A Brief History of Seven Killings (39 page)

Should I pack? Do it . . . Kim, yes, Kim Clarke. Do it, I dare you. Pack your suitcase, that same purple one you took with you to Montego Bay. Pack it now. I really should buy a new suitcase for America. I wonder if he will want to take the towels. I only bought them last week. Fuck the towels, we should leave everything behind and don’t look back. Don’t go turning into Lot’s wife, Kim Clarke.

Do it light, do it through the night.
This deejay not letting Andy Gibb go. I want to hear “You Should Be Dancing” right now. That’s what I want to hear. Baby let’s go dancing, I will say once he comes through the door. We’ll go dancing, not at Mantana’s, maybe Club8, and when we get him
drunk I will say, Baby I know you didn’t ask me yet, but I started packing to save us both the trouble. What you Americans call it? Pro-active. See, I was being pro-active because you men always wait until it’s near too late to do anything, including propose. No, I won’t say propose. No man wants to feel tricked into a marriage. And when he ifs and buts I’ll take out his cock and show him that I learned exactly what I was supposed to learn when he put on the reel of
The Opening of Misty Beethoven
.

—I dunno, I didn’t expect Jamaican women to be like black American women.

—You weren’t expecting us to be black too?

—No silly, I didn’t expect you to be so sexually conservative. I swear, growing up in Arkansas you get the wrong idea.

—Why do you always use plural when you talk about me?

—Maybe I have a thing for black women.

—Uh-huh. I must be the black woman delegate.

—I hear Mick Jagger does too.

—You hear me talking to you?

—But I have all that jazz, right, babe?

—What you talking ’bout?

Come to think of it the only other man to put his mouth anywhere near my pussy was a white man. And American too. And, no I can’t think about that. Something scared the gulls away. How long have they been gone? Didn’t even realize I was thinking out loud. They wouldn’t be gone unless . . . better check the living room.

—Oh, hi hon.

—Uh. Oh, Chuck.

He answers with a wide grin.

—I didn’t know you were here. I didn’t even hear you come in.

—Yeah? Sounded like you had company in there. Was taking my shoes off to come in and join—

—I’m alone.

—Oh really? Talking to yourself like some crazy chick?

—Thinking out loud.

—Oooh. About me?

—Can’t believe you came in the house and I didn’t hear you.

—It’s my house, baby, I don’t have to make a scene just because I entered it.

No that didn’t sting, brush it off, Kim Clarke.

—I was about to cook dinner.

—Love how Jamaicans say cook dinner instead of make dinner.

—What’s the difference?

—Well, you could just boil some mac and cheese, and there, you’ve made dinner.

—You want mac and cheese?

—What? No, baby. I want whatever you’re cooking. What is it that you’re cooking?

—I can’t believe you just came in like that.

—It’s bothering you? Rest assured, darling, nobody is going to come all the way down here to assault you. What’s for dinner?

—Ackee.

—Lordy.

—With corned pork this time.

—What’s corned pork?

—Like thick pieces of bacon.

—I love me some bacon. Well, you go back to that, and I’ll go back to this
Star
newspaper I was reading. I swear this shit is a riot, not at all the bummer that’s the
Daily News
.

I hope he doesn’t start telling me what’s in the paper. Getting harder and harder every day to dodge him telling me the news. It sweet him so to tell it back to me, more than it sweet him to read it in the first place. Last Tuesday I saw him coming to me in the kitchen and said I already read the paper, thinking that would shut him up, but the whole thing backfired. As soon as he heard that, the man wanted to
discuss
things. I really can’t stand the news. Most times I don’t even want to know what day it is. I swear the second I hear of something, or if I realize I’m about to hear something, my heart just starts to pound and I want to do nothing more than run to my
bedroom, cover my face with a pillow and scream. Even in the market all I need is one higgler saying, Then you no hear ’bout Miss so and so? and I start walking away without stopping. Without buying a single thing. I don’t want to hear nothing. I don’t want no fucking news. Ignorance is bliss. I know him, he’s going to walk through that door—get the oil hot, get it hot, Kim Clarke, so hot that as he steps in just drop the onion and the skellion and the PSSSSSSHHHHH will drown out what he says. I’ll say whaaaaat? And he’ll say it again, and I’ll say whaaaaaat? and drip some water so that the oil pops loud and scares him and he’ll forget the subject, maybe. I wish the gulls were still here because then he would rush outside to drive them away and I could ask one of those dumb questions like do they have gulls in America? One of those questions that make white men just love to smile, nod a little and answer. Do they have bicycles in your country? Do they ride on the highway? Do you watch
The Munsters
in America? Do you watch
Wonder Woman
? How tall is the Statue of Liberty? Do you have a dual carriageway?

Take a deep breath, Kim Clarke. Cool runnings. You’re happy.

—Funny thing in the
Star
today, he says, walking in.

—Honey, you sure you don’t want to change out of your good clothes?

—You’re my mother now?

He smiles.

—Is you scare away the gulls?

—They were bothering you again?

—Not any more than usual. What kind of gulls you have in Arkansas?

—The same gulls I told you about three days ago.

—Oh. My brain is like a sieve. As soon as information go in I strain it right back out.

—Sounds more like a rectum than a sieve.

—But what a way you bright though, eh?

—Love it when you curse me in Jamaican.

—Ha ha. Well, if any of this oil splash on you I going tell you that you get what you was bloodcloth looking for.

—More.

—Pass the onion and skellion.

—Where?

—That basket on the cupboard by the door beside you . . . watch your step, I just shine the floor . . . slippery.

—I’m a nimble guy.

—Uh-huh.

—Man, you chop that thing really fast. Does every Jamaican woman know how to cook?

—Yes. Well, all the women who not worthless. So no, no Jamaican woman in Montego Bay can cook.

—You trying to get me to stop going to Mantana’s?

—Ha.

—Hey, babykins, I gotta tell you something.

—Honey, I can’t deal with anything in that newspaper right now. That
Star
is nothing but shame and scandal and white girl on page three showing her titties. What you steal from work today?

—I didn’t steal. A jar, just a jar, but it’s a green one, like emerald, I guess.

—You should buy me an emerald.

—Kim.

—I mean, I was born in November and that’s actually topaz, but you’re the one that started with emerald and—

—What the fuck, Kim.

—I don’t want to hear no shit about nothing in the r’asscloth
Star
, Chuck.

—What? I wasn’t talking about the
Star
. I was talking about Alcorp.

—What about Alcorp?

—We got a memo today. The company is winding down operations at a faster timetable than was originally anticipated—I mean, projected.

—You want to translate that memo?

—We’re flying out next week.

—Oh. Oh shit. Is good thing.

—It’s kinda fucked-up, really.

—No. Is a good thing the garage already cleaned out! So much stuff
to do! But what the hell, right, as you would say? What can’t pack just get left, eh?

—We means the company, Kim.

—Of course no ackee in America so you better eat this up when me finish.

—We meaning the staff and crew.

—I better make it extra good since it’s the last supper, haha, sorry Jesus, me borrowing that one.

—I gotta pack.

—Pack, yes, to think, you’re going to think is funny, I was looking at that ugly purple grip just a while ago.

—My stuff, all this shit from the office, I don’t really have a place for any of it.

—I wonder if I should pack jeans. I really was thinking what if I should pack jeans. I mean, I know I’m not going to pack towels and rags because that is just ghetto people behaviour. But jeans? I mean, you know how much I love the Halston, or rather how much you love how I wear the Halston.

—So much stuff to leave behind.

—But to pack a towel, what kinda butu business is that? Is not like we flying to Mocho. It’s like packing a toothbrush. I want to brush my teeth fresh in America. I know that sounds stupid.

—Oh Lord, Kim.

—And toothpaste. You Americans get gel toothpaste, in the big family pack that had a pump cap.

—I didn’t think it would come down to this.

—Will I have time to do my hair? To Rahtid, the deejay playing Andy Gibb again? The song just reach number one or something? You just call in and request it?

—Kim.

—Fine, no hairdo then, well, if I look like a madwoman on the plane is your fault. You better speak up for me.

—Okay, okay, Kim.

—Before customs cart me off.

—Kim.

—Jesus Christ, you sure know how to spring something on a woman. At least nobody going say we eloped.

—What we—

—Bedsheets, pack or leave?

—Huh?

—I swear, man, don’t serve no damn use.

—They’re not going to—

—We leave all the white ones, except the Egyptian cotton. That one we’re taking, you hear me? Come to think of it, you better make me pack your belongings because you men don’t know how to pack either.

—It’s all your Manley’s fault. He’s fucking up everything with this . . . with this . . .

—I think you should pack all your gabardine pants, but none of the Kariba suits, don’t want nobody in America thinking their son turn into socialist.

—And now—

—And that blue shirt for when we go dancing. Is there a Studio 54 in Arkansas?

—Not going to Arkansas. Never going back to Arkansas.

—Oh. Okay. Well, wherever then. Ha, I was just about to say, wherever as long as I am with you until I remembered that I heard that same damn line in a movie last week. Or maybe it was on
Dallas
. You think it was
Dallas
? Pamela Barnes would say some shit like that.

—Fucking hell, it’s like a troops pullout. I said to Jackman, it’s Montego Bay, not Saigon, motherfucker.

—Should I tell the jewellery store? You know, I didn’t really resign, I just stopped working.

—They actually chartered a jet.

—Fuck them, no fuck ’em, as you would say. I mean, I didn’t even quit, I just stopped, remember? You thought it was so funny—

—Chartered a fucking jet like it’s going to be an airlift.

—I know, why contact them now? I’ll just have to put up with all those other wives on the plane but fuck ’em, right? I love it when you say fuck ’em.

—Kim—

—So much to do. I can’t believe you just spring this on me. Can’t believe they spring this on you.

—Kim—

—But hey, is so it go. When—

—KIM!

—WHAT?

—Oh baby. Babykins, what we had here was really swell, but . . .

—What.

—I’ll send you some money, as much as you need, anything you need.

—What.

—You can stay here as long as you like. It’s paid up for the rest of the year.

—What.

—I thought. I mean, surely. I mean, this was swell, baby, it really was, but surely you didn’t think—

—What.

—You knew. I mean, you know I can’t . . . Baby—

—Fine, do your airlift without me. Leave the ticket so I can come to America through the back door. No that doesn’t piss me off. Much.

—Baby, no—

—Stop the baby and say what you’re saying, damn it.

—I’ve been saying it for the past five minutes.

—Saying what? What Chuck? What?

—You’re not. You’re . . . you’re not coming with me.

—I’m not coming with you.

—No, you’re not. I mean, you must have known.

—I must have known. I must have known. Right, I must have known. No wait, make me say it like you, I must have knowwwwwnnnn.

—Jesus Christ, Kim, the stove!

—I must have known.

—Kim!

The man shoves past me and turns off the stove. Smoke all around. All I can see is him, back to me, smoke shooting east and shooting west like they coming out of his ears, like a Bugs Bunny cartoon.

—What’s so funny? What’s so funny?

Kim. Kim. Kim, you must have known.

—Stop fucking laughing at me. Jesus Christ, Kim, I didn’t even take the ring off. I just don’t understand why you would think, why you would assume . . . I mean, you hang out at Mantana’s. Everybody knows about Mantana’s. Everybody. I mean, I never even took my ring off. Oh, man, fuck, now look, dinner, it’s all ruined.

—Dinner’s ruined.

—It’s okay.

—Dinner’s ruined?

—It’s okay.

The ring, the ring, the fucking ring like a Cracker Jack ring in a box, a free toy inside.

—Baby, you know how fond I am of you.

—What’s her name, your white wife?

—What?

—The white wife, the woman you cheating on to get some black pum-pum ’pon the side.

—She’s not white.

—I need a cigarette.

—You don’t smoke.

—I want a cigarette.

—Babykins—

—I say I want a fucking cigarette, so give me a bombor’asscloth cigarette!

—Okay, okay, babyki—

—Don’t fucking call me that, don’t ever call me that pussycloth name.

—Sorry, here’s you cig—

—You expect me to rub it ’gainst me battyhole to light it?

—This lighter, well, it was my father’s.

—Me look like me want to thief you fucking lighter?

—Kim, I’m so sorry.

—Everybody sorry. Everybody so fucking sorry. You know what? I tired of everybody sorry. I wish you wasn’t sorry. I wish you would say you not sorry, that me is an idiot. That we were playing dolly house because it was cute and now you have to go back to your American white wife now.