

# DON'T GET MAD...GET EVEN

by J.L. Campbell

Copyright 2011 J.L. Campbell

Published by The Writers' Suite at Smashwords

Cover Design by Tirzah Goodwin

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

##  CONTENTS

A Push in the Right Direction

Conditional Surrender

Entrapment

Sudden Emancipation

The Last Laugh

Glossary of Terms

Excerpt from DISTRACTION

Meet the Author

##  A Push in the Right Direction

_RITA COCKED HER HEAD_ , listening to the gale force wind snarling under the shuddering eaves of the house. She had just arrived home from work, but wanted to be sure Richard hadn't missed battening down any vital areas. Rooves and awnings had flown away during past hurricanes and she did not fancy spending the night getting wet while staring into the sullen sky.

"How the heck are we going to manage if this hurricane isn't here yet and the darn roof is trying to fall to bits?" she asked herself.

_Not much you can do, but pray the house doesn't suffer a lot of damage,'_ whispered the voice inside her head.

She said a quick prayer, sighed and shuffled down the hallway to check on the kids, whose joyful screams carried over the racket of the wind and rain.

The lights dimmed, and brightened seconds later. Rita patted her skirt to be sure she had a box of matches and continued down the corridor to the boys' bedroom. She shook her head at the picture Jason and Robert made as they giggled while hitting each other. Janice bounced up and down, watching the pillow-fight unfolding before her eager four-year-old eyes.

"My turn! My turn!" she screamed, as the two boys flopped breathlessly on the bed. The lights dipped again and they shrieked in anticipation of being thrown into total darkness. Rita smiled tiredly at them before checking the double windows for any sign of leakage. Satisfied, she scanned the bed and then called out to Jason, who at eight was the eldest, "Be careful. That goes for you too, Janice. Stop jumping, you'll throw up."

She checked the windows at the end of the passage and on her way downstairs, cast a final glance at the squealing threesome.

* * *

Richard faced the kitchen door, head thrown back, eyeing the beads of water that formed crooked lines as they sped downward. He stuck his foot out and pushed the old, rolled-up tee shirts into the space where the floor met the bottom of the door.

Rita eased into one of the chairs at the dining table. "I can't tell you how terrible it is outside. The landslides have started already. If I'd left the shop any later, I wouldn't have made it home."

Richard turned to look at her. "Just shut up. If I need a weather report, I'll listen to the radio or watch The Weather Channel. Even they are more interested in what goes on around here."

Her brows knitted and she wondered what was ailing him this time.

"Where the hell were you?" he asked.

"Huh?"

" _I asked where you were_."

Rita grit her teeth. "At the shop. As always."

"What kept you so long? Three hours ago I told you to pack up and come home."

"One of the refrigerators broke down and I stayed to have Mr. Barnes fix it, I couldn't let all the flowers go to waste."

"You can buy new stock, Rita. You can't buy a new life."

"You're being unreasonable. It would be a waste to let all the flowers wilt."

"Don't change the subject. The fact is I don't know whether you were at the shop or not. The telephone lines are down, so who knows where you've been. Maybe you should go back to wherever you went off to, when I told you to get your ass home."

"Where on earth would I go in this hurricane?"

She grasped the edge of the table and got up in stages, rubbing her belly.

Richard spat out words heavy with suspicion. "Maybe you were with some other man, and much too busy until now."

Rita snorted. "You've got to be kidding. Here I am, seven months along and you're crazy enough to accuse me of having an affair?"

"Well, you certainly took your time about coming home. What other explanation could there be?"

"Get a grip, Richard. Sex is not my number one priority right now."

Still massaging her belly, Rita reclaimed her seat and tried stretching her aching back. "When was the last time anyway?"

"Exactly my point," Richard yelled. "You never have time for me. Every time I touch you, you're 'too tired', which leads me to believe that you must have something going on elsewhere."

"For goodness' sake, I am forty years old and too damn old to be pregnant. What the hell d'you expect? Who am I, the Energizer Bunny?"

Rita struggled to control her temper as she continued, "I am so damn sick of you and your stupid accusations. I can tell when you're fooling around, because you start acting like an idiot and do exactly what you're doing now."

She rose from the chair and paced the length of the kitchen. "In all the time we've been together, have you ever found any proof that I've cheated?"

He refused to look at her and waited for a few beats to reply. "No, but that doesn't mean you haven't."

Suddenly, he was absorbed with a non-existent spot on the counter, his hand moving restlessly back and forth. A smile flitted across her face before pain wiped it away. "And just how often have I had proof that you've cheated?"

The scraping intensified, but Richard remained silent.

"Too many times for me to count," Rita said, her voice low.

She walked away, conscious of her duck-like gait and aching body. At the entrance to the living room, she faced him. "One day you're going to push me too far."

Hand upraised, he rushed at her. "Are you threatening me, Rita?"

Her eyes challenged him. "What d'you plan to do? Hit me?"

He jabbed her in the forehead and her head snapped backward. Her stinging skin confirmed that his nail had raked her.

"What you plan to do about it?" he asked.

Hit me again and I swear to God...'

Anger boiled in her chest. Instinctively, she raised a hand, but he was swifter and the blow caught her on the side of the head. He hadn't hit her in a while, so like a fool she forgot his quicksilver mood changes. But her body hadn't.

Stunned, she cradled her head. Instinct took over; she turned sideways and folded her hands over her stomach. His fist rammed into her side, buckling her knees. She righted herself and leaned on the wall, where she sucked air into her lungs and fought to control the waves of nausea cresting at her throat. She ground her teeth, riding out the intense pain beneath her armpit. "Richard, please! Don't!"

He crowded her into the wall, his slight paunch pressing into her bloated stomach. At the unyielding pressure, the baby shifted. Panic gripped her when Richard squeezed her by the throat. With her airway cut off, Rita's vision blurred.

" _Richard!"_

His lips twisted. He tightened his hold on her neck and banged her head against the wall. Pain radiated from the back of her skull. In a daze, Rita felt his finger tracing a path down her chest. Richard played with the edge of her blouse, his eyes fixed on her face.

Slow tears coursed down her cheek and were sucked up by her shirt. She lowered her head to avoid accusing him with her eyes. He'd only do worse if she rebelled.

And one day he's gonna kill you!

He stood over her, breathing hard, until his hand moved down to her belly, pressed it hard and dropped to his side. The baby shifted and resettled.

She gazed at him – a tall man with dark-chocolate skin and deep brown eyes set in a striking face. He now had grey strands of hair at his temples. Though he was aging, Richard had not matured in all the years she had known him.

She sidestepped him, blinking her tears away. How had they got to this point of constant bickering, accusations, violence and subsequent uncomfortable silences?

Things hadn't always been that way. The early days were sweet. They'd known each other since high school and after graduation Richard had chased, courted and married her, saying he couldn't run the risk of anybody else nabbing her. But with the passing years, he changed.

The first time he hit her was when she confronted him over a receipt she'd taken out of one of his pants pockets while doing the laundry. He'd bought condoms at a pharmacy, and since they weren't using them she wanted to know why he needed them. He had no satisfactory answer and used his fists to settle the argument.

She never questioned him after that and held her silence when he left clues to his indiscretion for her to find – a name and phone number left on his bedside table or an empty foil packet in the bathroom bin.

To compensate, she started gardening. Opening the flower shop was the next step and despite his other faults, Richard was supportive of her endeavours. A friend of his – a bank manager – had facilitated the loan, which the business had since repaid. It remained a small, but viable operation. Rita had one full-time employee and her mother still helped, when necessary.

Eventually, her mother found out her secret. Rita sometimes took unexplained days off and called her mother in to mind the shop. For what rational explanation could she give for a lip swollen to twice its size and the assortment of cuts and bruises? She could only fall down and hurt herself so many times without arousing suspicion.

On one occasion, when Rita went to work with a bang she'd cut herself to hide a lump on her forehead, her mother confronted her with tears in her eyes. "Rita," she said, "you don't need to put up with his abuse."

She'd flipped a hand at her. "Mom, it was an accident."

Her mother looked at her long and hard. Then she sighed and said. "They never stop."

Against her will, curiosity got the better of Rita and she frowned. Her mother spoke, staring into the past. "That's why I left your father. Mark my words, you're going to stay with Richard until he forces you do something you'll regret."

Rita had gone into the bathroom, where she'd cried, wondering for the umpteenth time, what she'd done to deserve this last beating. And how had she ended up in the same situation as her mother? Her children were now forced to tiptoe around Richard and her in the same way she'd skirted her mother and father as a child. How could she have forgotten? Had she ignored obvious signs that this time would come? And when had she decided to settle for regular mistreatment?

After wracking her brain, she still had no answers, so she washed her face, re-applied her make-up, and decided not to entertain any further discussion on the subject of Richard's behaviour.

But things had only grown worse, and despite her best efforts to prevent it, she'd gotten pregnant. At first, she'd been horrified, but hoped the baby would rekindle Richard's tenderness from the early days. Perhaps they had been together too long and theirs was a case of familiarity breeding contempt. They were, after all, childhood sweethearts. But over the years, Richard's affairs had caused Rita's love to wither and die.

In addition, his unpredictable treatment, ranging from indifference to jealousy had spawned seeds of hate that now flourished. Her face twisted as she remembered all the unseen offerings he had brought home time after time, which called for embarrassing trips to the doctor's office. Yet, she told herself that she still loved him, wallowing in denial. Even as she looked at him, out of habit, she reminded herself how she loved him.

' _Sure you do,'_ her other voice wise-cracked, when she turned away from his sharp eyes.

"Rita, I'm sorry," he whispered.

' _We should make him pay, Rita.'_

He cupped her cheek, stroking it and staring into her eyes.

She willed herself not to fall for this oft-enacted scene.

' _See he knows how to soft-soap you, 'cause you're such a pushover!'_

The sound of three pairs of legs bounding down the wooden stairs startled them. Jason stopped ahead of his brother and sister, holding them back. Fear shone from their eyes. Then anger crossed Jason's features. Rita put on what she hoped was a reassuring smile, but her thoughts raced on non-stop. _'Rita, the boy is no fool. He knows what just happened. And if you don't do something, history will repeat itself in him.'_

' _Not if I have anything to do with it!'_

Jason looked back and forth between them, before grabbing his father's arm. "Dad! The awning sounds like it's falling off!"

Robert, giddy once more with six-year-old exuberance, barely managed to avoid knocking his older brother off his feet as he jostled him. Janice hopped from one leg to the other.

"I forgot to pull it flat," Richard yelled to Rita, taking the steps two at a time. The children followed close behind him.

As Rita climbed the stairs, the lights flickered and went out. _Guess JPS has shut down the power. Now the kids will go crazy on me._

On cue, the whining started. Janice, waiting on the landing, pulled at Rita's shirt. "Mommy, Mommy, pick me up. Me 'fraid of the dark!"

"No, baby, Mommy's tired."

"But Mommy, it's dark!"

Another set of hands grabbed her from the other side. "Mommy, can we get some light? What we supposed to do in the darkness?"

Jason joined his brother and sister, yelling above the wind. "Yeah! What we supposed to do in the dark?"

"Guys, stop it. Let's just get to your room, then we'll find something for you to do, but it will be a while before the power comes back on."

Their grumbles accompanied Rita as she felt along the wall, leading them into the closest bedroom, which belonged to the boys. She herded them toward the bed and moved to the chest-of-drawers, where she flicked on the battery operated light.

* * *

Through the window they spied the awning beating against the side of the building. On sunny days, it shaded their south facing verandah. Richard had already secured the one on the front of the house. Now, he pulled the latch on the door leading to the verandah. "I'm going out to fix it."

From the bed, the children stared at him with wide eyes as though watching a horror movie. Rita glanced at them and back at him. "Richard, that makes no sense. You could hurt yourself. Just leave it."

"It could kill someone if it goes flying, and we'll be liable."

"Richard, leave the damn awning. It's not worth the risk."

' _Let him go. With any luck, he'll meet his Waterloo.'_

Without replying, he opened the door, letting in a sheet of rain. For countless seconds, he battled the wind to close the door behind him.

The howling subsided and Rita moved closer to the children, now huddled together under the sheet. She rubbed her stomach while trying to decide what to do next. Her mind drifted, but a lazy kick from the baby brought her back to the present predicament.

To the children, she said, "Stay where you are."

Knowing she would regret her action, Rita turned the door handle that seemed to beckon and went out onto the slippery tiles. The driving rain soaked her immediately. The door banged against the wall and recoiled, slamming shut behind her.

In the semi-darkness, Richard stood on the ledge. At the sound of the door, he glanced over his shoulder. In the few seconds afforded by the light from the bedroom, he snarled at her, but the wind whipped his words away. Unrelenting rainwater beat his skin and ran into his mouth. He spat water, mouthing words she could not hear.

Rita ignored him and he soon gave up. Shaking his head, he turned and clung to the wall with one hand. With the other, he tried to unhitch the screw holding the metal awning in place. His calf muscles strained as he stretched to grasp the metal bolt positioned just out of reach.

' _He never knows when to quit. He can't possibly see what he's doing.'_

Rita clung to the window ledge to prevent herself from skidding on the tiles. An unexpected, yet oddly appealing vision danced before her eyes. She continued her cautious progress across the verandah.

' _Who would know if you pushed his ass over the edge?'_

'No!' Rita said.

' _Your problems would be solved.'_

'I'm not hearing this,' she told herself.

' _The beatings would stop.'_

"This is the first time he's done it in a while," she said under her breath.

' _It's just a matter of time before he does it again. Then he'll cry and say he's sorry.'_

Rita clapped her hands over her ears to still the clamour in her head.

' _Go on, it would be easy,'_ the voice urged.

'No!' she said again, but felt herself weakening.

She moved closer and her arm edged out, taking on a life of its own.

' _Do it now!'_

'No!' She clamped her jaw until her teeth hurt.

Now she stood directly behind him. The empty lot of land across the street would be the only witness, if she followed her heart.

' _Use the opportunity! You'll never get a better one.'_

'No!' Her arm stopped in mid reach.

' _Now!'_

Gently, she pressed Richard's buttocks. Stretched as he was and assaulted by the elements, he lost his grip. His fingers clawed at the wall, now slick with water. His toes grappled for a foothold, but found none. He grabbed at the wall on his other side and missed. He tottered on the narrow ledge, hands beating the air. The wind, pulling at his clothes, dragged him further off balance. A scream ripped the air and was blown away by the howling wind as he fell.

Rita stepped forward and leaned outward, anchoring her hands to the ledge's wet surface. The elements tugged at her, but she ignored them, her attention riveted on Richard and the swirling vortex of her emotions.

His body hung limp, impaled on three of the spikes on the wrought iron fence. His arms stretched free, as though in childlike abandon and his legs swayed in the grip of the wind.

Rita had always been in awe of the imposing stakes, designed to keep intruders out of their property. Who could have guessed that one day they'd prove useful in permanently taming the 'lusty beast', as Richard had taken to calling himself in the bedroom.

' _Atta girl! I knew you could do it,'_ came a satisfied whisper.

Her mother was wrong. Richard had pushed her to the edge, but she didn't regret what she'd done. Not yet.

She drew her wits about her and let out a blood-curdling scream.

' _Just a little while, my dear and we'll be enjoying the brilliant sunshine that will replace those miserable clouds of yesterday.'_

Rita screamed louder.

##  Conditional Surrender

_IN OUR TEN YEARS_ together, I'd surrendered my soul to Patrick.

I smirked in the mirror, anticipating what I was about to do. This final act would count as my only meaningful rebellion. He'd never get over my making the choice to leave him. After all, he'd given me permission for everything else leading up to this day.

I arranged the containers in a row on the dressing table. Then I cupped my hand under my chin and stared at my reflection while my mind drifted.

I met Patrick when I was nineteen, fresh out of school and in my first job as a library assistant. He was thirty and a man of the world in comparison to the boys I knew. Our paths crossed after I was employed for a month. I'd gone to collect my cheque from the accounts department. He was the only one there at the time and spotted me through the open door of his office. He walked out, displaying what I came to know as his on-the-prowl trademark grin.

"'Afternoon. How can I help you?"

His megawatt smile made me struggle to remember why I was standing there.

"Um, I'm Celia Gray and I'm, uh, here to collect my pay cheque."

"Gimme a minute," he said and reached for a stack of envelopes straining under an elastic band. I'm sure he took longer than necessary to find the one that was mine. Meantime, he introduced himself. By the time I got my envelope I was flustered, unsure whether or not he was interested in me. His eyes said he was, but his lips said nothing improper. Everything he asked me about myself related to work.

On the way back to the cataloguing department, I told myself I must have been mistaken, thinking he was attracted to me. What would a man that good-looking and so much older want with someone like me? I was conscious that my clothes were hand-me-downs from my sister - even if they didn't look that way. I also wore her cast-off shoes. My feet were bigger, so the month-long torture led to calluses. This first pay cheque would buy me at least one pair of comfortable shoes. I started a list, adding clothes and make-up. However, I shied away from thinking about my sudden need for cosmetics.

I ran into Patrick days later in the canteen at the tail-end of the lunch hour. I was reading a book and looked up when he intruded on the edge of my vision.

"Mind if I sit with you?" he asked.

I shook my head and stuck a finger in my book. He was funny, and kept me amused with stories about a few of the persons lingering over lunch. I wondered why he told me some of the things he did about his co-workers, but didn't dwell on it. I supposed he wanted to impress me with his wit.

I'd developed a circle of friends, which included David, who was my own age. That evening, as we strolled to the bus stop David questioned me about Patrick.

"I hear you hangin' out with Bernard."

"Bernard...oh, Patrick?"

"Oh, so you on first name basis with him? You better watch yourself. That man is sharp like a razor."

I laughed. "What?"

"Patrick Bernard already have more woman than him need. Besides, him too old for you."

I examined David's pimply face. "Is who tell you I interested in Patrick Bernard?"

"Well, you was skinnin' your teeth with him over lunch, so—"

"And since when you become my personal bodyguard?"

He put up both hands. "All right, Miss Thing, just forget I say anything. If you ca'an hear, you will feel."

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, hands akimbo. "Maybe, you should mind your own business. I'm old enough to take care of myself."

Our relationship soured. David no longer made much of me and I wouldn't admit that I missed his company. Time went on and Patrick and I grew closer. I'd gone to open a bank account one day and was waiting at the bus stop to go back to work. Patrick drove past, then stopped and picked me up. He asked me out and I agreed to see him on the coming Friday.

When Friday rolled around, I didn't tell my friends why I wasn't joining them at our regular after-work spot. I met Patrick at a club in New Kingston after hanging around my best friend's house until dusk. As I sat with him, drinking rum punch, I felt desired and sophisticated. It did cross my mind a time or two how strange it was that a man eleven years my senior would go out with me. Surely, he had a girlfriend.

My relationships to date consisted of a few teeth-clanging attempts at kissing, and clumsy groping with boys my age. At some point I had to be initiated into the adult world. Patrick was as good a man as any to lead me there. I didn't plan to rush into anything I'd regret, but decided to enjoy my adventure with him.

I was tipsy that night, but Patrick acted the gentleman and didn't take advantage of me. He did that later, when I'd slipped into a pseudo-relationship with him. Andrene, my best friend didn't like him and told me he was just biding his time before taking over my life.

I should have listened to her.

I later found out he had a woman, or more to the point, she found out about me. One Friday evening, we were smooching in one of the semi-private open-door rooms of his favourite nightclub when he jerked away from me and got up. He hurried to the doorway, where a woman stood in the semi-darkness. Under the flashing light bulbs, her lips were screwed into a pout. She gestured to me and moved in my direction. He grabbed her arm and led her back to the doorway. I couldn't hear their conversation because of the music, but her wild gesticulation told me something was amiss.

Suddenly I understood. Goose bumps trickled down my spine in an icy tingle that ended in a cold sweat. Her gestures grew wilder. I chewed my nails. How would I get out of there with them standing in the doorway? And how to deal with the embarrassment heading my way? I sank against the wall, sighing my relief when he left with her.

I waited, but he didn't come back. An hour later, it dawned on me that he'd left with the woman. I felt stupid, but didn't think I had the right to make a fuss. What would I say to him? I didn't know for a fact that she was his woman, but her body language suggested it. Was I just something on the side? It occurred to me then that we always visited dark places. It was as if he didn't want to be seen with me.

Tears washed my eyes in a painful mist and I left the club, cursing myself for an idiot. What did I expect? Patrick was so much more experienced than I and versed in the ways of men and women. I was determined not to fall for any explanation he gave me, and went home under a cloud of depression.

I'd moved on from the library, so didn't have to see him come Monday morning, but he called me at lunchtime to apologize. We went out to eat, at which time he explained that the woman was his ex. They also had a child together. According to Patrick, she felt that gave her ownership rights and she still turned up when he least expected to see her. I swallowed his explanation whole, perhaps because I was flattered by his attention and I desperately wanted to believe him.

Eventually, Patrick married me. In retrospect, I think he committed to me because of my naiveté. He needed someone over whom he had full control. At first, I didn't question him and accepted the flimsy explanations he gave me every time I caught him cheating. Gradually, he eroded my independence. He made good money as an accountant and kept me at home, saying he wanted a full-time mother for his children.

But there were no children. Two years into our marriage, I had mysterious symptoms which pointed to a sexually transmitted disease. The doctor confirmed that I was infected. I confronted Robert, who was shamefaced, and confessed that he'd been struggling for years to cure an infection which flared up intermittently. He blamed his ex and I believed him, until my symptoms recurred. This time the consequences were serious. Embarrassment prevented me from seeing the doctor so soon again. My reluctance and neglect led to infertility.

I railed at Patrick, but he was unrepentant. He already had a son, so was unconcerned about my plight. His attitude spawned a seed of bitterness inside me which grew and blossomed into resentment. I began to hate him. I was a prisoner in his home, my days filled with overseeing the dusting, cleaning and washing. He prospered and started his own accounting firm. He bought me a car, which also served him when I went out doing his shopping and paying the bills.

One morning while I sipped coffee in our living room, I realized that I was isolated. Andrene hadn't warmed to Patrick and drifted away. I was too proud to let my family know that I'd made a mistake, so I kept visits to a minimum, to prevent them from asking too many questions. Too late, I discovered that I had all the trappings of success, but couldn't enjoy them.

With time, Patrick's womanizing grew worse. I stopped making a scene over his affairs. He always had an excuse, which painted me as unreasonable. The day I caught him in his office with his assistant half-naked in his lap, he said it was because I wasn't taking care of business at home. And he was right. I rarely had sex with him. Something inside me had withered with the death of my hopes of motherhood.

I came home a day early from a week spent with my mother, who was ill at the time; he had a woman in my bed. I leaned against the door jamb as he writhed and jabbed in a disgusting display. He was like a pig fighting its way to the bottom of a puddle of mud. Tears slid down my cheeks at the humiliation. The woman was our helper. His excuse this time was that I had gone gallivanting for a week and what was he supposed to do?

I waited while she gathered her things, then paid her off and sent her on her way. I confronted him in the bedroom. "What did I ever do to you to make you disrespect me like this?"

He got off the bed and sauntered to the bathroom. Over his shoulder he said, "What kind of disrespect you talking 'bout? If you had come back when you should have..."

The door closed and I was left alone with my anger. I collapsed on the bed and then sprang up. I stared at the rumpled sheet, until it shimmered and the colours flooded together. How was it possible for his actions to still hurt so much? Something popped inside my head and I streaked into the kitchen and got a knife. I returned to our room, knife drawn, and stabbed the mattress until I was covered with stuffing.

When Patrick reentered the room, he was speechless. I backed away and without a word, left our bedroom. I refused to share a bed with him after that. Not that it mattered. He simply came and fought me for sex whenever he pleased.

Each time he raped me, I curled into a sobbing clot of flesh, wondering why I allowed myself to be reduced to a bed slave. That's all I was and for what? For a man who didn't care whether I lived or died; a man whose foremost concern was satisfying his insatiable lust for female flesh. Of everything I lost to him, I mourned my self-respect most. At some point, I'd turned into a doormat, incapable or fighting back or saving myself. Though I blamed Patrick for everything, the root of our problems lay with me. I'd never exercised any will-power. I never made the choice to leave.

I wish I could say that some cataclysmic event triggered my decision to get away from Patrick, however it was what he said to me weeks ago when I confronted him about touching my niece in an inappropriate way. She brought back a pile of books she had borrowed and was browsing my shelf for another set to take home. I hastened to the living room when I realized Patrick was home, and was just in time to see to him snatch his hand back after touching her bottom. I rushed her to my car and went back inside to speak to him. Nothing had changed. This time he was angry that I dared chastise him. "You should be ashamed," he said, "If you were giving me what I deserve as a husband, I wouldn't be feeling up your niece."

I refused to let him bait me and ended the argument by saying something I knew would hurt him. "Even if I gave you sex every day for the week, you'd still be chasing tail. You're like a damn dog, humping anything that moves, as if—"

He grabbed my arm and pushed me against the doorway. "Just remember, this dog owns you. You're _my_ bitch and 'til death do us part."

"Just keep your hands off my niece or I will chop them off. God knows why we don't have a daughter. You'd probably feel her up too. "

He chuckled, breathing into my face. "We don't have a daughter because you're a damn mule."

Ice water flooded my veins, yet my body temperature skyrocketed. Of all the things he could have said to me, this was the worst. He'd dashed all my hopes of becoming a mother and had the nerve to fling it in my face. Calm settled over me and I knew I had to get out of my marriage. But how? I had nothing outside of what Patrick owned. I'd allowed apathy to swallow me up, while he enjoyed life.

No more. I didn't know what steps to take, but I would put some thought into it. I refused to speak to him and during that time, I weighed my options. Then one night it hit me. Patrick was cocky because he had his life and at the same time he had me where he wanted me. I was convenient for entertaining his clients at business dinners and for organizing his private life. My role was more complex, but in essence I'd turned into a well-trained dog that fetched and carried at will.

How would he survive the humiliation if his obedient pet did the unthinkable and exposed him?

Two days ago, I mailed a letter to my sister. I'd never told her the depths to which I'd sunk. Rather than allow my family to comfort me, I'd pretended happiness existed where there was none. Pride had held me prisoner for too long, but I was over that.

She'd receive my letter today and by that time, the deed would be done. The second copy of the letter, I sent to the worst scandal rag on the island. They'd have a field day with it. The third copy went to the executive members of Patrick's service club. Wouldn't they be in for a shock when they discovered Patrick's undercover activities? I even had a few pictures from the time when I was foolish enough to hire a private investigator.

Patrick Bernard, respected businessman and recently elected head of his service club, would have some difficult questions to answer. For all his cheating, he never could stand embarrassment. How would he explain that the only person he was interested in serving was himself?

I left the dressing table and walked through the house where I'd spent so much time. I touched a figurine here, a painting there. None of those things made life more bearable. I needed to be loved, but my husband didn't have that to give. He needed me, not for companionship but as evidence of something else he owned. But I was done with that.

I took a hand-painted tumbler from the kitchen cupboard and a jug, which I held under the pipe. The water flowing inside reflected the clarity of my thoughts. To be on the safe side, I took the jug to the bedroom. There, I shook out my mother's blood pressure pills that I had stockpiled after she died. Then I laid out the contents of two bottles of extra-strength painkillers.

Taking my time, I swallowed them all.

Then I lay down to savour my escape.

## Entrapment

_MIRIAM'S CALLS GREW MORE_ insistent with each hour.

I feared this was the end.

Months before, she'd made a peaceful picture in her casket. Her face was fresh, as though she was asleep and her hair arranged around her shoulders, but only three of us knew what killed her. Now, she was my constant companion, suffocating the life from me.

I met Miriam in Kingston at school, when I was twenty. She came from a farming community in Clarendon and was the first in her family to attend university. She was proud of her achievement and wasted no time with frivolous activities like parties and social clubs.

She belonged to a band of students who'd formed a study group. While they were seen as a pack of book-heads, everybody knew where to go when they were in danger of failing their courses and needed help. I wasn't as serious as I should have been about my studies, so I eventually found my way to Miriam through a friend. She lived off campus and so two evenings each week, I'd turn up at her cramped apartment for her to help me brush up on my use of English.

I will admit there were additional benefits. Miriam's roommate, Simone, was almost always at home. She wore skimpy tee-shirts and shorts which never failed to get my attention. Since Miriam and I had a platonic relationship, I had no second thoughts about enjoying what Simone had on display. I never got the feeling Miriam objected to my lack of attention whenever Simone passed through the tiny living room, but after a few weeks, Miriam moved us to the handkerchief-sized back verandah. I tended to look over my shoulder whenever there was movement in the living room and my restlessness irritated Miriam.

"You're not goin' to pass if you don't settle down and pay attention."

I'd sigh and wonder who appointed her to take up where my mother left off. I put up with Miriam's bullying because she kept me supplied with drinks and snacks, and at my age, I still needed constant refueling.

All the same, the back patio began to feel like a mini-prison and one day when Miriam left me to revise, I watched her stroll toward the sliding door. I hadn't noticed before how nicely she fit into her jeans or how snugly her tee shirt fit. On her way back, the sway of her hips mesmerized me and I admitted I hadn't looked at the book since she left. She put both hands to her sides and said. "Kyle, you're hopeless."

That day, I invited her out and soon we were inseparable. The only time we were apart was when I went home at nights. Sometimes I didn't sleep at home, which distressed my mother. She didn't understand my sudden change of habits and warned me that 'what sweet yuh, soon sour yuh'.

When they met, I wasn't surprised that Mummy disliked Miriam. Anything that kept me from home and distracted me from my studies – including my weekend part-time job at a night club - annoyed Mummy. But what concerned her more than anything was Miriam's roots.

According to Mummy, nothing good came from Clarendon. Her prejudices ran deep because she had several bad experiences with people who originated from that parish, including my father. She wouldn't discuss her aversion to Miriam, but stuck to her conviction that Clarendonians were a bunch of obeah workers. Nothing I said convinced her otherwise.

As far as she was concerned, I needed to be purged because Miriam had tied her 'one boy' with some kind of nastiness. But I refused to allow Mummy to boil potentially poisonous bush for me to drink. What did she know about herbal medicine? More likely than not, she'd kill me with her home remedies.

Miriam never gave me reason to be suspicious of her, but her attitude puzzled me. She knew how Mummy felt about her, yet whenever I mentioned stopping at home while we were out and about, she insisted on coming inside with me.

Each time Miriam visited, Mummy watched her closely. I suspected why, but I ignored Mummy's actions since I knew the depth of her paranoia. At first, Miriam said nothing, then one day she tackled me in my beat-up Toyota. "Kyle, I don't think your mother likes me."

I fumbled before switching on the engine. "You must be mistaken."

I hoped the argument would die there, but it didn't. "Is like she don't trust me or something. She mus' mention it to you."

"No, not really."

Miriam rolled her eyes. "You're just avoiding the issue."

"What issue, Miriam? You're in a relationship with me, not my mother."

I was thankful she left things there, for how could I tell her of my mother's phobia?

Time passed and we both graduated. I was no longer crazy about Miriam, who had grown possessive and unreasonable as our relationship progressed, but somehow, I couldn't work up the energy to end things with her.

I stole time away from her now and then. A young man has to gather experience right? But I always went back to her and she knew every time I strayed. Her eyes would glisten with hostility and she refused to talk to me for days. Despite our tempestuous relationship, we eventually married.

Miriam turned irrational overnight or that's how things appeared to me. I couldn't leave the house without her accusing me of having other women. By this time, I worked in a bank with plenty of female co-workers, but I never had an affair. Things could get sticky in the workplace. Miriam didn't believe I was faithful and I soon grew tired of the constant quarrels and ignored her when she threatened to fix my business.

We planned to have children, but wanted to improve our finances first. Whenever she made threats about castrating me, I'd laugh and taunt her. "Remember you're not pregnant yet, so careful you don't end up without a chick or a child."

She'd push out her bottom lip, twirl her hair around her finger and glare at me. "You take this damn thing for a joke, but I'm as serious as a judge."

I hated arguing over nothing, so when she got like this I'd say something that showed she was being irrational. "Miriam, you have nothing to worry about. With the way you watch me, If I was cheating, you wouldn't catch me already?"

She'd hiss her teeth and then flounce away, leaving me with my thoughts for company. I wondered where she found time to keep tabs on me, having launched her career as a lawyer,

Over time, I grew uneasy. An unexplained fear gripped me whenever I was alone in our apartment. This made no sense until one afternoon, when I went home early. I was feeling off-colour and my supervisor gave me the rest of the day off.

I poured lemonade from a jug in the refrigerator and then dug in the freezer for ice. My hand bumped a package that didn't have the size or consistency of frozen meat. I frowned and reached for it. The small carton package stirred something in my chest that might have been fear. Ages passed and I stood in the kitchen, wanting to know what was inside the box. It was a while before I opened it.

I shook off the now familiar anxiety, but it returned to clog my throat while I cut into the plastic wrapper shielding the carton.

Two vials of red-gold liquid and a tiny square of cardboard lay within the container. The box also held something that looked like certificate paper, only it was more pliable. On the paper, my name was written within a cluster of unpronounceable words. I attempted to read the words aloud, but my mother's cautionary advice over the years took root and I scanned the text in silence.

The presence of a tag from one of my briefs and some strands of my hair chilled me. I knew the hairs were mine because I sometimes trimmed myself between visits to the barber. Whenever I did so, Miriam would busy herself, scooping up clumps of hair, instead of waiting for me to finish. She'd mutter about my untidiness, never mind the fact that I would have cleaned up after myself, given a chance.

Though still not feeling a hundred percent well, I confronted her when she came home. Only her eyes admitted her guilt, and in a heartbeat I understood my mother's worry over her 'one boy'. Had Miriam 'tied' me like Mummy thought all this time? I shook my head. Did it make sense? Though I had the evidence, I refused to believe that any harm could come from a clothing tag, some hair and words that didn't make sense.

That evening, I showed Mummy the evidence of Miriam's wickedness. She opened the package and her eyes tore wide. The bag fell from her hands and she made the sign of the cross. I thought she was going to faint. The room settled into silence around us.

When she took a deep breath and folded her arms across her chest, I asked her what she thought I should do.

My mouth fell open when she suggested I fight fire with fire.

I gawked at her from the settee. "Mummy, what you mean?"

"Well, Miriam really leave you no choice. Either you stay tied to her for life or you break the tie and get on wid yuh life. Ah did warn yuh 'bout dat Clarendon gyal, but yuh wouldn' listen."

She raged for a while before she calmed down. She sat across from me and rubbed her hands over her face. "What to do?"

She struggled to her feet and I realized she was getting older and subject to the vagaries of old age. She left the room and I hunched in on myself, clasping my head in my hands. How could Miriam love me and do this sort of thing? I knew obeah from the same distance as most Jamaicans. In school, we talked about it in vague terms, having no real knowledge of what it involved. I supposed people dabbled in it for a variety of reasons, but couldn't reconcile my wife taking this route, and for what? Didn't she believe she could maintain a successful marriage on the virtue of who she was?

My mother's words over the years swirled around my head and when I slumped against the back of the sofa, I wondered about my sudden loss of interest in Simone and my inability to break off the relationship with Miriam. Then a shaft of revelation shattered my innocence. Almost from day one, I'd been eating and drinking at Miriam's house as though my mother never fed me at home. It would have been easy for her to slip me anything. And to think I'd waved away Mummy's offers of bush tea as the desperation of a lonely woman who felt she was losing her son.

Mummy dropped onto the sofa opposite me and sighed. "Kyle, I...somebody I know recommend a place..."

She wouldn't meet my eyes. "Yuh know how I feel 'bout dis sort o' thing, but I have to make an exception dis time or dat gyal goin' kill yuh."

We went under cover of night. I was too dazed to remember exactly where we went. My body shook and my bones rattled in the back of the taxi as we manoeuvred a rutted track, somewhere in St. Mary.

A dim light bulb lit the compound, which sat on the lip of a low hill. I shivered as a light wind danced over my skin. Bottles of all shapes and sizes stood guard around the property, like inanimate soldiers. The banana and mango trees lining the perimeter of the yard chilled my blood every time the leaves rustled. I was sure evil beings lurked in the darkness shrouding the roots of the plants and trees.

The racket from the rickety gate must have alerted the woman inside. The door opened and a stooped figure stood silhouetted by the light. "Come," she said.

She led us down a dark passage, past several doors. The corridor opened into a clustered room, where the air was stale. She invited us to sit, before saying anything else.

She made herself comfortable and I saw then how old she was. At a guess, I'd say she was somewhere between eighty and a hundred, give or take a few years. Her scrawny hands rested in her lap. The veins, running every which way, reminded me of knotted tree roots. Her sharp eyes sucked in everything about us. A glance at my mother, huddled next to me, confirmed that she was just as terrified.

The lack of teeth distorted the woman's words. "Why you come to see Miss Jewel?"

Fearful or not, my mother hadn't lost her spunk. "You is di obeah woman. You must know why we come."

Miss Jewel's mouth opened to loose words that set my scalp crawling. "What I know is dat di woman him married to won't stop 'til she kill him."

Mummy slid me a sideways look that said she knew this all along and I was the foolish one who refused to believe the obvious. I shrank in my seat, but composed myself when Miss Jewel stared at me out of eyes as black as naseberry seeds and continued to tell me things that made my testicles shrivel and crowd close to my body. I don't recall much after she opened a square of cloth resembling the skin of some hapless animal, but eventually, she provided what she called a 'never-fail' potion and told me not to worry. But her sly grin, coupled with some hidden knowledge in her eyes, made me uneasy.

That night, I convinced Miriam that I'd gone out for drinks and cricket talk with a few coworkers. I'd conveniently left the mobile phone at work, so there was no way for her to track me.

After she tired of our argument and went to the bedroom, I had a shower. Later, I puttered around the house, under the guise of locking-up. And while she was engrossed in a soap opera, I laid my own trap.

Somehow, I made love to Miriam several times that night, all in an effort to show her I was sorry for staying out late. In the morning, I served her coffee and toast in bed, not forgetting to spoon a generous dose of Miss Jewel's potion into the hot liquid.

Nothing happened for a time, but our home felt as though we were at an impasse. We were like two boxers taking a time-out in our respective corners; resting, yet conscious of the opponent's strength. Each day, I watched anxiously for any signs that meant I was in decline. I only ate what Miriam prepared before my eyes, which meant making up different excuses for not having dinner at home.

Three months after my visit to Miss Jewel, Miriam fell ill. Trips to the doctor's office were fruitless; he found nothing wrong with her. But I knew the nature of the problem. Over the weeks, her energy declined to the point where she spent most days in bed. While she lay there, her eyes followed me, as though she suspected I had something to do with her illness.

When she had visits from her family, I refused to leave the room. After what she did to me, why take the risk of having them give her anything to improve her health or finish the job she'd started on me?

One night she confronted me when I brought her more doctored tea.

"Kyle, what in that tea?"

My hand jerked and tea sloshed over the rim of the cup. I frowned at her. "What you mean?"

Her eyes dared me to lie. "Every time you feed me, I feel like my insides burning up. Like my veins goin' explode."

I raised my brows, then I felt her forehead. "The fever obviously gone to your head."

Breathing hard, she flung my hand away from her face. "I know you're trying to kill me. What I ever do to you?"

I smiled. "You forget what you do to me? I never wanted to marry you, but you didn't give me a choice. Well, it's your turn to live with the decision you made."

Miriam glared at me from the bed. "Even when I'm dead, you will never be free from me."

I trembled, but held my ground. I'd come too far to have Miriam pour doubt or regret down my throat. With false bravado, I said. "You can say anything you want."

I took her to the hospital when it was clear she wouldn't survive much longer. I stayed by her bedside, playing the devoted spouse. When her breathing slowed and the air heaved and gurgled through her throat, she turned her head and called my name.

I leaned over her and she whispered. "I'm only leaving you for a short time. I'll see you when you reach."

Though her words turned my blood to ice, I whispered back. "All I have to say is that when you dig one pit, better you dig two."

In return, she mumbled, "I hope you followed that same advice."

Smiling up at me, she breathed her last. Goose bumps spread over my skin. I attributed it to her spirit leaving her body, not to mention whatever else she'd been carrying around with her.

I gave her a funeral fitting for an upcoming professional and then did my best to forget about her.

It wasn't long before a series of fevers and chills took root in my body. Nothing I did quelled them once they started, and our family doctor was puzzled by my symptoms. I'd moved house by then, but that didn't stop the terror that gripped me when I started seeing moving shadows. I'd peer into the corners of my bedroom, wondering if my eyes were fooling me and when I turned the lights off, my heart raced so hard I thought I would die from fright. I took to sleeping with the lights on.

In the deepest part of the night, I'd wake, shivering as though cold water had been poured into my bed. I couldn't move my limbs, which were stuck to my sides. I was smothered in an invisible, but unyielding cocoon. I suspected Miriam was playing games with me. But how could I tell anyone what I was going through without sounding as though I was losing my mind?

As the months passed, I started having convulsions and had to go into the hospital. I spent weeks after that repeating a cycle of home-hospital-home-hospital, until I was sick of being in bed. The hospital became my home. As was the case with Miriam, the doctors couldn't say what was wrong with me.

My mother prayed unceasingly, but her prayers went in vain. The shadows had materialized into Miriam's shape and each night, she lingered at the door to my room, beckoning me. She looked beautiful, but I wasn't fooled. Ugliness lurked below.

Staff and visitors passed her going back and forth, but I was the only one aware of her ghoulish presence.

She terrorized me for two weeks before I felt the tide shifting in her direction.

As darkness fell, I rode a wave of pain, suspecting it would be the last.

Miriam crept ever closer.

When the haze melted from my eyes, she appeared beside me, a horrible caricature of herself. Writhing worms replaced the locks she so loved in life. Two glowing orbs reflected my terror. Her mouth morphed into a gaping hole. Icy arms squeezed me in a putrid embrace.

The last thing I heard was the scream ripped from my throat.

She swallowed it in the fiery abyss of her mouth.

##  Sudden Emancipation

_SEVEN-THIRTY TICKED BY_ , then eight o' clock and Miss Delia did not appear. I thought it strange, since her worship time ended at exactly seven-thirty each morning. I pushed my uneasiness aside and went to look for her.

In her bedroom, I squinted in the semi-darkness. She crouched by the side of the bed, praying. But she was motionless, like one of the cacti on the kitchen windowsill. No whisper came from her lips and her usually restless hands lay clasped on the bed.

I debated whether to interrupt her, for she hated being disturbed during this sacred time. Another moment passed and I made up my mind. I crossed the room and opened the drape, letting in a blast of sunlight.

Then I stood beside Miss Delia, hesitating to touch her. When she still didn't move, I sat on the bed, facing her. Her eyes remained closed.

"Miss Delia," I called.

She didn't answer.

A hand pressed to her forehead confirmed she was warm, but a chilling certainty settled over me. My step-mother was dead. The irony of her final position didn't escape me. I hoped for her sake she got a chance to repent before she died, for she had plenty to confess.

Miss Delia came into our lives when I was nine, or perhaps it would be better to say, my sister and I were thrust into hers. She hadn't yet married my father, but they lived together for a year before we joined them. Prior to that, we lived with our mother and her parents in the neighbouring village of Lititz.

My parents had a tempestuous on-again, off-again relationship. My grandmother never liked my father and despite my mother insistence that she should be respectful, Gan Gan \- as we called our grandmother - used to refer to him in our hearing as 'dat worthless half-coolie man'.

I never understood my grandmother's partiality to racial slurs, because my grandfather shared some of the same physical qualities as my father. Daddy had a bulbous nose, dark skin and wavy hair, which he'd part to one side. He was slender as a reed and to my young eyes, his head was on par with the sky.

We adored our father and looked forward to visiting him at the shop, where he'd shower us with Paradise Plums and JuJu's. Mama swore he was going to rot our teeth with 'di damn sweetie dem'.

Their conversations always escalated to insults exchanged at the top of their voices. I remember the last big show-down between them because it was just before my tenth birthday. By then, I knew Daddy had someone else, because he told Mama during one of their fights. They were standing under the hairy mango tree in my grandparents' front yard.

"Moving on?" Mama said, arms akimbo.

"What? You deaf?" Daddy asked.

My mother narrowed her eyes and threw back her head. "Is when yuh decide to move on an' neva tell mi?"

"Why I haffi tell yuh anyt'ing? Yuh is a part o' mi past. Delia is mi future."

My mother yelled until I feared she'd pass out from lack of air. "Yuh soon see if mi a 'part o' yuh past'. Damn out-of-order. Afta yuh gimmie two pickney yuh wa'an go start new relationship." She glared at him. "Ova mi dead body, Harold Baines! I soon mash up yuh dolly house."

My father laughed, a rasping sound that frightened me. "It might very well come to dat, Esmine."

He walked away and I edged around the side of the house, hoping Mama wouldn't hatch any plans to upset him. Mama had already proven how spiteful she could be by leaving Yvette, myself, and our luggage in Daddy's shop while Miss Delia was there. She'd done it several times since I turned eight, but Daddy always sent us back to her.

That last time, Yvette and I squirmed with embarrassment. Miss Delia sat on a stool, pretending not to hear Mama referring to her as a 'no-nation, half-chiney gyal'.

Mama had stalked away, leaving us on the shop piazza. Daddy turned on us, shouting. "Why di two of you stand up deh like statue for, eh? Gwan wid unoo madda!"

Yvette scuttled after Mama, tears trickling down her cheeks. I followed, struggling with the Dulcimina grip Mama had flung our things into that morning. In those days, there were no buses, so we either walked or hitched a ride on one of two donkey carts owned by our neighbours Ma'as Vernon and Ma'as Charley.

Mama was so mad, it was a while before she realized Yvette and I were following her. She grabbed the grip from me, hefted it on her head and marched down the dusty track, muttering to herself. We lagged behind, swallowing marl each time the breeze swirled around us, and stopping every few minutes to fish pebbles out of our shoes.

That night, my grandmother commiserated with Mama, urging her to forget about 'di ol' half-coolie man' and move on with her life. My grandfather, a silent presence in our lives, kept out of their way. They talked back and forth until the idea came up for Mama to go to Kingston to better herself. The next morning my grandmother posted a letter to Mama's older sister asking that Mama stay with her until she found a job and a place to live. A week later, Gan Gan received a letter from Aunt Beverly, and Mama packed her belongings.

All along I thought we'd go with Mama. Yvette and I were excited over going to Kingston, where we'd live in a house with electricity and maybe even have ice water from a fridge.

But Mama made up her mind that if she had to do without Daddy, then Miss Delia would have all the 'problems' that came with responsibility. Though Yvette was only eight, she was just as disappointed when Mama stuffed our clothes into the ochre grip and parked us on Daddy's shop piazza. Smoothing our hair and kissing our cheeks, she told us we were to continue to do well in school. She also warned us to behave ourselves and she'd send for us as soon as she started life in town.

We didn't believe her.

Yvette and I swung between resentment of our mother and combined bitterness against Daddy and Miss Delia, who insisted he take us back to Gan Gan. But Daddy was well aware that Gan Gan was getting on in age and couldn't take care of two mischievous girls. But Miss Delia wouldn't budge. We listened to them bicker behind the counter.

"Harold, you ca'an be serious."

"Miss Hilda ca'an raise pickney at fi har age," he said.

"But a fi har grand pickney dem. Is not my fault dem careless Mumma gone lef dem. Yuh know mi have a heart condition. Mi ca'an manage di hard talkin' wid di two a dem."

We stabbed Daddy with reproachful glances over her shoulder. When he couldn't take our wordless accusations anymore, he led Miss Delia toward the back of the shop. The door to the storeroom closed on her words. "So help mi God-"

Apparently, God neglected to help because Daddy didn't send us back to Gan Gan.

We spent our first days in their household tiptoeing around Miss Delia. Mostly, she ignored us, but as time went by, she curtailed our outdoor activities. Regardless of our age -- Yvette and I were eight and ten -- Miss Delia put us in charge of all the housekeeping.

She dragged us out of bed by half-past-five each morning to sweep the yard, which was the size of the village common. If the broom weed didn't leave the yard free of every shred of leaf and garbage, she made sure we knew what she thought of our efforts. "Damn lazy pickney!"

Next, we washed out the pigpen, which was a cement enclosure, and then fed their horde of pigs. Many times, the pigs came close to mashing our feet. At the clang of the bucket handle against the pail, they raced to the feeding trough as one body, ears flapping, and squealing as though certain this meal would be their last.

With that job done, I prepared breakfast, plaited Miss Delia's hair, and got ready for school.

We settled into this ritual and forgot about our former carefree life. News of Mama came intermittently, through letters she wrote to Gan Gan. She crammed news of the city onto the pages in her spidery scrawl. While Gan Gan read the parts that concerned Yvette and me, I'd struggle to hide my resentment.

Did Mama even care that she'd given up her children as near-slaves to Miss Delia? Did she know I was responsible for emptying Miss Delia's chamber pot each morning? Was she aware I was washing not only for myself, but for Yvette, as well? For now, a washer woman came once weekly to wash for Miss Delia and Daddy. Miss Delia hinted that when I was strong enough, that would stop

If Gan Gan sensed my lack of enthusiasm when she read Mama's epistles, she gave no sign. Why would I care what Mama was doing in Kingston when we were suffering under Miss Delia's rule? Calling us her pretty little angels didn't make up for Mama's abandonment.

Sometimes, I told myself things could have been worse. After all, we still had contact with Gan Gan, not that she did anything about my complaints. My father pretended not to see what was happening, though he benefitted from our free labour.

I buried my anger and lived with my forced indenture to Miss Delia, promising myself that one day I'd run away and take Yvette with me. But I never imagined things could deteriorate any further.

One night, a sound jarred me from the depths of sleep. I fought to wake up, but my body refused to cooperate. I lay paralyzed, while my room door creaked shut. Someone crept across the floorboards. The air whistling through his nose hairs alerted me that my father stood over my cot. Only he breathed like that.

I shook off the cobwebs of sleep and reached for the sheet, which tangled around my waist. He clamped my wrist with one hand and covered my mouth with the other. I struggled, suspecting his intention. His weight suffocated me and I panicked. I screamed into his palm when he pierced me, tearing away my innocence, leaving me dazed and in pain.

Yvette lay dead to the world while Daddy raped me.

Why had he done this awful thing to me?

I curled into a ball, shaking from his assault and the chilly night air. My thoughts spun in different directions and then wound together like threads on a ball of yarn.

Suddenly, I understood the way he'd looked at me over the past months since I had turned twelve. I'd catch him watching me from the verandah as I moved around the yard doing my chores. His gaze made me feel as though a colony of six-legged insects were crawling between my skin and flesh. But I'd ignored my instincts. This was Daddy, after all.

At daybreak, I rose and spread my bed, hiding the bloodstains, witnesses to my shame. I'd read about what Daddy did to me, but I knew it wasn't something family members did together.

I bathed before I did my chores.

Miss Delia said nothing to indicate that she noticed this shift in my regular schedule.

I continued to bleed, but couldn't tell anyone. I wadded tissue into my panties and went on with my day.

After that, Daddy came at least once each week. Yvette never woke and I bore my pain alone.

Daddy continued to have sex with me until I was sixteen and my belly started growing.

By then, I was sure Miss Delia knew what was going on. I saw it in the way she looked at me. Her gaze carried a mixture of disgust and pity, but she didn't care enough to rescue me from my father. I hated her cowardice, but remained respectful as I was living under her roof.

One morning, she came to my room just before I put on my uniform, which had gotten tight. Without a word, she kneaded my belly and breasts. She groaned, as though in pain, but gave no explanation for her actions.

I had felt the changes in my body but hoped I was wrong about what was happening to me.

That weekend, Miss Delia took me to Westmoreland. We rode Ma'as Vernon's donkey cart part of the way, jerking over the rutted tracks. The other half of the journey, we walked.

Despite my questions about our destination, Ms. Delia stayed silent. When I got on her nerves, she snapped. "Don' question me!"

Then she mumbled under her breath. I didn't catch her words, but it sounded like she said something bad about my father. I couldn't blame her. I hated him with everything inside me, but was too wrapped up in misery to concern myself with her feelings.

We picked our way over a trail spread with marl, until we came to a dead end. A ramshackle house sprawled in front of us. I feared a strong wind might send it tumbling across the clearing on which it was built.

While we crunched our way up the track to the house, my mind spun in restless circles. What were we doing here? What was so important that I had to miss school?

In some remote place in my mind, I suspected what Miss Delia had planned, but it would be some time before my suspicions became fact.

A woman stood on the verandah, wearing a faded print dress and a tie head. I didn't even try to guess her age; the network of wrinkles crisscrossing her face defied any estimate I could make.

"'Morning, Miss Ethel," Miss Delia called.

The woman nodded and folded her arms, but said nothing.

We stood at the bottom of the steps leading to the verandah. Miss Delia shifted from one foot to the other. At first, I thought she was balancing her weight on her pressured feet, but a quick glance confirmed she was sweating and twisting her handkerchief around her fingers. She pointed at me with her chin.

"Miss Ethel, I need yuh help fi mi step-daughter."

Miss Ethel's eyes turned suspicious. "Come inside," she said.

They left me on the verandah, perched on the edge of a crumbling wall. Weeds overran the yard, dried leaves clustered in irregular-sized heaps, as though someone had piled them up and forgotten to dump them. The withered hibiscus hedge begged for water.

When Miss Delia and Miss Ethel came back, Miss Ethel stared at me out of sympathetic eyes. What had Miss Delia told her?

The old woman beckoned to me and I followed her into the house. Miss Delia didn't come in.

"Yuh know what yuh come here for?" Miss Ethel asked, peering up at me.

I shook my head.

"We goin' wash out di baby," she said.

My heart galloped and I went dizzy. She gripped my hand and led me to a sofa. The seat sagged under me, but I didn't care. Everything took on a dream-like quality, but was much worse. I was imprisoned in a nightmare. Why didn't Miss Delia take me to a proper doctor? What if I died in this woman's house from her bush medicine? Tears scorched my eyes and hatred for my father and mother burned in my veins.

I studied the living area. The sofa should have been thrown out long ago. I couldn't tell the original colour by looking at it. The faded brocade curtains shut out the light, but I bet everything in the room was as old as Miss Ethel. There was no television, but a radio rested on top of an old-fashioned cabinet. A corridor led off the room, revealing two doors mottled by curling bits of paint scabs.

I stirred when Miss Ethel approached me with an enamel mug, which she handed to me. Steam rose from the dark liquid.

"It taste bad," she said, "so drink it one time."

I waited until the liquid cooled before wedging the cup against my lips. I gulped, swallowed and then gagged.

Miss Ethel gripped my shoulder, her fingers strong for such a frail woman.

"Don' badda stop. Drink di whole of it."

My throat closed up, the bitter brew sent a shudder through my body, but I drank it. I wasn't aware of my tears until I handed her the empty mug.

She patted my shoulder and shuffled toward the back of the house, leaving me alone with my fear. I counted off half-an-hour by the clock on the wall. The ticking was loud in the otherwise silent house.

I wasn't sure what I was waiting for, but gradually a cramping sensation, similar to menstrual pain, invaded my belly. As the cramps increased, I groaned, not that it helped.

At forty-five minutes, I felt as though someone was using a garden rake to furrow my insides. A cold hand touched my cheek and I turned my head. Miss Ethel told me to follow her. She led me down the corridor, stopping frequently and waiting until each spasm released me. The passage wasn't long, but it took forever to get to the room she pointed out.

A sheet of plastic covered the bed. On top of that, she'd spread an assortment of fabric cut into squares. I dragged myself toward the four-poster, puffing and moaning. I sat down, waiting for the pain to subside enough for me to lie down and curl up with my misery.

I stared at the sagging ceiling tiles. Water marks swirled together to form random patterns. While Miss Ethel's bush tea pulverised my belly, I convinced myself God wouldn't let me die in that stiflingly hot room. Who would look out for Yvette?

Miss Ethel sat in a rocking chair by the bed. From time to time, she patted my hand and dried my forehead with a rag.

At one point, I thought I had died and gone to hell. Tremors wracked my entire body and my belly teemed with angry hornets. The inferno within urged me to rip my skin away in a quest for relief.

I flailed on the bed, screaming. "Yuh goin' kill me!"

Miss Ethel grabbed my arms. "Tek time. Yuh nah dead. Is jus' di baby comin' out."

"Well, send it back. Ah don't want it!"

"Stop di foolishness. It soon pass out."

I jabbered and sobbed until the thing my father planted in me tore its way out. Miss Ethel carried it away, wrapped in a scrap of cloth. "Ah did one bwoy," she murmured.

As if I cared.

She cleaned me up, padded my underwear with scraps of cloth, and left me alone with my anger.

"Weh Miss Delia?" I asked.

"She gone home. She comin' back for yuh in di mornin'."

Resentment churned inside me. Miss Delia had left me like a sick animal one took to the village specialist. The only difference was that the owner took the ailing animal home immediately after the visit. Poor Yvette would be frantic with worry, because Miss Delia certainly wouldn't tell her the reason for my disappearance.

As evening came, I felt better and was able to sit up in bed. When the shadows fell outside the window, a new worry plagued me. Would my father molest Yvette in my absence?

I wanted to believe he'd have a harder time with her than me, if he tried anything. Yvette was everything I wasn't, feisty and full of life. I couldn't wait for the night to be over and for Miss Delia to come get me.

She came early the next morning, soon after the dew had dried from the grass.

When we got home, our closest neighbour, Miss Una left for her own house. Daddy lay in bed, ordering Miss Delia to bring him this or that thing. I didn't ask what was wrong with him. At that point, I spoke to him as little as possible, and Miss Delia lived by the philosophy that children should be seen and not heard. I had to wait until at least three o' clock, when Yvette returned from school.

Even then, I had to wait until she finished her chores. Miss Delia gave me the day off and said I was to rest. I was like a trapped animal inside our room, longing for Yvette to come back from securing the pigs.

Time lagged while we ate dinner. Yvette did the dishes in the outdoor kitchen and finally, we met in our bedroom.

We hunched forward in the glow of the kerosene lamp. Our shadows morphed into inky, misshapen splotches on the wall.

"What Daddy sick wid?" I asked.

Yvette's gaze slid away from me. Her hands were occupied with pleating her skirt. "Him back."

I cocked my ear, but didn't take my eyes off her. "What happen to him back?"

She stared at me for so long, I wondered if she was still seeing me. She cleared her throat and pleated her skirt some more. "Him come in here last night."

I gasped. The thing I feared had happened. My breath came in shallow gasps and my eyes threatened to pop loose from my head.

"What happen?" I asked.

"Somet'ing grab mi in di dark. Mi t'ink it was a duppy. So mi fight and fight until mi pitch it off."

Though in shock, I grinned, imagining the ruckus when Daddy sailed off the bed and landed on the board floor.

Yvette's eyes reproached me and I hid my glee.

"What happen after dat?"

"All hell bruk loose. Miss Delia run in here waving di cutlass and bawlin' like when dem a slaughter pig."

I fell back on the bed laughing. I smothered the sound with my palm when Yvette hissed at me to be quiet. She watched me for a while, then she too began to laugh. When she could talk without breaking into giggles, she continued her story.

"She give him some lick wid di cutlass. Mi think she did a go kill him 'cause him couldn't move. Him back give out when mi fling him off."

After a second round of stifled laughter at Daddy and Miss Delia's expense, Yvette dried her eyes and stared into mine.

"Dat thing him was tryin' to do to me, him was doin' to you."

It came out as more of a statement than a question and I nodded, studying her with new eyes. Why did I think she'd never notice what was going on? I'd forgotten she was only two years younger than I. Embarrassment prevented me from asking her how she knew, and tears stung my eyes when she crossed the space between our beds to hug me.

She examined me in silence, before asking, "Is where you did go yesterday?"

I debated what to tell her and decided on the truth.

"Miss Delia only say you soon come back." Dashing tears away, she squeezed my hand. "We goin' look out for each other from now on."

Though she was only fourteen, she meant every word. Yvette had our mother's fiery disposition and I had our father's sober personality.

He never touched me again, but I suspect that had more to do with Miss Delia's vigilance than anything else. Weeks later, his back healed and he was able to move around by himself.

Daddy and Miss Delia now bickered frequently, I suspect because he wasn't free to molest me any longer. Though their arguments took place in the privacy of their bedroom, at times, it was impossible not to hear them. Late last night, they had another battle, which I did my best to ignore.

"Ah trying to serve God and is only one t'ing yuh interested in," Miss Delia said.

"Das why plenty woman lose dem man. Too much church. Pastor full up yuh head wid all kinda garbage," my father replied.

"Harold, yuh jus' disgusting. At your age—"

"At my age, what?"

The floorboards heaved and thundered. The house shook. Then Miss Delia screamed. "Harold, what you doin'?"

"Yuh soon see what mi doin'."

I closed my ears to her cries. Better her than me. The struggle must have taken its toll on her weak heart.

Her closed eyes and serene expression contrasted with my turmoil. Without Miss Delia as a buffer, Daddy would be free to have sex with me anytime he wanted. He had stolen my childhood, plus the love and respect I had for him, but here was my chance to escape.

I made up my mind then, Yvette and I wouldn't stay under his roof another night. Even if I had to tell Gan Gan what he did to me.

In our room, I told Yvette Miss Delia was dead. Yvette refused to believe me until she saw Miss Delia kneeling by the bed.

After we packed our things, I eased my feet into a pair of sandals. We locked up the house and headed for our father's shop.

He'd know what to do about his wife.

We were moving on.

##  The Last Laugh

_SHE SLAPPED THE COVERED_ dish down on the rough table, unmindful of the soup spilling over the edge. The thin liquid formed a yellow pool that seeped into the unpolished wood.

From his position on the bed, Herman watched Carlene glare at him. Her nostrils opened wide at the strong odour of urine that hung in the air. He'd wet himself repeatedly the night before and during the early morning. It was a regular occurrence.

Herman looked forward to dying and leaving his present misery. Locked all day in the hot, weather-beaten cottage, he kept himself sane by recalling the pleasures of his misspent youth.

He often wondered where his children were. Three of them he knew and had not supported during his working years. He was aware of two others, but had never met them. He had left town when news reached him that their mother was on his trail with ideas that involved gasoline and tyres.

Herman was convinced he was born without a conscience. He felt not a bit of regret at the treatment of his offspring. None of them had heart anyway. Only one had stepped forward when he'd heard about his father's plight. Mr. High-and-Mighty, as Herman thought of him, had visited once out of curiosity and never been heard from again.

Herman Marshall had fallen a long way from his roots. Born in a small, rustic village in Westmoreland, he barely waited for his sixteenth birthday to bid his hometown farewell. He lived a shiftless life, working only when necessary and moving from one end of the island to the other.

His irresponsible nature would puzzle him all his life. He came from good country stock, his parents were hard-working farmers who took care of their children; but Herman was different from his three brothers and two sisters. He made irresponsible behaviour an art form. The irony was that he'd heard all his children had turned into responsible adults. He was sure they didn't get that from him.

A rough shake dragged Herman from his thoughts. Carlene, his care-taker, was urging him to get up. His 87-year-old bones rebelled at the jarring motion. He raised himself to a sitting position as slowly as he could, knowing it was maddening to her. She stood, arms folded, gritting her teeth in frustration. Herman cackled under his breath.

He knew he made a horrible sight with his brown gums on display and tufts of hair shooting all over the place. Carlene frowned and grabbed his arm. "Ol' man, you t'ink I have all day?"

Herman muttered and leaned forward on the edge of the bed. Carlene grabbed the hem of his once white undershirt, now an ugly grey, and yanked it, jerking his body forward.

"Put up yuh hands!" she raised the merino that was dotted with holes.

Herman obliged her, but waited until his head came out of the wide neck opening to hack in her face. He got her good. She was short, so her face was slightly above his head. A jet of air and spittle bathed her and she sprang back, her face twisted into an ugly mask from the smell of his rancid breath. She shot him a look full of hate, while rubbing her collar over her nose and lips.

His gazed innocently at her and recognized from her screwed-up lips and twitching fist, that she was wanted to thump him. He tried not to look too pleased with himself as she would make him regret his fun.

She muttered threats and curses against 'nasty old men' the entire time she sponged down his body.

When she was done, she placed the dish on a tray. Then she shoved both the rusty waiter and a used tablespoon into Herman's lap. She flounced out, slamming the door so hard, Herman wondered whether she was trying to deafen him and collapse the entire house. Left to himself, the memories took over once more.

Years before, he settled in St. Mary, where he bought an acre of land, planted some vegetables and built his little house. Time passed and he made no improvements to the house, which fell into disrepair and aged as badly as him.

Herman liked looking at younger women, fantasizing on what he would do to their bodies if he were still capable. As he sat in the doorway of his cottage each afternoon, Carlene would stroll past, swishing her hips to a slow rhythm. She was pretty and threw him inviting smiles that made Herman's blood beat against the sides of his head. He thought about how happy he would be if he were forty years younger.

After a time, he called her over and introduced himself. Soon, she allowed him to run a hand over her arm, which excited him. He knew she only put up with him because she thought he couldn't go any further.

The months went by and Herman found it more difficult to take care of his personal needs. Being a practical man, he made Carlene an offer one gloomy afternoon when she sat on the only chair in his home.

"How old do you think I am, Carlene?"

She didn't look interested, but she said, "I don' know."

"Soon I goin' to be eighty-two and life been hard for me."

Carlene frowned, but stayed silent.

"I ca'an tek care of myself properly, so I want to mek a deal wit' you."

Carlene sat up straight and then leaned toward him. "What kind o' deal?"

"If you will tek care of me – bring food, wash for me and bathe me – I will give you this land in exchange."

He wasn't sure what to think when she smiled, frowned and then smiled again.

"It will be a simple agreement," Herman continued, "I will give you di wording and you write it down. I will sign it and you keep it, until such time as I pass on. We goin' need a witness. You can think of anybody?"

She didn't say anything for a while, but she nodded. "I can arrange for a witness to come. I goin' to ask a friend of mine."

A day later, Herman stated his wishes in the presence of the stranger Carlene brought with her. Carlene and Herman both signed the document, which the short, bearded man witnessed.

Over time, Carlene's patience ran out. Each time Herman tried to touch her, she roughed him up and by then, he realized he'd made a mistake. Herman refused to die, through no fault of his own. Night after night, he lay down hoping it would be his last, but against his wishes a new day of misery dawned.

Carlene delivered one meal each day – usually midmorning – that she expected to serve him for twenty-four hours. Herman did not mind, for he was a light eater. What he did mind were his raggedy clothes and bed sheets that stank of urine. Carlene did not like washing and so Herman grew used to feeling unidentified insects walking all over his sheets and between his joints.

The sponge baths he liked dwindled to one wipe-down per week. His skin did not chafe only because he was so thin, he had little flesh where moisture could form. This worked to his advantage for Herman's world included his bed and the rough walls around and above him.

After five years, a ray of light came in the shape of a tall, bearded Rasta man who claimed to be a relative. Carlene, with her regular sour face in place, showed the man inside. He said he lived in America and was constructing a family tree and that his research led to Herman, who was his grand-uncle.

Herman was happy to have a visitor and exhausted himself giving his grand-nephew a hundred complaints against life and his condition.

* * *

Carlene was not worried when the stranger turned up saying he was related to Herman. Her agreement was safely locked away, but all the same she glared at Herman as she stood beside his relative. Herman ignored her and had his fill of talking.

The visitor came again, before bringing another family member with him on his third trip. Carlene, tired of Herman's chatting, left them to catch up on family history. His grandnephew asked many questions about Herman's background, in which she had no interest. If anything, Carlene was glad that he was talking someone else's ear off. She did ask herself if the Rasta man was not aware of the awful smell in the room. If he was, he gave no sign of it.

Real concern set in when the Rasta man returned a few days later with a van full of people, who claimed to be Herman's family. Worry gnawed at Carlene's belly as she thought about how she had treated him. Eyes narrowed, Carlene scanned the group, wondering if Herman would expose her.

The grandnephew, who called himself Ras Mykal, treated her respectfully. He sought her out at home, half a mile down the road before going to see Herman. Carlene's mind ran in circles. For years, the old man was alone. Then, a man who resembled Herman turned up, saying he was his son. He left money, now long gone, and had never returned. Herman had become her burden and she had no intention of not collecting for all the foolishness she had taken from him over five agonizing years. She _would_ get what was due to her.

She hopped in their van and rode the short distance to Herman's house. The vehicle carried close to a dozen people, most of whom lived in Kingston. Three of them, including the Rasta, lived abroad. Her calculating eyes told her they had little need of what Herman owned - they were all nicely dressed and seemed prosperous - but the churning continued in her stomach.

During the entire visit, she wondered what to do about what she felt were slowly shifting circumstances. _Don't worry. Everything will be all right._ But she could not shake the feeling that something bad might happen.

Herman was the liveliest Carlene had seen him in a long time. She watched him laughing and talking with his relatives and hoped he didn't plan to go on living for much longer.

As she eyed him, hate wadded up in her throat, almost choking her. She had to swallow to get rid of the lump, which felt as though something was stuck in her gullet. She would have to do something about Herman. But what?

Carlene composed herself and endured the rest of the visit. Before the group left, Herman's grandnephew told her they would be back in a few days. He was leaving the island at the end of the following week and wanted to see Herman once more before he went back to the States.

That night, Carlene lay thinking about the choices open to her. She could not let the land slip through her hands. With so much at stake, she wracked every corner of her mind until she came up with a plan.

The next morning, she did her chores before taking Herman's food to him at 11 o' clock. While she climbed the steps to the doorway, she rehearsed for the hundredth time what she planned to do. She knocked once and pushed the door open.

"G'morning," she greeted Herman.

"Mornin', Carlene," he gummed back at her, looking like some dreadful creature out of a horror movie.

Carlene's stomach withered like a sweet pepper left too long in the refrigerator. She turned aside to lay his food on the crude table. Stooping by the bedside, she hooked a finger under the edge of a small, plastic tub, which she needed to give him a bath. She gagged at the smell of the old mattress and quickly got to her feet.

A few minutes at the standpipe and she returned, carrying water and a rag in the basin which she set on the floor. Next, she pulled Herman out of his clothes and rubbed his rag with a nub of soap.

She cleaned him as fast as she could manage, while slapping away his searching hands. His fingernails, black with dirt, made her want to vomit. When she was finished, she dragged his musty-smelling vest back over his head and pulled his underpants up over knees the size of grapefruit, and toothpick legs. She helped him sit up and waited while he ate, lips slapping together. The mashed potatoes escaped the sides of his mouth and the gravy trickled down his chin.

She gazed out the window until he finished.

She took the tray with the plate and put it on the table. Then she helped Herman to lie down. He protested, spitting food in her face as he spoke. She prayed for patience not to slap him.

"A jus' done eat. I ca'an lie down so soon. Ah will vomit," he moaned.

"Well, mi leavin' soon, so you haffi lie down now!"

She toppled him onto the bed and helped him lie on his back. His yellowed eyes accused her, but she did not care. Carlene perched on the chair, prepared to wait. She was soon rewarded. Herman's eyelids batted slowly back and forth. He was falling asleep.

Once his lids stopped fluttering, Carlene got up. She watched him, making sure he was asleep because he woke at the slightest noise.

She reached across his body and lifted the unused pillow lying beside his head. In one swift movement, she brought it down over his face.

Herman proved stronger than he looked. He struggled to escape. His nails raked her hands, but only a few moments passed before his body lost its strength. She waited until he stopped twitching before lifting the soft pillow.

Carlene gasped, swallowed and waited for her stomach to settle. Herman was dead or very close to it, but his eyes glittered with malice. His mouth curved in a spiteful smile. She shook off her thoughts; he seemed to smile because his thin lips were folded over his gums. _It's just old age_ , she told herself.

She placed one hand by his side and the other on his chest to imitate his regular sleeping position. Fearing he would grab her arm at any moment, she replaced the pillow and rushed out the door.

She stayed away for most of that night and the next morning she discovered Herman's body. The nearest neighbours confirmed that Herman was dead. Having passed away as he did, she couldn't move the corpse until the police gave permission. Carlene gave a brief statement and explained the nature of her relationship with Herman.

Nothing looked suspicious, so it was assumed that Herman died from natural causes. After the police consented, Carlene arranged to have the body moved to the morgue in town. To her good fortune, Carlene had taken Herman to see a doctor within the past six months. On that basis, no autopsy was done. Carlene applied for and got a burial order within two days.

She made the funeral arrangements, taking the cheapest package offered by the Eternal Refuge Funeral Home. It included a Formica-covered coffin and programmes for the funeral service. She then called the contact number Herman's grandnephew gave her and informed him of the death and the funeral date, which fell just before he was scheduled to leave the island.

The night before the funeral, Carlene congratulated herself. She was free of the drudgery that Herman's care had become. All that remained was to put him six feet under and hand their agreement to the legal aid lawyer whom she had already called.

* * *

A battered Toyota truck delivered Herman's body to the church, then left immediately after. The church, in an out-of-the-way corner of the district, proved hard to find, but Herman's relatives made their way to the large zinc structure that sat at the crest of a rocky hill. They felt it appropriate to show their respect. They'd parked their cars near the village square and followed the directions the villagers provided.

Carlene saw distaste on a few faces as they looked around the church building. Confused stares fixed on the vases crammed with oleander blooms. The arrangements sat proudly on the makeshift altar at the front of the church. Grapefruits were also laid out on the tablecloth. None of them understood Pocomania and a few seemed frightened by the strange display.

Carlene counted six well-groomed women, four children and eight men. She scanned the men, including Ras Mykal, and nodded in approval. _Good, all of them look fit and strong._ A smug smile covered her face when the congregation stood for the first hymn.

The service was short and unremarkable. There was not much to say about Herman, who had not attended church in more than seventy years. At the end, everybody filed past the coffin and stood talking outside. It was then that Herman's family realized there was no transportation for the coffin to the cemetery, a half mile away.

Carlene was apologetic. She explained that the truck driver had brought the body to the church as a favour to her because the hearse could not navigate the rutted track. The truth was that the trip to the graveyard would have cost extra.

The eight men who ranged in age from early twenties to mid-forties talked among themselves for five minutes. Six of them then took up position on either side of the casket for the trek to the cemetery.

They made the trip down the hill without any accidents. At the bottom, they stopped for a rest. The men complained that their fingers were on fire from the aluminum handles digging into their flesh. The sun beat down on their heads. Jackets were taken off and handed to the females. Hankies were pulled out to mop sweating foreheads.

They switched sides and picked up the coffin once more. The men looked lovingly at their cars as they shuffled past the town square. Carlene could barely hold back laughter.

As they reached the top of the next hill, six pairs of eyes widened and the men groaned. The narrow country road stretched before them in a U shaped depression. They plod down one side of the U, mumbling about the state their toes would be in at the end of the day.

At the bottom of the hollow, two pall bearers got a break and two others took over the handles. And so they moved on slowly. At the top of the next hill, the cemetery appeared on the horizon.

"Can we stop for a minute?" A tall, young man asked.

One of the men cursed. "My hand soon pull out of the socket. Better we don't bother stop."

Another one protested and they halted, resting the casket on the roadway.

The man who stopped the group bent down and slid his foot out of his shoe. Half the sole had peeled away from the top. Someone else took the handle and the unfortunate man fell behind, shoe flapping. After a search, one of the wives found an elastic band in her handbag to hold the shoe together.

At the cemetery, they wove through broken headstones and bush covered graves. The crowd standing around a freshly dug hole gave the family a clue as to Henry's designated spot. They set their burden down on a prehistoric looking contraption with thick straps positioned over the rectangle dug out of the earth.

The women, tired from the long distance they had covered in high heels, were in no mood to sing farewell songs along with the villagers, who arrived long before them. Carlene eyed the family as they hissed, muttered and shuffled their feet.

City living make people soft. Look at them, staggering as if them just walk ten miles rather than a half mile. Them lucky the cemetery not further away.

She caught herself just before she laughed.

After the burial, the relatives made their way back to the square. They bought sodas at the only shop that was open and sprawled in their cars.

Ras Mykal led the way to Carlene's house when they were ready to leave. He thanked her for the care she had given their uncle.

"You've been a saint," Ras Mykal said as he smiled at Carlene through a beard that reminded her of a pruned bougainvillea bush.

Carlene spouted the secondary school English she rarely used. "I did it for Herman, just as I would for any other unfortunate soul."

She returned Ras Mykal's smile. "I'd do it again, if necessary."

"We really appreciate it," he said, "I don't know what would have happened to Uncle Herman if you hadn't been looking out for him."

Carlene waved away his thanks.

"Is all right," she said and smiled again.

"I'd like to leave you a token of our appreciation," Ras Mykal said, reaching inside his linen robe.

He pulled out a leather wallet and opened it. Through the plastic covering one side, Carlene spotted several crisp thousand-dollar bills. She swallowed the saliva that washed her mouth, but declined the offer. "No, it's okay. I really couldn't take your money."

"Are you sure?" His brows wrinkled and his eyes almost disappeared in the clump of facial hair.

"Yes, I'm sure. I'll get a blessing. That is enough," she said, giving Ras Mykal another smile.

"By the way..." He replaced the wallet in his robe and pulled out an envelope. "Herman asked me to give you a copy of this, so you would know his final wishes."

Cralene's breath shortened and pain twisted her gut. Something wasn't right. She ripped the envelope and yanked out a sheet of paper. She unfolded it and there at the bottom was Herman's spidery signature. The writing above Herman's scribble was in black ink, written by a stronger hand. Her gaze flicked to the top of the paper. The date coincided with Ras Mykal's third visit, just days before Herman died.

_I, Herman Alphanso Marshall, being 87 years of age and of sound mind, do hereby revoke all previous wills, contracts and agreements._ _I hereby bequeath all my personal possessions and property to my grand nephew,_

Ras Mykal Kemona...

Carlene did not read past those lines. Her gaze jumped to where Ras Mykal had stashed the money she so glibly refused. Dark shapes flip-flopped before her eyes. Her mouth opened and closed, but only a weird sound came out. A rushing noise filled her ears, like water churning over river stones in bad weather. Her knees refused to hold her weight. As she crashed to the ground, Herman's face danced before her, eyes half open and toothless gums on display.

# # #

## Glossary of Jamaican Terms

Badda – Bother

Broom weed - A deciduous shrub, with small leaves and yellow blooms, that is tied around a stick to make a broom.

Bruk - Break

Bwoy – Boy

Ca'an – Can't

Chiney – Chinese

Dat - That

Dem - Them

Di – The

Duppy - Ghost

Fi Har/Fi Him – Hers/His

Gwan – Shortened form of 'Go on', meaning go.

Gyal – Girl

Haffi – Have to

Half-coolie – Half Indian

Ma'as – Master

Madda - Mother

Mumma - Mother

Naseberry – An oval fruit that is brown in colour. The flesh is reddish-brown, very sweet and the texture is grainy. Naseberries have shiny, dark, oval-shaped seeds. The fruit is also called sapodilla or chikoo in other Caribbean islands.

Neva – Never

Obeah – Obeah is a West Indian term for sorcery, which supposedly harnesses both good and bad forces. The practice was carried over from West African with the slaves who came to the Caribbean.

Obeah worker – Someone who practices or pays someone to 'work' Obeah.

Pickney – Child

Pocomania – Literal translation is small madness. A Jamaican religion and part of the revival movement wherein practitioners believe they communicate with those in the spirit world.

Sweetie – Candy

Tek - Take

Unoo – You (plural)

Weh – Where is

Wid – With

Yuh – You

# # #

#  Excerpt from DISTRACTION

# ~ Chapter 1~

Tuesday, June 15

### Justine

_Proverb:_ _A nuh same day leaf drop a water bottom it rotten._

_Meaning:_ _The consequences of ones actions are not always evident at the same time._

They coiled together like serpents spent by their mating ritual. Justine's lashes lowered once, twice, and she shifted to stay awake. Behind her, Xavier stirred. His hand crept over her hip and then covered her breast. She groaned low in her throat, hungry for him again.

Would she ever get tired of this man?

At the touch of her fingers, his body responded, filling her hand. He pressed soft kisses between her neck and shoulder, his locks trailing a velvety path over her skin. Xavier gripped her hips and a whimper left her throat. He moved her into position atop a pillow and straddled her from behind. His pace was unhurried, yet heat spread throughout her body, driving her toward the place where she forgot everything but the two of them.

He murmured in her ear, a reminder to muffle her cries. She grabbed a handful of the cotton sheets and focused on the intensity building between her thighs. Heart thudding, she shuddered, squeezed her eyes shut and gasped his name. He answered with a groan, which fuelled her climax. A kaleidoscope burst behind her eyelids and she fell from the pinnacle they always climbed together.

Then remorse came flooding back. Their separate responsibilities lay beyond their cocoon, within the warm Jamaican night.

It was time to face that reality.

Xavier stroked her side, his leg thrown over hers. She held back a sigh while he caressed her skin, his hand moving in lazy circuits. Then he patted her shoulder. Without a word exchanged between them, he guessed her thoughts. Another reason she adored him.

They communicated the way an old couple did, instinctively aware of what the other needed. Hard to imagine she knew him for a year before they spoke. In every way, they were now used to each other, except for the fire which burned between them. It was a living thing, like the sparks from summertime bushfires that threatened everything in their path.

All consuming and dangerous.

She flinched when her cellular rang. He flipped onto his back, allowing her to lunge for her bag and get the phone. Her heart sped up. The call was from home. What if there was an emergency?

Everything's okay, she told herself before she answered.

Yolanda's high-pitched voice hit her ear. "Mommy?"

"Yes, hon?"

"You on the way home yet?"

Yolanda sounded normal.

Justine let her shoulders drop, and inhaled deeply. Nothing had gone wrong.

"No, baby. Soon. You had dinner already?"

"Of course. Me and Miss Pauline eat together."

"You need to stop talking like her. It's Miss Pauline and I-"

Yolanda giggled. "I know, Mommy. Will you call me when you're close by?"

"Yes, love. See you in a bit. Where's Daddy?"

"He's not home yet."

Par for the course.

She would have been surprised if Milton had gotten home before her. Not that his absence excused what she was doing.

"Okay. Tell Miss Pauline I'll be there in a while."

Yolanda drew a noisy breath to signal her distress. "Okay."

"Love you, baby."

"Love you too, Mommy."

She pressed the end button and then laid the phone on her belly, staring across the room. Xavier propped himself up on one elbow and nuzzled her cheek. "Time to face the world again, huh?"

She puckered her mouth and nodded. "You go first.

While he stood by the bed, she admired the smooth russet of his skin and the play of light and shadow over his body. At thirty-nine, Xavier wasn't perfect, but still a pleasure to look at. The muscles on his arms bunched as he tied his locks with the leather band retrieved from the bedside table. He turned his head and their eyes met. One side of his mouth lifted before he padded to the shower. She read his smile as another attempt to ease her mind. Such a caring and considerate man.

"Love you, Xave," she whispered to the silent room.

She turned on her side, hands folded under her cheek. In the glow of the lamplight, she scanned the surface of each piece of furniture. The housekeeping staff would have a field day if they ever found condom wrappers in the room reserved for the manager on duty. It was bad enough she had used it tonight. That hadn't happened since one of their early encounters.

She shrugged aside the weight on her spirit and let her gaze slide to Xavier, who lathered himself behind the fiberglass. The moment he emerged from the shower, she rose from the bed.

It was her turn for a quick wash. Afterward, she slipped into the suit she had worn to work. He sat watching her, hands splayed on the bed. Their eyes met in the mirror and he rose to encircle her in his arms.

They made a striking pair. At 6'6", he stood above most men and she stood taller than most of the women she knew. Next to him, she basked in her femininity, whereas, in female company she felt clumsy.

He stared into her eyes, twirling a lock of her hair as he hovered over her shoulder. She turned to hug him, and pressed a kiss to his throat. Their lips met in chaste contact, a promise of more to come at their next meeting. If there was one, she reminded herself.

After he left, she made the bed and moisturized her skin - a waste, since she would shower again at home. She timed her departure to avoid any suspicion or idle curiosity and hoped the housekeeper wouldn't notice anything out of place. Another close study of the sheets and she shrugged, deciding not to worry about it.

She sniffed herself, a habit she picked up since Xavier, forgetting that by mutual agreement they neglected to wear any scent on the days they were together. Another thing to remind her that what they were doing was wrong. Yet Xavier had brought lushness to the parched landscape of her life, and she shied away from thoughts of returning to the dryness of her previous existence.

She cast another glance around the room, before picking up her handbag. Her phone pulsed inside her bag. She got it out, hoping it wasn't Yolanda being her usual impatient self. Xave appeared on the screen. "What's up?"

"You still there? I can't find my bracelet. The clasp is loose. I've been meaning to get it fixed. Can you look around and see if it's there?"

"Hang on."

Her heart rate picked up by a few beats. What if someone from housekeeping had found it? She shook her head. Silly of her to be frightened. If asked, she could have said it belonged to Milton and fell out of her bag, or pretend to know nothing about it.

The bracelet wasn't on the desk or dresser. She looked around on the floor. Nothing. She pulled back the comforter, cushioned between the mattress and the night table. The red-gold links of the bracelet winked at her from the carpet. She reached for it and spoke into the phone. "Got it. Want me to leave it in an envelope at the front desk?"

"No. Keep it."

"Won't Annette want to know where it is?"

"I'll say it's at the shop for repair, if she asks, but she probably won't miss it."

They said their goodbyes, and she zippered the bracelet inside a compartment of her bag. A flick of the wrist took care of the air conditioner and the lights before she locked up.

Outside, the air was heavy with the scent of night blooming jasmine. Usually, the heady aroma lifted her spirit, now it had the opposite effect. She felt another bout of 'if only' coming on and shut her thoughts down.

The walkway, lit by citronella lamps, led to her office. Once inside, she hung the key on a row of hooks over the desk and placed her Things To Do pad where she'd see it in the morning.

Five minutes after she drove out of the property, Yolanda called again. "Mommy, you soon come?"

"Yes, hon, and what did I tell you about speaking properly?"

Yolanda's voice turned mournful. "You said you were going to call when you got close to home."

Under the streetlight, Justine scanned the jumble of vendors on the sidewalk and the commuters spilling onto the roadway in the hope of catching the next bus. Cars swept by, horns honking their drivers' indignation at the encroaching crowd.

A quiet sigh left her throat; she should have been home hours ago. Like a good mother. Instead, she had put her need for fulfillment before her child. Another sigh escaped her lips. "I'm not even half-way there yet, Landy."

Disappointment tinged the next question. "How soon before you come?"

Justine glanced at the dashboard. "I'll be home by eight."

"Okay. I'm going to watch TV until you get here."

"'Kay, love you, baby."

Justine smiled in the darkness. When had that child grown so clever? Yolanda knew she wasn't supposed to watch too much television, but also understood that Justine allowed it when she was not home to keep her company. Justine's amusement fled. She was being irresponsible and needed to solve the problem she had created with Xavier.

Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into her yard. At the sight of Milton's car in the carport, nausea stirred her stomach. He rarely got home before her.

She parked the Toyota beside his Hyundai, switched off the engine and slumped in the seat, remembering their run-in a week ago. Milton couldn't know what she'd been doing, and she wasn't that late; it was only five minutes past the hour. She unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth and swiped at her lips, unsure why she was nervous.

On slow feet, she walked back to close the gate. She slung her jacket over her arm and clutched her handbag to her side. For a moment, she stood motionless, inhaling the scent drifting from the rose bushes and letting the sound of the calling crickets woo her. Cars dotted the driveways of the other homes along the avenue. No doubt her neighbors were busy with their nighttime activities.

She pulled her shoulders back, marched onto the veranda, and shut the grille that enclosed the carport. Darkness met her when she opened the front door. She let her shoulders sag. With any luck, Milton had gone to their room, though it was still early. The fact that Yolanda hadn't met her meant that Milton had sent her to bed. Poor thing. Though disappointed, she wouldn't have argued with her father about staying up.

Justine walked down the passage that led to Yolanda's bedroom and eased the door open. In the glow of the nightlight, Yolanda curled under the sheet, her head barely visible. With a gentle hand, Justine stroked her cheek. Yolanda stirred. "Mommy? I wanted to tell you something."

Justine kissed her forehead. "Go back to sleep, hon. We'll talk in the morning, okay?"

Yolanda nodded, sighed and closed her eyes. After a moment spent staring at her daughter, Justine rolled her head slowly from side to side, chin to her chest. With reluctance weighting her steps, she left the room, heading for the opposite end of the passage.

Thankfully, the lights were out in the bedroom. She left the door open and crossed the tiles to turn on the bathroom lights. She wouldn't disturb Milton if she undressed in there.

"Where have you been, Justine?"

The click of the lock muffled her gasp. She spun to face Milton, who stood with his back against the bedroom door.

"I thought you were in bed. What are you doing in the dark?"

He left the doorway to switch on the lamp next to the bed. His silvery hair glistened under the light. "I asked where you've been."

"I had a meeting." She moved the handbag to her other hand, unsure of his mood.

Milton stood before her, hands in the pockets of his sweat bottoms. The whiff of soap confirmed that he had showered, which meant he had been home for at least twenty minutes. He probably hadn't eaten, so why was he here, waiting for her in the darkness?

He folded his arms. "Since when do you schedule meetings this late?"

"The client couldn't make it earlier in the day."

She tilted her head back to meet his eyes, which told her nothing. His jaw moved in the dim light. He was grinding his teeth.

She wanted to bolt into the bathroom, but instead said the first thing that came to her lips. "I-I'm going to check on Yolanda."

"I thought you just did that."

"Ah...I told her I'd come back."

"For what?" His voice inched upward. "She should be asleep."

Annoyed by his attitude, she snapped. "Couldn't you have waited until I got here before you sent her to bed? I told her I'd be home soon. Besides—"

"I'm her father. She does what I say."

"Fine, Mr. Big Man. If it makes you happy to deny our little girl, then go right ahead."

"Deny her of what? If you mean company, then maybe you should think about getting home at a decent hour."

Justine looked heavenward. "Now the pot is calling the kettle black. When was the last time you came home before dark?"

"Don't try to turn the tables. I'm working hard to take care of my family."

Tired of arguing, and knowing she was in the wrong, Justine turned aside muttering. "Well, at least you're taking care of something."

Too late, she realized the implication of her words. A tic jerked Milton's jaw and his eyes glinted, sending a host of invisible creatures slithering down her spine. She held her breath, hoping he had missed her insult, but the fury radiating from him was unmistakable.

However, he spoke as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "I've been sitting here wondering where you were. Miss Pauline didn't know of a meeting and you said nothing about a function at the guest house."

The smile pulling at his lips did not deceive Justine into thinking he was amused. "I'm not buying that meeting argument. I'm not stupid."

A jumble of words left Justine's mouth, while a sudden fever swept up her neck and into her face. "Milton, be realistic, where else would I be but at work?"  
Slowly, he shook his head. "I don't know, Justine. You tell me."

She touched his arm. "Milton, maybe you feel this way because you can't, you know..."

He shook her off. "Don't you dare patronize me."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

He yanked her forward, embracing her and restricting her movement.

Her forehead butted his cheek, and odd shapes ballooned in front of her. "Milton!"

She struggled to free herself and keep a grip on her bag and jacket, but he wouldn't let go. He squeezed her chest, and she flailed, desperate to escape. His breath stuttered in her ear. He was too close. He clutched a handful of her hair and dipped his head toward her neck.

In a heartbeat, she understood his intention and jerked backward.

She stumbled out of his hold, cringing as hair separated from follicle, but she couldn't let him finish what he started to do. While he righted himself and tried to grab her again, she ran into the bathroom and slammed the door between them.

"Justine, get out here. I'm talking to you."

He pushed the door, but she flung her weight against it, grunting when the lock swung home. Her things fell to the floor, and with a trembling hand, she rubbed the spot where he had ripped the hair from her scalp.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror, using her knuckles to wipe away tears she did not know she had shed. Her hair was a mess and her neck tender. The skin on her inner arm burned and looking at it, she trembled. Four narrow white lines remained where Milton's nails had scraped the skin away. She rested both hands on the basin, grateful she had not given him enough time to smell her body. One sniff of the delicate bath soap and he'd know she had taken a shower.

She shied away from the mirror when his voice invaded her space.

"Justine?"

She folded her arms, lowered her head and leaned against the tiles, telling herself she wasn't afraid of him.

"Justine, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. I was worried about you."

She shook her head, trying to shut him out.

"Justine?"

Answer him!

"Uh..." she tried again through clattering teeth. "It's okay, Milton. I understand. I'll be out in a bit."

Seconds went by before he answered. "Okay."

She checked the door again before she wove her hair into one plait. Naked, she stared at herself in the mirror screwed to the door. She wasn't different from other women her age. She needed intimacy and companionship. Pity she had found both in the wrong place.

In the shower, her energy evaporated, and she pressed a shoulder into the wall to keep herself from falling. She grimaced as the water battered her abraded skin, and prayed Milton would go to bed.

Exhaustion, and a flood of tears, burned her eyes. Painful sobs tore at her throat as she relived what had just happened. If only their relationship had not deteriorated, but wishing and hoping could not change a situation that had progressed from bad to worse.

If she was lucky, Milton would fall asleep. Lately, he was always tired, but the way things were going, she couldn't count on luck. If he was awake when she got out, he'd be sorry he snapped at her, and want to cuddle. She was fed up with that recurring cycle and didn't want to pretend that things were normal. Besides, spooning might lead him to thinking about sex, and the fact was, Milton hadn't been able to maintain much of an erection for close to a year.

Even though his dysfunction had nothing to do with why she had started seeing Xavier, it was time to stop fooling herself.

She had to do what was best for all of them.

# ~ Chapter Two ~

Friday, June 18

## Justine

_Proverb:_ _Fish a deep water don't know how fish a river side feel._

_Meaning:_ _The person living in safety cannot understand how the person living in a dangerous situation feels._

Yolanda hung onto the doorframe, waving at Justine.

The moment Justine got out of the car, Yolanda hugged her around the waist. Justine kissed her forehead, grateful her child was good natured and quick to forgive. "How's Mommy's best girl?"

Beaming at her, Yolanda said, "I'm good. Can I stay up a little longer?"

Justine shook her head. "I know it's Friday, but it's almost nine already. I'll tell you a story and then you can go to bed. Deal?"

"Deal." Yolanda agreed with a nod. Then she squinted at Justine. "Can't you come home a little earlier? Your best girl gets lonely sometimes."

A snapshot of her frenetic lovemaking invaded Justine's thoughts. Her stomach clenched, both her face and neck warmed. "I-I know, but Mommy has to work late some days." She slid an arm around Yolanda and guided her into the house before shutting the door. "Where's Miss Pauline?"

"She went to her room when I said you were home. She's leaving early tomorrow."

"Okay. So, how was school today?"

"Fine. Remember I have prize giving next Tuesday and you're supposed to come. All the other..."

Justine frowned. That was supposed to be her day with Xavier. Coward that she was, she still hadn't told him she wanted out. She had decided to tell him on Tuesday. At the doorway to Yolanda's bedroom, Justine tuned in to her chatter. "...so don't forget, okay, Mommy?"

"Yes, hon. Now which story d'you want to hear?"

"The one about the lizard and the three mosquitoes," Yolanda said, pulling back the sheet and climbing into bed.

"Aren't you tired of that one?"

Yolanda moved her head from side to side. "Nope."

Justine eased off her shoes, dropped her handbag on the chair and waited until Yolanda got comfortable. They cuddled, and once more Justine told the story of how a smart mosquito escaped being eaten by a croaking lizard.

Yolanda fell asleep before the story ended. Justine fixed her daughter's head on the pillow, kissed her forehead and plugged in the night light. She stared at Yolanda. Perhaps Xavier was doing the same thing with his daughter. Eyes closed, she took a deep breath. Time for him to take a backseat. She replaced a stack of books on the shelf and then yawned her way down the corridor to her bedroom.

Miss Pauline had changed the drapes and bed linens. The floral set complemented the matching chintz-covered chairs. The faint smell of furniture polish lingered in the air. Justine eyed the gleaming chest-of-drawers and dresser before resting her bag on the writing desk. The king-size bed beckoned, but the phone on the bedside table buzzed.

When it was clear that the person on the other end did not plan to give up, Justine answered.

"I was wondering which hole you fell into," Dionne said, a sly undertone in her voice.

Justine chuckled. "I'm very much here. We still on for tomorrow?"

"Of course. We haven't seen each other for a few Saturdays now, so we're past due."

"No problem. Around two-ish?"

"Yeah, that should give me enough time to sort out the kids and pick up Kyra. Her hunk-o'-junk car gone on go-slow again."

"I don't know why she doesn't just sell it."

"Justine, please. Is who goin' buy dat old something?"

Justine laughed along with Dionne. Then she said, "I'll be at the office, so just stop in."

"Cool. Sweet dreams, girl."

Justine chuckled and scooped her hair into a ponytail on the way into the shower. The need to cover her tracks was going to be her downfall. Why not just wash her panties and go to bed? Milton would never know, but here she was about to take another shower, as if it would make her any cleaner or make her feel better. She'd best get on with it.

She stared at herself in the mirror over the basin, her mouth pulled downward. Dionne and Kyra, her best friends, were the only ones who knew of the situation, but that did not make her mental load any lighter. They had their own problems, so she limited what she told them. Maybe the best thing was to write her thoughts down somewhere.

Milton was not the type to search her things, but a diary would leave her vulnerable. It would also be one more thing for her to worry about. Maybe on the computer? But that wouldn't be the same. For years, she had kept a diary, but recently, she was too busy. Perhaps that was why she felt so pressured and unsettled. She needed to unclutter her brain. All she had to do was keep what she wrote under lock and key.

She slipped into her robe and padded over to the chest-of-drawers. An unused diary was in there somewhere. Fingers scrabbling, she lifted lingerie aside until she found the journal tucked in a corner. She cleared a space on the bedside table where she laid the book and enclosed pen.

A sense of eagerness came over her and she hurried through her moisturizing ritual. Once settled in bed, the blank page faced her and she was unsure where to begin. When she stopped writing, she gasped, staring at the lined paper.

I'd give up my marriage to Milton in a minute, if Xave asked me to.

Hand to her chest, she frowned at the words conveying the hope she had never allowed herself to feel. Pathetic. Idiotic. Never in a million years would that happen.

The low throbbing of Milton's car engine cleared her head. She slapped the journal shut and jumped off the bed. Though she stood frozen, her heart ticked faster than the second hand of the clock on the bedside table. She got her feet to move and shoved the book under a pile of underwear. Chiding herself, she dragged on a nightie and climbed back in bed. "You're such a weak heart. Milton barely pulls in and you're running about like a headless chicken."

He would check to see what Miss Pauline cooked for dinner and decide whether to eat. She hoped he'd have something, and delay his arrival in their bedroom by a few minutes. However, not much went her way where he was concerned, so he entered the room before she was ready to see him.

"'Evening."

She shifted, and his kiss landed on her forehead.

"You had a good day?" he asked.

"Mmm."

While he undid his tie and unbuttoned his shirtsleeves, worry lines creased his forehead. He moved out of eyeshot and the bed sank under his weight. A moment later, he rose and his shoes thudded on the floor of the closet.

He had a habit of taking his time undressing and showering. With any luck he'd stop moving about soon. She was sleepy again and needed absolute quiet. Sometimes Milton was seriously annoying.

She smiled into her pillow. The poor man couldn't move freely in his own bedroom without her getting uptight.

But the root of her irritation sprang from his attitude. Something important had been on his mind for months now, which he refused to discuss. They needed to talk, but what could she do when he refused to communicate? Even now she hesitated before asking the simplest of questions. Over her shoulder she said, "Milton, did you pay the phone bill?"

"Isn't that your job?"

"Not any more. Didn't you insist a month ago that you'd handle the bills?" Around the time you started acting like a control freak, she added silently.

"So why are you asking me then?" he asked, almost shouting.

"Because I got a message on the line this morning." She rolled onto her back in defensive mode. "They're threatening to disconnect."

He shrugged out of his shirt. "I'll take care of it."

Deliberately, she kept her tone even. "You want me to remind you in the morning?"

"Didn't I say I'd deal with it? What, am I senile now?"

She clamped her teeth together to stop herself from arguing. A few days earlier she had reminded him to pay the same bill. How much more of his unreasonable behavior was she supposed to take?

When the bathroom door slammed behind him, she rushed over to the drawer, pulled out the journal and slipped it into her handbag. Then she said her prayers. The last thing she wanted was to be awake after he showered. He'd be sorry he snapped at her, and she didn't want him to touch her. Not tonight.

Then again, that was unlikely in the face of their stand off since Tuesday. She shut her eyes and curled on her side. Behind her eyelids, Xavier gave her one of those smiles meant to console when she was feeling blue. Justine groaned and twisted around to settle on her other side. Of all the silly things she had done in her life, falling in love with Xavier had to be the worst.

Saturday, June 19 7:00 AM

Justine inhaled the steam rising from the mug, relieved that Milton had left before she woke. His car was in the carport, which meant he'd gone jogging. When he returned, last night's tiff would continue to play out in stressful silence.

The first sip of coffee lifted her spirit. She savored the combined taste of instant coffee, condensed milk, nutmeg and salt. Coffee wasn't the same without a dash of salt.

The fragrance of mango, banana and otaheite apple reached her where she sat. Her gaze drifted over the sideboard and the fruits in the ceramic bowl. They were overripe. She needed to throw them out. Maybe later.

She leaned against the ladder-back chair, relishing the silence before Yolanda woke to pepper her with questions. Saturday morning belonged to them. They caught up with each other's weekly activities before Justine popped over to the office in the afternoon. Today she was having lunch with Dionne and Kyra.

She took another sip of coffee and in her mind, slipped away to their luncheon date a year ago, around the time their problems started to multiply. Justine's position as Manager of the Mona Guest House gave her certain privileges, plus the location also made their get-togethers convenient.

While they consumed mixed lunches of barbequed chicken and curried goat, they discussed the latest happenings. Dionne, always well-groomed and the most adventurous of the three, had brushed back her extensions and floored them with an announcement that she was starting her own public relations firm.

After they cross-examined her on the source of funding for her proposed business, Dionne had turned the spotlight on Justine.

"So tell me what's been happening with you lately," she said, swishing a straw in her fruit punch.

Justine avoided looking into her sharp eyes. "Not much."

Dionne cocked her head and arched an eyebrow. "I suppose that's why you've been so distracted today?"

Refusing to engage Dionne, Justine shrugged and turned her head away. Dionne's phone rang, which sent her digging through her bag. Justine relaxed and sipped lime squash. For the moment, she had won a reprieve.

Justine had pushed aside a faint stir of discontentment. Milton's inattentiveness had started to worry her. She could barely remember the last time they were intimate. While her friends chatted, she fell into her favourite fantasy, which already consumed too much of her days. If they knew what she was thinking, both women would call her obsessed. But it was a delicious way to pass the time, considering Milton's neglect.

Justine shifted and sighed. Her hand hit the cup, which rattled in the saucer. The clatter pulled her back into the kitchen. If only her fantasy had remained just that. But she was long past erotic daydreams now.

Yolanda bounced into the room, flung her arms around Justine's neck and chirped in her ear. "Morning, Mommy!"

Justine bussed her cheek. "Guess you want your tea and breakfast, right?"

"Yup. Can I have a banana?"

"Sure." Justine got up to fix her daughter's favourite breakfast food – eggs, sausages and hardough bread slathered with butter.

They chatted while Justine moved about the kitchen getting the items she needed. When she set Yolanda's plate before her, Milton joined them. He had showered and changed into a polo shirt and sweat bottoms. On his way past Justine, he mumbled a greeting and rubbed her shoulder. Last night's flare-up seemed forgotten. She sat up straighter and used the excuse of a mouthful of sausage not to respond.

After refusing breakfast and making coffee, he sat across from Yolanda and beside Justine. He sipped quietly, while Yolanda did enough talking for all of them, despite Justine's repeated warnings about talking with food in her mouth.

Justine studied Milton, noting the lines in his forehead were etched deeper. He drummed a staccato beat on the polished wood. What had him so worried? He had never been big on communication. However, his withdrawal and preoccupation made her reluctant to ask what was wrong.

Instinct warned her that something significant was amiss and growing worse every day. She badly wanted to know what could have happened, but did not know how to broach the subject. Worse, he might accuse or attack her again.

What had changed the fact that he was once her closest friend and ally against the vagaries of the world? Why had he shut her out?

He sat as though carved from stone, staring into the cup.

Her mouth settled into a pout.

He could keep his problems to himself. She would not risk him snapping at her again. Only God knew how much she had on her plate. Nevertheless, she continued to steal glances at him as he stared at the table, oblivious to Yolanda's chatter.

# ~ Chapter 3 ~

Saturday, June 19 9:30 AM

## Dionne

_Proverb:_ _When you think all is peace and safety, is sudden destruction._

Meaning: Things may seem to be going well, but disaster lurks around the corner.

Her lids lifted and her eyebrows scrunched together. Pale peach curtains and matching runners on the dresser. Stool in front of the three-panelled dressing table, television on top of the chest-of-drawers, and light slanting in through the wooden louvers. The accompanying heat signalled that the morning was long underway.

Clayton's voice intruded, and she relaxed. Not a hotel. She was home.

He padded into the room with a cup in hand and sat on the edge of the bed. He smiled and waited while she sat up. She pushed back her hair, leaned against the headboard and took the cup. Eyes closed, she sniffed the steam. "Mmm...chocolate. Nice."

He stroked her cheek. "I was wondering if you were ever going to get up."

She brushed the back of her hand over his chin. "I had a rough day yesterday and that dinner last night wiped me out. You have no idea what I have to do to keep my clients satisfied."

Laughter shook Clayton's shoulders. "As long as you're not having sex with them, everything is good."

If she were a less composed woman, Dionne would have spat chocolate in her husband's face. Instead, she gulped, burned her tongue and kept it to herself.

He cocked an eyebrow. "Why you look as if you just swallowed a log?"

She willed a smile to her lips and patted his hand. "You're imagining things. Anyway, you don't have to worry about me playing tit for tat."

His earnest brown eyes conveyed his concern. "Really? So you forgive me for that now?"

Clayton referred to an incident six months previously when she caught the tail end of a conversation that sounded like he was making a date. She confronted him and he denied her accusation. She had grabbed his cellular, hit redial and a woman answered. Dionne said nothing to her; neither did she ask Clayton any questions. What she gave him was a verbal dose of hell.

She puckered her mouth and looked him in the eyes. "Well, if you don't go that route again."

He ran his palm up and down her arm. "You know that was only because I was feeling a little neglected."

"Neglected or not, you're a man. I expect just about anything from you."

He turned and sat beside her. She eased sideways and he slung a hand over her shoulder. Grabbing his fingers, she snuggled under his arm. "Um, Clayton, there's a conference coming up next month that I'd like to attend. Three weekend days in Cayman."

He frowned. "The business can afford it already?"

"Well, it'll help me make more connections. See, I'll be networking while I'm there."

He hugged her close. "I'd really like to go with you, but we have too many unfinished jobs in the shop right now. Plus we have to service that fleet of cars for the courier company. That goin' to take some time."

She put on a regretful expression. "I'll be busy during the daytime anyway, so you'd probably be bored."

"Maybe I'll be able to go on your next trip."

He kissed her forehead, and she pressed her lips to his palm. A sharp pain stitched across her chest. She stifled a gasp, which had him frowning into her face. "You all right?"

She nodded. "Just stitches."

But it was way more than that. The pain manifested whenever she was under stress, and they both knew it. She raised a hand to rub her chest, but let it fall when Clay followed its movement.

"Dee, you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Liar!

She had wanted to broach the subject of the trip for weeks, but could not find the right moment. Now it was out, she was still agonizing over it. It wasn't as if Alex, her lover, had demanded that she go, however, she felt obligated to take this trip with him.

Apart from the first two weekends she went away with him, they hadn't spent much time together outside of business hours. When he proposed a weekend together in Cayman, she found she wanted to go.

The lack of a real vacation in years was telling on her. She needed a break from bills, proposals and parenting decisions. She wanted to lie on the beach and pretend not to have a care in the world. Oh, for the days when all she had to worry about was the next month's rent, or what to cook Clayton for dinner. However, the yearning for all the things she lacked in childhood, along with her list of goals with 'achieve by' dates kept her on a rollercoaster ride of business lunches, meetings and site visits.

She finished the chocolate and gave the cup to Clayton, who rose and left the room. Admiring his sturdy frame, she stretched and slid down in the bed, but she was as uncomfortable now as the last time she had fabricated an excuse to go away with Alex.

She had run her plans by Justine and Kyra, as usual. When they asked why she seemed so edgy, she had told them, "I'm going to Curacao for a weekend."

The conversations from the other diners at the restaurant had flowed around them and fallen into the void left by their shock.

Justine made several attempts, but did not speak. Then Kyra asked, "What you goin' to tell your husband this time?"

"I'm going to a seminar?"

"Him goin' to believe that?"

Dionne's quick temper ignited. "How am I supposed to know?"

"Alex is making you go as payment, isn't he?" Justine asked.

Dionne sighed. "I'm backed into a corner, but Alex is helping me in a big way. Her next words were slow and emphatic. "I'm trying to secure our future and I'll do whatever it takes."

Her nails beat the table in an erratic rhythm, and then her hands curled into fists. "Anyway, Clay killed the good little wife in me ages ago."

Ever cautious, Justine looked around to ensure their conversation was not being overheard. When she met Dionne's eyes, she nodded. "I understand. But make sure you know what you're doing, because Clayton would have a hard time dealing with that." She shot a glance toward the couple at the nearest table. "Men can't handle the thought of their woman giving away the goodies, even if they're doing it too. He must really be preoccupied not to ask how you made enough money for the down payment on that new Jeep you're sporting. You better keep praying."

Anxiety squeezed Dionne's throat. "I know, but I'm sure I can make this work. He knows the income from the business is making the mortgage payments easier. It's been such a struggle..."

"Just as long as you don't break down and confess." Kyra said, gripping Dionne's wrist.

"How you goin' handle the guilt over this new episode?"

With her shoulders squared and chin thrust forward, Dionne said, "That's the last thing on my mind. Ricardo and Gillian are my main concern." Further agitated, she lapsed into Patois. "If Clayton drop dead today, me alone goin' to struggle wid dem."

Dionne had come a long way since then, but her concerns had deepened. She hadn't told her best friends about Alex's growing demands, but figured she could handle him. After all, she had juggled her family and his needs for over a year.

A series of bangs and crashes filtered from the living room. Ricardo was way too fond of violent cartoons and would probably be deaf by the time he hit puberty. She ignored the urge to yell at him to turn down the television, and rolled onto her side, sniffing the air. Clayton was cooking ackee and saltfish with fried dumplings. Sometimes he was worth all the aggravation he gave her.

She let the tension from the week's activities drain from her limbs, and thought about white sand and cooling breezes. Despite her reservations and apprehension over the trip, she began to anticipate spending a few days away from the island and her cares. She could deal with anything that happened after that.

###

##  Meet the Author

Discover other titles by J.L. Campbell at Smashwords.com:

Contraband

Dissolution

Giving Up the Dream

Connect with Me Online:

Twitter: http://twitter.com/JL_Campbell

Facebook:  J.L. Campbell

My website: http://joylcampbell.com

My blog: http://thecharacterdepot.blogspot.com

