of the guests, into the air. As I made my way through the tight crowd, the lights dimmed, and people started dancing. The living room only had two windows, but they were large and were both open halfway for the possibility of a breeze. Directly across from the front door was a door that led to the kitchen. To the right of the front door was the hall that led to the bedrooms. I considered darting down that hall for a moment, but I didn’t want to hurt Sheila’s feelings. The living room was lightly decorated with a banner that said congratulations above the windows, and white balloons scattered across the ceiling. West Indian people didn’t need decorations to enjoy a fete. It was all about the music and food. Seeing plates being passed through the swinging kitchen door let me know that Sheila had put a lot into this night, and I would have to grin and bear it.
Eventually, it was as if guests forgot they were there for me as they wound their hips to the joyous island music in the middle of the floor. Chairs had been taken from the kitchen table and placed in front of the windows. Two borrowed folding chairs sat in the only two empty corners of the room. The speakers sat in the other two corners, and the deejay was stationed right by the kitchen door.
The party grew before my eyes as more friends of my cousins and friends of their friends came through the door. I ambled around the guests and made my way to the kitchen, where I found Sheila’s friends hovering over pots of curried chicken, seasoned rice, pans of jerk pork, grilled red snapper, fried dumplings, sweet plantain, and beef patties. A pot bigger than all the others sat on the middle burner, and I knew it contained the mannish water, a goat soup often served in a Styrofoam cup. The ladies congratulated me, patting me on the bottom and asking me what I wanted to eat.
“No chairs in yah?” I asked, looking to sit at the kitchen table that took up half the boxy space, away from the actual party.
“No, Ansol put them all in the living room,” said Sheila’s friend Tina. “Ya want someting? Ya plenty magga.” Tina always had something to say about my slim build.
I shrugged, being that I’d just come home from dinner. “I’ll tek two patties, please,” I said, nodding towards the pan on the counter. Full or not, I could not resist them.
“No drink?” another of Sheila’s friends, Annette, asked.
“Rum and Coke,” the only drink I knew how to ask for.
The ladies handed me a small plate and a red plastic Solo cup with my drink. Everyone looked confused when I just stood in the middle of the stuffy kitchen holding my plate and cup.
“Someting else?” Tina asked.
I shook my head, no.
“Okay, so go enjoy ya party,” said Annette.
My heart sank a little at the idea of not being able to hide from the festivities. Once on the other side of the kitchen door, I saw that no one was sitting. They were all in the middle of the floor, hopping on their toes and winding their hips to the music. It looked like a great time, but I couldn’t join in. I hadn’t danced since I was at a party at a soccer player’s house back in Antigua. Now, the idea of moving my body and doing too much in a crowd was paralyzing. I was satisfied with being a spectator. So I chose to sit in a folding chair in the corner where I hoped I could continue to go unnoticed as I nursed my patties and drink.
I watched my female cousins smile and giggle at men who were doing everything to impress them. Even Sheila, at twenty-seven years old, was being wooed by the deejay. They called him Scratches, on account of he’d learned the deejay technique of scratching and mixing records. He led Sheila behind the turntables, showing her what tunes he would play next. When Sheila looked in my direction, I averted my eyes so that she wouldn’t call me over. She was always trying to hook me up with someone, but I was not interested. 
“This is Marsha,” Sheila would say, “The light-skinned Naomi Campbell.”
And every single time, I’d cringe at both Sheila’s description and the way men’s eyes would bulge out of their heads at me.
Sheila always talked about getting married someday and having children. Having children sounded nice to me, but if it meant having to be legally bound to a man, further ingrained with vows made before God, I could do without motherhood. I wasn’t interested in the domino effect that marriage and motherhood entailed. I didn’t want to be stuck at home, reliant on a husband’s money because I was kept pregnant and unable to work. If I were stuck at home, then I couldn’t stay on top of what my husband was doing, and if I couldn’t stay on top of what my husband was doing, then I would be subject to outside children being brought to my doorstep, begging for money or a place to stay.
I wanted no part of that lifestyle. No matter how many times I had been asked out, or how many men Sheila tried to hook me up with, I refused. So, there I sat, watching the other twenty-somethings engage in a variety of courting and dating rituals that I figured would forever be foreign to me.
Finally, my plate was empty, and my drink was nearly gone. I had to think of how to stay overlooked as I disposed of my trash.
My cousin Steven arrived loud and boisterous, his thick locs piled on top of his head, held together with a rubber band. A crew of friends followed behind him, two of them appeared to be Rastafarians like him. Their hair was loc’d as well, and they let it hang loose. One of them, I couldn’t tell if he was a Rasta or not. His hair wasn’t loc’d, but that didn’t mean he didn’t hold Rastafarian beliefs. Their energy made it obvious that my party wasn’t their first stop and probably wouldn’t be their last. Anytime I saw Steven on a Friday or Saturday night, he was just passing through, anyway.
When Steven saw me, he guided his friends over to me. “Yo! Yo!” he shouted, ready to launch into full-on Antigua-talk. “Dis ya muh likkle cousin Marsha! Young genius. Dis gyal ya smart ah rass bwoy!”
“She pretty too,” one of the ones with locs murmured.
“Aye!” Steven continued to shout, “Lindo family ah good lookin breed ya know!”
“This is the one favor Naomi Campbell?” the other maybe-rasta asked, ogling me up and down.
“So them say,” Steven shrugged. “Anyway, cousin, muh jus come to congratulate.” Steven hugged me, and I felt like I’d inhaled a cloud of marijuana. He released me and moved on to greet Sheila. All but one of his friends followed. He was tall with sepia skin and black hair cut low. His shoulders were broad, and his hands were big. I noticed because at my runway height of 5’11, it was rare for me to encounter men who towered over me. I felt tongue-tied as my eyes took him in, yet the struggle to unravel my words seemed greater when Steven’s friend introduced himself to me.
“I’m Jeremy,” he said.
I had to steady myself. “Hello, Jeremy.”
“Congratulations,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.”
I tried to move past him, but Jeremy’s stature made it hard for me to get around him.
“Where you goin?” Jeremy asked, catching my hand.
I stiffened. “I just want to throw out my trash.”
“I can do that for you. Which way?” Jeremy took the cup and plate and looked around.
“Jus through that door,” I pointed towards the kitchen.
I watched him stroll through the crowd that seemingly parted for him without direction or convincing.
Something had come over me, and I couldn’t shake it. This was my opportunity to hide in my bedroom or find another corner, yet I stood there, frozen in place, unbothered by the dancing bodies bumping into me in the dimly lit room.
When Jeremy appeared in the kitchen doorway, his eyes met mine, and he smiled, appearing relieved that I hadn’t indeed fled to my room. He walked right over to me and took my hands. “Would you like to dance?” he asked.
Before I could answer, Sheila’s voice had taken up space. “She don’t dance.”
My eyes shot to my left, where Sheila stood folding her arms against her bosom.
“Oh, come now, Sheila,” Jeremy stepped back, dropping my hands and raising his own over his head. “Why you always givin me a hard time?”
“Because you is a hard time,” Sheila said sternly.
Jeremy sucked his teeth. “Steven!” he bellowed.
Steven walked over, shaking his head knowingly. “Wha gwaan? You two always ah fight.”
“Nobody fightin,” said Sheila, “muh jus try fa keep ya nasty friend from muh baby cousin.”
“Baby?” said Jeremy, “She look like a grown woman to me.”
“Marsha definitely one of the babies,” said Steven. “But dem jus talkin. Marsha cyan talk wid him?”
“No,” said Sheila. “Talkin turns to other tings.”
Jeremy rolled his eyes. “Marsha is the guest of honor. I jus was talkin with her and congratulatin her. Nothin wrong with that.”
“Don’t overreact,” said Steven.
Though squinted, Sheila’s eyes shifted back and forth between the two men. The party was slowing down, and Scratches was letting reggae play. Beres Hammond’s voice crooned through the giant speakers in opposite corners of the room, singing, warning partiers what one dance can do, and Scratches was headed in Sheila’s direction. He reached out his hands to her and started to pull her to the middle of the living room. Sheila let him guide her, but she looked over her shoulder and called out. “Jus left muh cousin alone dutty bwoy.”
Steven had grabbed a young lady to dance with, leaving Jeremy and me alone again.
“As I was sayin,” Jeremy held out his hands once more. “Would you like to dance?”
“Over there,” I said, pointing to a corner of the room. “I don’t like to dance in front of people.”
“No problem,” said Jeremy, and he led me to the space where I felt most comfortable.
He held one of my hands in his and placed the other hand on my waist, careful not to stand too close to me or do anything that could be deemed inappropriate.
“Why is Sheila callin’ you dutty bwoy?” I asked right away. This was the first time Sheila appeared bothered by a man trying to talk to me. She usually encouraged such interactions. I knew she hoped that it would break me out of my so-called shell, and I knew her friends wanted to taint my supposed good-girl image just a little bit.
Jeremy laughed. “Sheila don’t like me too much.”
“But why?” Marsha questioned.
“I dated one of her friends, and it didn’t work out. Sheila never like me since.” The more he talked, the more his Haitian accent came through.
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“Anybody ever tell you how pretty you are?” Jeremy said, looking into my eyes. Before I could answer, he replied for me. “I bet it happens all the time.”
I still didn’t speak. I focused on my two-step to the beat.
“You seein anybody?” Jeremy asked.
“No,” I almost whispered, and shook my head.
“Maybe we can go out sometime.”
“No, thank you.” I didn’t mean to sound so curt.
“Serious?”
I nodded my head yes.
“Why? I mean, if you don’t like me, I understand. I’m just curious.”
“I don’t go out,” I stated, still spouting short answers that bordered on rude.
“Pou kisa?”
“Huh?”
Jeremy shook his head. “I mean, what? Why don’t you go out?”
“I prioritize my learnin and my career over going out.”
Jeremy looked like he was choking. “Your learnin is finished. This is your graduation party, no?”
“Yes, but I’m getting a master’s degree next, and I’m going to start teaching global history in a public school in September.”
“So, you have a whole summer to go out,” Jeremy pushed.
“I have a whole summer to prepare.”
Jeremy hesitated. “Wow.”
“What?” I asked, unsure of what I might’ve said to elicit shock from him.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody so dedicated to—”
“Learnin?”
“Yeah, and work. Nothing else interests you?”
“No.”
“Really?
His questions were too much, and although we’d just met, I wanted him to like me, and I didn’t want to say anything that might turn him off. “I just don’t make time for frivolous tings,” I said finally.
Jeremy’s eyes stretched at me. “Do you consider making new friends frivolous?” he asked.
Had anyone else asked this question, the answer would’ve been yes. “No.”
“Good,” Jeremy smiled. “Cuz I want to be your friend, and I hope you can find a way to make time for me. I promise you, your time wouldn’t be wasted.”
My heart raced, but I rode the wave. We continued rocking to a new song that began to play with a similar rhythm and tempo.
Then, suddenly, Jeremy stopped dancing. “Wait here,” he said.
I watched him walk away, wondering where he was going and what he was about to do. I didn’t want him to leave, but I didn’t want to get involved with him. I just wanted to know more about him. His energy was warm and welcoming. Perhaps because he didn’t harp too much on the bubble I kept myself in. I was used to being asked, “Why you so quiet? Why don’t you go out? Then the assumptions followed, especially because of who my father is. Oh, ya too good for common people, because you ya daddy name start with doctor? So far, it didn’t seem like Jeremy wanted to take his line of questioning there. I felt like he genuinely wanted to get to know me. When I saw him coming back towards me, I felt a slight sense of relief.
Jeremy held out a piece of paper and a pen to me. “Can I get your number?” he said.
I hesitated, but I realized I could find out more about him. I scribbled my name and number on the torn paper. Jeremy tore off another piece and wrote his name and number down. He pressed it into my palm and whispered in my ear, “Put this away so Sheila don’t see.”
I did as she was told.
“One more dance?” Jeremy coaxed.
“One more,” I agreed, and placed my hand in his, the same way I’d done before. This time, I could feel butterflies fluttering in my belly, and Jeremy’s scent, a mix of sandalwood, marijuana, and cocoa butter, clouded the senses that usually kept me on guard.
Maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad gettin to know this guy.

*****


It was a big day at St. John’s Primary. Marsha’s father, Dr. Lindo, made annual visits to all of the schools on the island, and today would be that day for Marsha’s school. Teachers used the moment to shine and show off the hard work they put in, along with their students. Since kindergarten, Marsha would be just as thrilled as her teachers and classmates about her father’s visit. Dr. Lindo never extended any special treatment toward her during these visits. Still, Marsha would be excited to see his expansive figure, in a silent boast, strolling from classroom to classroom in his well-fitting suits. Male teachers and administrators shook his hand eagerly and laughed heartily with him while female faculty swooned. Students smiled happily towards him and anxiously hoped that he would lean over their shoulders to ask what they were learning about.
On this particular visit, Marsha wanted to have lunch with her father. She asked her teacher if she could go and find him to sit with him. Her teacher agreed and allowed her to leave the outdoor seating area to look for her father in the main building. Like any other elementary-aged child, Marsha couldn’t wait to play with her friends at recess, but this day, she would give all that up to sit with her father, the great Dr. Lindo. She was already well-known for being his daughter. It would be even cooler for her to excuse herself from the daily routine of a thirty-minute recess to engage in conversation over lunch with Dr. Lindo, because he was her father. Marsha skipped happily towards the main office and entered the warm, mostly beige room that smelled of coffee, paper, and copy machines.
“Can I help you, Marsha?” the school secretary asked, knowing that Marsha had come looking for her father.
Marsha nodded. “Do you know where Dr. Lindo is?” Marsha inquired, using the formality because her father insisted it be that way outside of their home. Antigua was small enough for everyone to know each other and know each other’s business, and Dr. Lindo had quite a reputation. One way he figured he could maintain some type of order with his own family and boundaries from non-relatives was to have his children refer to him as Dr. Lindo in public or formal settings.
“You should find him in the office there,” the secretary pointed out before returning to her filing.
Marsha, still without a worry or care in the world and giddy with privilege, walked nearly on her toes over to the office door and knocked. No answer. She turned to the school secretary, who was engrossed in her work. She hadn’t noticed Marsha still standing there. Marsha knocked again. Nothing. This time, Marsha pushed the door open slowly. Her heartbeat took off like butterfly wings, but her breathing stopped. She could feel beads of sweat crowding her forehead and the hairs standing on the back of her neck. Fight or flight played tug-of-war in the pit of her stomach. Her mouth went dry as she watched her father speaking softly into a third-grade teacher’s ear, his left hand caressing her rear end over the material of her cotton dress. The teacher’s giggles nauseated Marsha. She hadn’t seen much of this type of interaction between her parents, but she knew this behavior from her father should have been reserved for her mother. She stepped back and let the door close softly. Flight had won, but Marsha had to play it off. Once again, on her toes, she made her way back to the outdoors to play amongst her peers and forget what she’d seen.
Except, she hadn’t forgotten. For weeks she was conflicted. The more she thought about it, the more she feared she would blurt it out. She didn’t even know how to put it into words, but she knew the words could form themselves and escape. So she talked less. She talked so little that she started to only speak when she needed to. She hated her father for what she’d seen, but she knew she would hate herself more if she brought it up to her mother and caused strife between them. So Marsha closed herself up. She withdrew from friends and lost herself in books. She functioned this way until the first day of high school. By this time, her reputation went from being Dr. Lindo’s smartest child to being his most stuck-up child. “Stush-gyal,” is what they called her. What right did Stush-gyal have to be so standoffish when her father was whoring around the entire island, leaving behind bundles of joy as parting gifts? Some of the recipients of these gifts had shown up on the family’s doorstep, ready to return to sender, and Lucinda would accept these gifts with open arms. She would feed, clothe, and dote on them the same as she’d done with her own bundles of joy. This is what created the strained dynamic between Marsha and her mother.

*****


Only Jeremy kept his eyes on his father as he trudged back from the airline customer service desk, steeped in frustration. His mother, Madeline, fiddled with the ends of her shirt while his sister Lovelie pretended to be engulfed in her book.
“Kisa yo te di papi?” Jeremy inquired about his father’s conversation with the flight attendants.
Augustine rolled his eyes as he plopped down next to his son. “There’s nothing we can do. There are no other flights. We are stuck here. There’s a storm in Miami.”
“But for how long?” Madeline asked, finally looking up from her fingers.
Augustine sucked his teeth. “They don’t know.”
“So that’s it?” Jeremy asked.
“That’s it,” said Augustine.
“What are we going to do?” Lovelie asked no one in particular, as she never took her eyes off the pages that supposedly intrigued her.
“We’re going to wait,” said Augustine.
“Maybe we should go back home,” said Madeline.
“No,” Augustine said. “Our luggage is checked. I’m not takin taxi all the way back to Thomassin to have to come back here when I don’t even know what time to come back. We wait. That is all.”
Lovelie sucked her teeth.
Madeline pinched her.
“Ouch!” Lovelie screeched, peeking up at her mother.
Madeline glared at her, causing her to lower her eyes back to her pages.
“I’m gonna get a snack,” Jeremy said as he stood and stretched his long arms and legs.
He found a little stand selling patties fresh out of the oven. He ordered two patties and a cola, and decided he would eat his snack at one of the two tables. Just as he made himself comfortable, a bushel of bouncing jet-black curls caught his eye. His eyes traveled from the wild ponytail to the slender shoulders, and suddenly, the sun-baked beauty turned and their eyes connected. Jeremy’s mouth went dry as she smiled and trotted in his direction. He frantically searched his mind for something to say, but then was equally disappointed and relieved when the young girl with wire-framed round glasses passed right by him. “Ellos tienen colas por aquí!” she shouted over her shoulder to a young man who looked just like her.
Jeremy quickly figured out she had to be Dominican. He knew they would easily cross in and out of Haiti, but all kinds of drama stirred when we crossed in and out of the Dominican Republic. The boy waved her off as she continued to the mini fridge by the counter. She took out a soda and brought it over to the register. After getting the price from the clerk, she reached into her pocket and cursed under her breath, “Shit.” She looked up and quickly called out, “Castel!”
The young man shouted back to her, “What?”
“I left my money with Mami—” she shouted back.
“So go get it!” Castel shouted back.
“Just lend it to me until we go back to our gate!” the girl yelled.
“No! Go get your money. You knew we were getting something to eat, stupida!”
The girl sucked her teeth and folded her arms. She seemed to be thinking for a moment, then she said something to the clerk and dragged herself away from the counter.
Jeremy had by now regained his voice. He stood up quickly and stepped into the girl’s way.
“Ay, excuse me,” she grunted.
“I can pay for your soda,” Jeremy offered.
When the girl stared up at him, she looked him directly in the eyes. It seemed that she’d lost her breath for a moment. Jeremy’s heart raced in his chest as he noticed she seemed to be experiencing what he’d experienced just a few minutes before.
The girl cleared her throat. “I don’t know you,” she murmured.
“It’s okay,” said Jeremy. “I know you don’t wanna walk all the way back to your gate.”
“I have my own money,” the girl said.
Jeremy shrugged. “If it’s bothering you that much, I can lend it to you for now. What time does your flight leave?”
The girl shrugged her shoulders. “We’re freakin delayed for I don’t know how long.”
“You flyin to Miami?” Jeremy asked.
“Sí, pero there’s a storm or whatever.”
“I’m flying to Miami too. You got plenty of time to pay me back.”
Jeremy walked over to the clerk and put money down on the counter. “Get your soda,” he said to the young girl.
“Gracias,” she said as she removed the bottle cap and took a swig of her soda.
Stealing an opportunity to get to know her, Jeremy suggested, “You wanna sit with me while I eat my patties?”
The girl looked over to where he had been sitting, then over her shoulder towards the gate, then finally looked at Jeremy again. “Sure,” she said.