Josephine Against the Sea Page 2

  This meal always puts him in a good mood, so it’ll be easier to change his mind about using my savings to pay for the window.

  Daddy taught me how to make both Bajan and Guyanese bakes. Guyanese bakes are different from Bajan bakes; the fried dough has no sugar and is much larger—almost the size of a grapefruit. I think Mum and Daddy used to argue about which bake was better, but I can’t be sure.

  I have to add that to the list of questions for Mum when I see her in heaven.

  I glance at the brown masking tape over the hole in the window, and then focus on stirring the frizzled saltfish just before it starts to stick to the pan.

  That’s how Daddy likes it. It reminds him of his home in Berbice, Guyana, before he moved to Barbados. He grew up in a fishing community like this one, where nets and colorful fishing boats line the seashore, and market people ply their trade, screaming, “Marlin! Tuna! Nine dollars ah pound!”

  Before we came to Fairy Vale, we lived in a gated community near the city center. I don’t remember much about the neighborhood, but I do recall a few things: playing in rosebushes, a bee stinging me on my nose, Mum humming in the kitchen, though I can’t remember her voice. I have fragments of memories of Mum—her finger rubbing my cheek, breath that smelled like cinnamon, a tight hug—it’s like a puzzle that only fits together in my heart, but I will never forget how happy I was when I watched cricket with her and Daddy.

  I scoop some saltfish onto a plate and place the meal on the table when Daddy comes down the stairs. He frowns at me, but I know he’s struggling to stay mad with the spicy aroma of fish mixed with onions, peppers, tomatoes, garlic, and lots of hot pepper in the air.

  I give him my biggest, most innocent smile.

  “The stove—”

  “Turn off properly, yes.”

  He sniffs the plate. “You remember to add—”

  “Yes.” A pinch of cinnamon. It was Mum’s special touch.

  “And—”

  “I’ll feed Mr. Pimples after you let me start the car.”

  Daddy dangles his car keys in the air. I snatch them from his hand and hurry outside to warm up Jalopy. I swing the key in the ignition; it sounds like a nail scratching on galvanized steel, but soon the engine sputters on. In ten minutes, Jalopy will be ready to go.

  When I shake the fish food into the tank, Mr. Pimples swims out from the shipwreck. He’s named after the yellow spots on his face, and back when I got him I decided not to get any more fish in case they laughed at his acne. We’ve had him for three years now, which, according to Ahkai, is the equivalent of one hundred and ten fish years. I watch Mr. Pimples gobble a few of his flakes, and then join Daddy at the table for my own breakfast.

  I wait until he finishes his last bite, leans back in the chair, and lets out his satisfied “Ahhhh.” That’s my cue!

  “Daddy, about my savings, I—”

  “No, Josephine, you ’ave to take responsibility.”

  “But pleasssssee, Daddy! I have plans for that money! Accidents happen all the time!”

  “Bean, you’re almost eleven now.” My birthday is in forty-eight days. Every morning, I cross a day off the calendar in my bedroom with a red marker.

  “Yuh big enough to understand things ain’ as easy … fish scarcely biting, rent to pay, school uniforms to get …”

  I jump out of my chair. “It’s not fair! We can’t have cable! I can’t get a cell phone or a computer! Now I can’t even buy tic—” I bite my tongue to stop myself from ruining my surprise.

  “Young lady! Go and get your savings right now.”

  I stomp upstairs to get my piggy bank; it’s a Coca-Cola bottle with a makeshift slit in the bottle cap. Then I drag my feet down the stairs, trying not to think about how many jingling coins and folded bills are in the bottle. I’m so upset I think I’m going to cry, but as usual, the tears don’t come. There’s little chance that I could save enough money again to buy tickets before they’re all sold out, and it could be years before the two teams play again at Kensington Oval. My dream of getting the old cricket-loving Daddy back will soon become as distant as my memories of Mum.

  “Please, Daddy,” I whisper, my voice cracking.

  Daddy rubs his temples. He does that when he’s stressed out. “It’s just me, Bean. I trying.”

  “That ain’ my fault! It’s not my fault!” I collapse on the bottom of the stairs.

  Daddy pulls himself up from the table and shakes out his bad knee. Then, just when I think he’s going to relent as usual, he pries the bottle out of my hand.

  My heart drops to my toes.

  Daddy bends down and holds my face in his hands. They are rough, but they still comfort me. “Let’s pray today is a good day, okay?”

  That gives me hope. Maybe if Daddy gets a big catch, he’ll return my savings.

  As if on cue, together we chant the Fisherman’s Prayer:

  God grant me the strength

  to reel in a big catch,

  courage to throw back what I cannot sell,

  and wisdom to know when to haggle.

  “Don’t forget to—”

  “Make sure all the windows are shut.”

  “And—”

  “Lock the door.”

  BANG! Jalopy moves off. Most of the other fishermen are gone for days at a time, sailing as far as Tobago to fish, but Daddy is home every night. As always, I wave at Daddy until he disappears around the corner. Then, I search through the bushes until I find my cricket ball.

  I head over to Ahkai’s house, tossing the cricket ball into the air then catching it again. On Sunday mornings, most people are either sleeping or washing clothes, and the neighborhood is quiet. But it is never quiet at Ahkai’s house. As soon as I enter the gate, I hear his mother yelling at his many cousins.

  Though it’s just her and Ahkai, the house is always filled with people. A stranger may think that Miss Mo is mean, but under the yelling she is super nice … but really superstitious.

  The door is never locked; instead there is a row of banana peels along a piece of wood on the veranda. Miss Mo says no thief would rob a house with banana peels on the outside, because they know that it’s guarded by a baccoo, a tiny leprechaun-type creature trapped in a bottle. Once it’s fed a constant supply of milk and bananas, a baccoo protects the house’s owner when released. Most of the time I nod and keep quiet whenever Miss Mo speaks about her strange beliefs, but Ahkai always tries to argue with logic.

  “Mother, if a baccoo has enough strength to protect us from criminals, why is it not strong enough to break itself out of a glass bottle?” Ahkai will say, his face bent with irritation.

  “The Lord does work in mysterious ways,” Miss Mo will reply, and then start screeching a hymn, its crescendo drowning out Ahkai’s arguments.

  Nothing could change Miss Mo’s mind, especially after someone did try to break into the house but slipped on a banana peel and broke a leg.

  “I is a protected woman!” Miss Mo shouted after the thief as he limped away with the policeman. “De Lord and de baccoo watch over me!”

  “Mornin’, Miss Mo!” I say, still juggling the ball in my hands. She never acknowledges my greeting but gets annoyed if I don’t give it. I won’t forget the tongue-lashing I got when I once came into her house “without speaking.”

  Miss Mo is talking on the phone, washing dishes, and stopping one of Ahkai’s younger cousins from stealing a hot dog from the frying pan, all at the same time.

  Without thinking, I put the key that has fallen to the ground back into the keyhole, so evil spirits won’t be able to enter the house through the space. It’s hard to keep up with all of Miss Mo’s weird traditions, but I try. After all, Ahkai and I have strange habits too, and she doesn’t question us … most of the time.

  “Yuh want food?” shouts Miss Mo, moving the phone from her ear. Before I can respond, she slams a large plate of scrambled eggs and hot dogs on the table for me. It’s easier and faster to just eat—I’ve learned not to argue.
I lean over and start shoveling the meal into my mouth.

  “Jo, sit down! If you stan’ up and eat, de food does go down in yuh foot!” She attacks a pot on the stove with a bottle of Maggi all-purpose seasoning.

  Miss Mo’s shaped like an upside-down traffic cone, heavy on top, with large breasts, but with zero hips and slim legs. I guess she always sits while eating, maybe even to chew gum.

  I pull out a chair and sit at the large mahogany table that swallows most of the kitchen.

  “Drink some tea and break the air!” says Miss Mo, banging a large mug of hot chocolate next to my plate. “Next on the agenda, Marva,” she says into the phone.

  Miss Mo makes a living by renting out fish stalls at the market, so she has plenty of time to be a board member on every committee.

  “Look, you could believe the cricket association ask the Fairy Vale cricket team to escort the West Indies players onto the field, uh-huh, in that big match against England—”

  I choke on my eggs.

  “Jo! Tek yuh time and swallow!” Miss Mo yells. I nod and take a sip from the mug.

  “Right, Marva, them invite we boys, and want the school to pay for extra tickets. I had to set them straight. FREE tickets for the cricketers’ parents!”

  I can’t believe it. Those could be free tickets for me and Daddy! And I’d get to hold hands and walk onto the field with my favorite players. But I’m banned from trying out for the team …

  It had taken me two years to build the courage to go to Coach Broomes’s cricket tryouts. He’d taken one look at me sitting on the field and said, “Girls aren’t supposed to play with boys.” I still remember the surprise on his face when I stood up, and he realized I was tall enough to have a clear view of the bald spot in the middle of his head.

  He reluctantly gave me a chance and put me in a position near the edge of the field to test my agility. He assigned star-player Jared a few feet away from me.

  I didn’t have to wait long for a chance to prove myself. The ball got hit into the air and headed in my direction.

  “Mine!” I shouted, laying claim to my catch. It was going past my head, but I knew I could get to it with one of those dramatic dives I’d seen in countless matches.

  “Mine, mine,” Jared said, looking up and coming in from the boundary.

  “No, it’s mine!” I was determined. I moved backward as fast as I could, still focused on the falling ball, and leapt in the air.

  And then Jared collided into me.

  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

  When I came to, Jared was moaning beside me, and Coach Broomes was leaning over him, ranting about why girls should never play with boys. And worst of all, when I got home, Daddy took one look at a tiny, tiny slash on my cheek and decided cricket was on the same danger level as skydiving without a parachute. He agreed with Coach Broomes that it was best I find another hobby.

  I push the plate aside and hurry out through the side door where I know Ahkai will be sitting on two blocks of concrete with a sharp knife, whittling a piece of wood.

  I imagine most mums wouldn’t approve of this dangerous hobby, but Miss Mo knows Ahkai can take care of himself. Plus, he comes first in our class every year, so she can’t complain.

  Ahkai holds up his latest masterpiece—a small mouse with its tail in the air. As soon as he stops carving, he rocks back and forth on the cement block.

  “Cool! Is it for Simba?” I ask. Simba, his ginger tabby, jumps out from behind me to get his ears scratched. When he’s satisfied, he strolls away and settles into his position—curled against Ahkai’s hip.

  Ahkai nods. “I am training Simba to become a hunter. This Mus musculus will act as the prey.” I don’t need a dictionary with Ahkai around; he knows the scientific name of every plant and animal.

  Simba has already fallen asleep on his back with his legs sprawled out. He’s more likely to cuddle with mice instead of killing them.

  Ahkai goes back to cutting, and I look at the pendant around his neck—his lucky charm, a hummingbird in mid-flight. A symbol of our first encounter.

  On my first day in Fairy Vale, a rainbow-colored hummingbird had flown right into the screen door and dropped to the ground. Of course, I freaked out, thinking the bird was dead. Then, Ahkai appeared out of nowhere like my guardian angel. He gathered the bird in his hands and stroked its head. Soon, the wings started to move, and then flap. The bird opened its eyes and flew out of Ahkai’s hands into the sky.

  Miss Mo crossed the street and looked on with surprise at the normally shy and reserved Ahkai whispering and giggling in my ear. She volunteered to keep me anytime Daddy had to work and stood with us while we stared at the sky even though the bird was long gone.

  I move to the back of the yard, where I’ve lined plastic bottles along the edge of the outdoor sink.

  Focus. Precision. Speed.

  I bowl and the ball hits the plastic bottle right off the ledge.

  Crack.

  Yes! That’ll show Coach Broomes.

  My glee immediately turns to gloom. Every September, on the first day of the school term, Coach Broomes has the cricket tryouts for any “fresh blood.” If only I could find a way to get on the cricket team …

  I collect the ball and whistle a throw at another plastic bottle.

  Crack. It flies off the ledge!

  Bowled ’im! The crowd goes wild!

  If I could just get Coach Broomes to see my bowling skills, I know I’d be one of the players walking onto the field at Kensington Oval, wearing the Fairy Vale Academy cricket team uniform and waving at my happy, re-energized daddy cheering from the stands.

  Then, an idea pops into my head. Smiling, I sit on a concrete block and watch as the clouds crawl across the sky. My idea starts to formulate into a wild plan. All I need is a tight belt, a bit of luck, and a dash of faith.

  I mutter a new Cricketer’s Prayer under my breath:

  God grant me the ability

  to accept umpire decisions I cannot change,

  courage to bowl a good spell,

  and the power to hold on to any catch.

  Ahkai clears his throat behind me. I turn around to see him holding out the cricket ball. Oh, right …

  Crack. Crack. Crack. I quickly bowl the last three bottles from the ledge. Ahkai lets out a “whoop whoop” sound, celebrating the fifth crack, and then returns to his whittling station. He can concentrate now that all is right in his world.

  I survey the scattered plastic bottles with pride. I can feel it in my bones.

  I, Josephine, the cricket queen, will be crowned tomorrow on the first day of school.

  “Bean, get up! We late!” Daddy is shaking me. I’m not ready to move—I was counting wickets.

  Daddy yanks the sheets off. “Is time fuh school!”

  I groan and cover my head with the pillow, but he drags me off the bed. We argue with each other while rushing to get ready.

  “Daddy, you taking too long in the shower!”

  “Josephine, get back in there! You couldn’t ah bathe so fast!”

  “I want bacon and eggs, not watery sago porridge!”

  “Look! Just eat a banana!”

  “I can’t find my other school shoe!”

  “Yuh brain like a sieve! Now, where I put my car keys?”

  “Yuh see, I get my sieve brain from YOU!”

  And in the confusion, neither of us remembers to warm up Jalopy. I sit in the front seat, arms crossed and mouth pushed up to my nose, annoyed and flustered. Ahkai is in the back seat, playing with his hummingbird pendant, acting all oblivious to the tension. Daddy twists the key in the ignition, over and over again, but Jalopy only squeals in protest.

  Daddy slaps the dashboard. “Come on! Come on!”

  Jalopy gives in and splutters on.

  “Yes! We will not be late!” Daddy does a little shimmy with his shoulders, and I can’t stop a small smile from escaping.

  Then—

  BLAM!

  The e
ngine dies and black smoke gusts out from under the hood.

  “We’re going to be late,” I announce, peeling the skin off the banana.

  There’s one blue-and-yellow Transport Board bus that passes through Fairy Vale, and it comes every hour if you’re lucky, but it’s always packed to the brim with people pressed together like melting marshmallows. Otherwise, it’s about a thirty-minute walk to school—actually, forty minutes, since we have to keep turning around to carry Simba back home.

  Daddy is quiet and I don’t break the silence. He will need to find money to fix Jalopy. There’s no chance I’ll get back my savings now. My plan to get on the cricket team needs to work … I grip my backpack a little tighter.

  We pass the karaoke rum shop, and though it’s eight in the morning, four old men are hunched over, playing dominoes on a piece of board balanced on a rusty steel drum. They all wave at my daddy as we walk by. They’ll still be there when we pass back again this evening.

  Here’s the truth about Fairy Vale. Everyone has a routine, and they’re happy to do the same thing every day until they die. For them, there is nothing scarier than change.

  Just when my feet are starting to burn, I see Fairy Vale Academy of Excellence in the distance, at the bottom of Coconut Hill. Guess how the hill got its name? Yup, because of the tall coconut palm trees along the border of the road. The coconut trees grow in two rows up the hill, as if they are lining up to receive blessings from the humongous silk cotton tree at the very top.

  I’ve always wondered why the hill wasn’t named Silk Cotton Hill. Those coconut trees are like mushrooms when compared to that monstrous tree, with their palms turned toward its muscular branches in worship. The silk cotton branches throw shade far and wide above the school, like the towering tree is reaching out to embrace the building … or strangle it.

  Ahkai and I joke that the silk cotton tree pushed Fairy Vale Academy of Excellence off the edge, and it crash-landed into what is now the village’s lone primary school. Don’t mind its fancy name; at first glance, you’d think the building was an abandoned warehouse, with its yellowed, peeling walls in desperate need of fresh paint.

  As we get near the school gate, we see Casper—my school’s unofficial groundskeeper—lingering by the entrance and cleaning his fingernails with his favorite twig. Casper acts like he’s guarding the prime minister. Under his watch, there’s never a candy wrapper on the ground.