Josephine Against the Sea Read online

  To children who stare at the sea, wondering what lies beneath.

  To the Caribbean ancestors who refused to let our stories die.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  It’s 4:58 p.m. and Daddy still isn’t back from his date. I should have never allowed him to leave home.

  He’s been gone for two whole hours. Two hours we could have spent watching the cricket match on TV! But nooo, he had to go out and have ice cream with “a friend.” We have good cherry-vanilla ice cream right here in the freezer. He could have eaten that with me.

  With my binoculars, I see Jalopy, his old white Jeep, coming from at least two minutes away. I yank the binoculars away from my face and glance at the old brass clock.

  4:59 p.m.

  He promised to be back by five.

  He’s officially going to be late.

  I peer through the binoculars again and notice a woman with big, curly hair in the passenger seat. And he’s not alone.

  I growl under my breath and prepare to defend my territory. Across the street, I notice Ahkai, my neighbor and best friend, taking out the garbage. His face is almost as sour as mine.

  I can guess what’s in that bag. It’s Saturday, which means his mother’s made steamed flying fish and cornmeal cou-cou for his entire family.

  That’s when an idea hits me.

  Operation Slime!

  I’m going to make sure that “friend” gets a small taste of life with a fisherman like my daddy. I do my evil laugh—it starts with a low chuckle and climbs into a roaring cackle.

  Ahkai looks up at my window, shakes his head, and hurries back inside.

  He knows what’s coming …

  I scramble to message him from my walkie-talkie under the bed.

  “Come in, Ahkai. Over.”

  I let go of the button and wait.

  Just static.

  The old brass clock ticks.

  “Ahkai, youuu better ANSWER ME! Over.”

  Silence.

  Oh, right. I forgot Ahkai insists on using code names.

  “Come in, Alpha Mike. Over.”

  Static, and then—

  “This is Alpha Mike. Alpha Mike. Alpha Mike …” I wait for Ahkai to finish whispering his code name exactly five times. That’s just how he is. He’s on the—what’s it called again? It reminds me of something wonderful … Awesome? Rhythm? Autism! That’s it. He’s on the autism spectrum, and I am one of the few people Ahkai utters a word to.

  People think he’s odd, but I don’t mind. He’s my best friend in the whole world. Actually, he’s my only friend in the whole world, which is fine by me.

  “Alpha Mike, retrieve the stinky garbage and bring it to my location. Over.”

  I waste precious seconds trying to persuade Ahkai to hide in the hibiscus bushes. I don’t know why he bothers to protest. He never turns his back on a mission.

  Though the bush is about four feet high, it completely covers his short, slight frame. He’s dressed the part of a good lookout, wearing a dark green shirt and black jeans. I push a red hibiscus flower into the black knitted tam on his head to make sure he’s fully camouflaged.

  Then, I hear a jackhammer rattling in the distance. That’s Jalopy, coughing its way home. I really didn’t need binoculars—I can hear that engine coming from a mile away. I rush inside to get into position at the top of the stairs.

  Soon, Ahkai chimes in on the walkie-talkie.

  “The target has left the rickety vehicle. She is approaching the red Hibiscus furcellatus bush and ascending the stairs. She will reach your location in approximately ten point three seconds. Nine point six seconds. Eight—”

  I put the walkie-talkie on the floor and pick up my battered cricket ball. Since “the incident,” I’m not allowed near Coach Broomes’s equipment room, so I’m forced to hunt for rejected cricket balls like some kind of cow-leather scavenger. I had fished this one out of the bushes when Jared, the best cricket player at my school, hit it for six. Almost all the thread is gone, and I get little bounce when it hits the grass. But I don’t need bounce now; I need precision.

  The bucket of slime on top of the fridge has to tip at just the right angle.

  I grip the cricket ball between two fingers for a straight throw. I’ve heard people on TV compare cricket to baseball because both sports use bats, but cricket is FAR superior. For one thing, cricket balls are much harder and heavier, which will come in handy to move the full bucket.

  Focus. Precision. Speed.

  Every good bowler knows the best type of delivery to hit the target, and unfortunately for Daddy’s date, I’m the best bowler in the village.

  The back door opens, and I know my daddy—the gentleman that he is—will let his “friend” inside the house first. I am overwhelmed by the smell of fruity, cheap perfume.

  Now!

  I release the ball and watch as it speeds toward the target.

  Yes! Yes!

  Nooo …

  The ball misses the rim of the bucket by a whisper. I hope that its wind is enough to make the bucket lose balance from the edge of the refrigerator, but it’s not my lucky day. Instead, the ball continues across the kitchen and crashes through the window.

  The glass shatters.

  Daddy’s date screams and tries to duck, but she’s wobbly on her six-inch heels. Daddy grabs her by the arm, steadying her. He looks at the broken glass on the floor, and then glares at me.

  “Josephine Elisabeth Zara Cadogan!”

  Through the open door I see Ahkai diving from the hibiscus bushes, scrambling to get away before he’s discovered. As usual, he trips over his two left feet, decides to stay on the ground, and crawls through the gate next door.

  “ ’Ow much times I must tell you not to throw balls in the ’ouse!” Daddy slaps the side of the fridge in frustration.

  I gasp as the bucket rocks. Daddy glances up and manages to jump out of the way just before the bucket tips over.

  I guess it’s my lucky day after all.

  All the contents—the fish guts and scales—fall on Daddy’s date. It looks like a brain has exploded on top of her head, with one particularly long, fat piece of entrails sliding down her ear and plopping onto her bare shoulder like a vomit-colored earthworm. I can’t help but gag at the putrid smell of the fish intestines. A swarm of flies zips through the back door and dances above her head, eager to feast on the foul, rotting flesh.

  “Omigod omigod omigod!” she cries.

  With a trembling hand, she plucks a fish head from her bouncy hair. A long string of slime clings to her fingers. It reminds me of the gooey trail a slug leaves behind when trying to escape a salt ambush.

  “This is too much! I just can’t!” she yells. Daddy’s date yanks the hair off her head, exposing cornrows covered by a tan stocking cap. She throws the curly brown wig on the ground and heads for the door.

  “Debbie! Wait—” Daddy calls after her, but she ignores him.r />
  Goodbye, “friend.”

  Daddy turns around right in time to see the smug look on my face.

  Uh-oh.

  Daddy can’t ground me if he can’t catch me!

  I race to my bedroom, but Daddy’s long legs stride up the stairs behind me, three or four at a time. I got my height from Daddy. I’m already taller than all the boys in my class, and really skinny—like a string bean.

  Daddy must be hopping mad because he’s forgotten about his bad knee. At least twice a week I have to rub it with Benjie’s Balm, a strong vapor rub that helps with the pain.

  I burst into my room and try to shut the door, but Daddy’s already pushing against it, trying to force his way inside. It’s a losing battle—eighty pounds versus two-ten, but I don’t give up. There is only one day left of summer vacation and I don’t want to spend it staring at the ceiling in my room.

  “It’s not my fault! It was an accident! You is the one who knock down the bucket!” I yell, trying to muster superhuman strength. But I know my excuses are as pointless as my attempt to block the door.

  I move my body away, and Daddy stumbles inside. I take advantage of the moment and dive between his legs. I remember to keep my elbows in the air and roll to cushion the impact, just like how Coach Broomes instructed Jared during a diving practice session.

  “Josephine, get back here! I’m going to count to three!” Daddy yells behind me. “One!”

  I race down the stairs and dash into the living room. Mr. Pimples, my blue-and-yellow angelfish, seems to gasp at my intrusion. He hides in the shipwreck in his tank.

  “Two!” I can almost feel Daddy’s hot breath on my neck. I dive and roll behind the couch, missing his grasp by an inch.

  “Three!” As serious as the situation is, I can’t help but think this is like a dodgeball game. I imagine the commentators cheering for me: “That was close! He nearly caught her there! Josephine Cadogan … what a player!”

  I fling my hands in the air in dramatic style and leap over the couch, curving my back like a ballerina, but I botch my landing and stumble against the TV stand.

  The framed picture of Mum flies high into the air. It’s our favorite ’cause the photographer captured her with her head thrown back in mid-laugh, her curly black hair with blond highlights catching the sun.

  The picture falls toward the floor, and both Daddy and I jump to catch it. I get a sharp flashback of “the incident” and come to a halt, leaving Daddy with the responsibility of catching Mum. His fingertips reach the frame, but it slides out of his grip. Thankfully, I am right there as backup to catch her in my cupped hands. I bring Mum toward my chest and hold her there with safe hands, just like I do with the cricket ball.

  Why oh why didn’t I do this at cricket tryouts last year?

  Exhausted and panting, Daddy and I collapse onto the couch at the same time.

  Daddy looks down at the picture of Mum, and then gazes at me. He does that sometimes—stares at me for no reason. I have Mum’s flat nose and her messy, curly hair, but I have Daddy’s dark brown skin, bushy eyebrows, and cynical glare. His eyes glaze over, and he retreats into that silent place in his head.

  It’s been almost five years since Mum’s heart skipped a beat and never found rhythm again. Still, I remember when Daddy stayed in that silent place for months, instead of a few moments, and Granny Margaret had to fly in from Guyana to take care of us.

  Daddy takes Mum from my hands, and then, holding the frame as if it were a bubble about to burst, he puts Mum back in her rightful place. He shifts the frame toward the sunlight and uses his shirt cuff to rub a smudge off the glass.

  I understand why women like my daddy. He is top-heavy, with broad, muscular shoulders developed from two decades of pulling tons of fish from nets. Since Mum died, he’s gotten a few gray hairs at the sides of his head, but they don’t make him look older, just wiser.

  “Bean, yuh got to stop with this foolishness.” He turns to me, scratching his chin. The beard is already growing back though he shaved two days ago.

  He called me Bean, I think, relieved. I’m out of trouble.

  I lift my chin in the air. “Daddy, she ain’ right for you.”

  Daddy sucks his teeth. “You ain’ even meet she properly, Bean.”

  “Daddy, if she can’t deal with a little stink from fish guts, how she gine handle you when you come home from the sea? It is the same smell!”

  Daddy opens his mouth and closes it. He contemplates, opens his mouth, and then closes it again.

  “You!” He grabs for me, but this time it is playful. He digs into the spot below my ribs where I am most ticklish.

  “Daddy, stop!” I squeal, but I don’t really want him to. He kisses me on my forehead and I snuggle into his chest. There’s only one thing that could make this moment better. I turn on the TV to the cricket match and then stare at Daddy’s face.

  My love for cricket began in front of the TV with my mum and daddy. I remember him squeezing me tight whenever a player hit the ball for six, and Mum raining kisses on my face whenever a bowler took a wicket.

  I hold on to these memories because Daddy doesn’t talk about Mum.

  Ever.

  It’s like his love for cricket died with Mum. Now Daddy falls asleep whenever I ask him to watch a cricket game with me, and he always makes excuses when I ask him to help me practice bowling, so I’m forced to throw the cricket ball at plastic bottles instead.

  Sometimes, I rest Mum’s picture on the cushion next to me and try to recreate that atmosphere. It’s not the same.

  But I have a plan.

  I’ve been working hard all summer doing chores for neighbors and selling sugar cakes and tamarind balls at the fish market. Daddy thinks I’m saving for a new cricket bat and ball, but I’m actually going to use the money to buy us tickets to the West Indies versus England match. The English cricket team only tours the Caribbean every two or so years, and even then, there’s no guarantee that a game will be scheduled in Barbados. There’s no way Daddy will be able to resist a chance to see our favorite team playing against our fiercest rivals.

  I want Daddy to remember how happy cricket used to make him. And whenever he’s not working, he’ll want to spend all his free time watching and playing cricket with me. He’ll have an extra-full, active life—no time for silly dating.

  It’s a win for both of us!

  I struggle to contain my excitement as I picture me and Daddy at Kensington Oval, wearing our maroon West Indies shirts and doing the Mexican wave in the cricket stands.

  Daddy gazes at the TV with an expression I don’t quite understand. It’s like hope and regret, combined with a little gas. He sniffs and rubs his nose with the back of his hand, untangles himself from my embrace, and gets off the couch. Then he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

  “Daddy …” I follow him until he slams the side door in my face.

  He started the disgusting habit a few weeks after Mum died. I’ve been pestering him to quit ever since I saw a “smoking kills” ad where a man peels the skin off his face to pay for a box of cigarettes.

  The cricket team’s anthem, “Rally ’round the West Indies,” starts to play in the stadium, and when the TV crowd chants David Rudder’s lyrics, their unified voices soothe my troubled mind. That song almost brings me back to those happy days on the couch with Mum and Daddy.

  Almost …

  I look at the brown wig on the floor and squash the growing twinge of guilt. Women have always liked my daddy but he’d never paid them any attention … until this year. I need to revive his passion for cricket so he doesn’t feel the need to meet any more “friends.”

  Daddy’s cell phone rings on the counter, and I have to squint to see the words “Phyllis Landlady” on the small phone screen. Daddy’s a simple man; he has an old cell phone with no internet and an old TV with one lone station.

  Daddy comes inside and answers the phone. I wrinkle my nose in disgust at the strong cigarette smell.

>   “Yes, Phyllis,” he says, then winces and moves the phone away from his ear. He glares at me.

  Uh-oh.

  Our landlady has already heard about the broken window. That’s how fast news travels in Fairy Vale.

  Everything else is slow, slow, slooowwww. The hours seem twice as long, and every day feels like Sunday. Apart from the occasional church or community event or weekend karaoke at a rum shop, there’s little to do. It’s an ordinary, boring fishing village in Barbados.

  “Yes, Phyllis,” Daddy repeats, his voice flat and monotonous. “I will replace the ’ole window.”

  I try to sneak upstairs to my room while Daddy’s still on the phone, but it’s too late.

  Daddy puts his phone on the counter. “ ’Old it right there, young lady. You’re going to pay fuh this window.”

  I wheel around to see if the cigarette smoke has clouded his brains. “I don’t have a job. How can I pay for a whole window?”

  Daddy rolls his eyes at my confused expression. “Your savings, Josephine,” he says in an irritated tone.

  Not my money for the West Indies versus England tickets! I inhale so sharply that all the saliva evaporates from my mouth.

  I slowly release my breath, my mind racing with possible solutions. “Okay, Daddy, no TV for the rest of the summer vacation, okay?” I rush to turn off the television to show I am serious.

  Daddy’s sigh is loud in the empty silence. “Josephine …” It’s never a good sign when he uses my real name.

  “No TV for a month!” I offer, pleading with my hands. “And I’ll clean the bathroom and do laundry every week!” Daddy knows how much I hate hanging clothes on the clothesline, but that’s a small sacrifice to make to buy the tickets.

  I wait for Daddy to accept my offer but he reaches for the broom and starts to sweep the glass on the floor.

  “Sorry, Josephine, but we ’ave to use all your savings to pay for—”

  I dash upstairs to my room before he can finish, hoping that his terrible thought will disappear with my absence.

  This time, Daddy doesn’t chase after me.

  I wake up even earlier than six in the morning to make Daddy’s favorite breakfast—saltfish and bake.