Land of Love and Drowning: A Novel (5 page)

It was I who corrected Anette’s English, for even as a child she spoke like a Frenchy. It is true that my hair was dark and thick and full of vinelike curls, but it was I who tamed her picky hair with the burning hot comb. I was a well-bred girl. I did not have to go to Puerto Rico for finishing school, as Mama had to when she married Papa.

After Anette was born, there was an entire week where it was only Papa and I at the dining table. He passed me each dish. He conversed about his business with me. He openly expressed his troubles with the ship itself, which was aging, and with the shipping, which was tedious and lacking in decent profit. I sipped from his glass of prohibited rum. I was the mistress of Villa by the Sea those days. Papa smiled and said that I had a head for running things and that I would make a fine madame.

Even after Mama was recovered, it was I whom Papa escorted down Main Street during holidays and holy days. Mama stayed home with baby Anette and pretended she did not care. I wore the gloves Mama made for me and I would proffer my gloved hand, as many mouths trembled and leaked saliva when they kissed it. Little girls would follow me, caressing the skirt of my frocks, hoping that touching even my clothing would
grant them any bit of my beauty. I believe Mama was greatly bothered by this all.

Mama and baby Anette joined Papa and me for the Anglican church service. Still, I stood beside Papa. He always kept a handkerchief ready to wipe away the sweaty embraces of the other parishioners who rushed to give me fellowship before the organ quieted. Papa cared for me in this and many ways. Even the altar boys shook the bells and lifted the host to the bishop’s mouth with a grace I knew was for me alone. These appeals were in vain, for I belonged only to my father.

Baby Anette was no beauty. She burnt with fever regularly, as if she knew this was the means to smuggle Mama’s attention. Now Anette is a history teacher and studies the past, but perhaps then she knew the future. Perhaps she knew Mama would leave us. Either way, Anette became Mama’s new doll. This left Papa and me to ourselves. Only now, I was a young woman.

After the sun set, Papa would teach me the waltz and the seven step on the balcony. Linen curtains separated the balcony from the house and also shielded the balcony from the elements. They billowed in and out with the sea breeze. “Yes, my lovely. One, two, three, four, five, and six and seven. One and two and three. Good!” I would wear Mama’s housedress and feel it was a ball gown. Papa would swing me about on his toes and then shuffle side to side. He held his hand high and stiff, clutching me like a Frenchy man clutches his old-shoe wife. After all, though we were supposedly not Frenchy, we did live in Frenchtown. We danced on the balcony overlooking the harbour, where
The
Homecoming
lay awaiting Papa’s command. We swam in the sea, nude as the Lord made us. The ship a large shield from prying eyes. I would imagine that it was only we alone in this family. No Mama, no baby sister. I knew this imagining was vile, but I could not help myself. My mind wandered and plotted.

“I love you, Papa.”

“I love you, my own.”

By breakfast it was a hushed rendezvous that we kept from Mama. I knew the stories. Miss Lady, who like many on island at the time, couldn’t swim, said she saw frightful ghosts floating in from off the ocean. Mr. Lyte, a Frenchy and so a swimmer by standard, said it was Captain Bradshaw and a mermaid mistress. Still, that Sheila Ladyinga and Hippolyte Lammartine both did agree that the woman in the apparition had hair that waved like a nighttime ocean. Papa and I, obscured by the blowing curtains of the balcony or the body of the boat, knew the special truth: Louis Moreau would not be the first man whom I kissed.

Now Papa Owen’s ship sits buried by the Anegada shoal. My Villa by the Sea still stands, though not by that name. Now it seems that anyone can walk among our bedrooms after a paid meal. Even the balcony where Papa and I danced can now be rented for banquets. On the walls now are pictures of Frenchy men hauling boats, or photos of Charlotte Amalie before the American flag. But there is not one picture of Papa and me alone. There is no evidence of us, white bed gowns and house slippers, with the wind blowing into our sea-wet faces that were pressed cheek to cheek.

Anette Stemme Bradshaw will grow to be a history teacher, but she never knew the miraculous truths about her own early history. By the time she is old enough to be told the story of herself, her parents will be dead.

But when she was a baby, she was cherubic and red. Her skin was red and her hair was red and to some it seemed like an awful thing. Red skin was attractive enough. Red hair, however, might be a genetic recession. Something like albinism—which the island had only seen once in a nicely behaved but too quiet child who didn’t live past six years. Anette, however, would live. The red hair, of course, was a trait from Antoinette’s line. On a
child the red hair was one thing, but on a grown Anegada woman it could be something else—something arresting, something bewitching.

To some, Anette’s childhood red hair was not an entirely awful thing. It was a sign of her sunny disposition—for wasn’t the sun a big ball of fire? And Anette was a devoted smiler. Even as a baby she seemed to have a knack for people—as if people were her hobby. She smiled before she was one week old and even Miss Lady had to admit that it was a real smile and not gas, for the newborn had looked directly at her mother’s beaming mouth and responded.

Baby Anette walked at ten months, which was not unusual because all our children walked before a year. But Anette also spoke at ten months. Which was almost impossible. And yet, it was true. She could walk and talk, and she had a sense of humor and a sense for people, all before she was one year old.

But there is no legacy of any of this. Families who are determined to keep their legacy make legacy arrangements. They put their names on things that carry on after they are gone: books, buildings, boy children. Owen Arthur did not come from legacy and neither did his wife. It is true that they were each persons of great determination. But their determined lives crossed with the bulk of a nation, and that nation watered them down into something softer than they had hoped. They had had spoons of silver and a rattle made of real gold for baby Eeona. But by the time Anette arrived, the world had changed. American Prohibition was spooking the rum makers into running. Continentals were arriving with their own ships of tourists. So different from the Danes, British, and Frenchies, these new whites built homes up in the hills. Built inns at the edge of the island. Built the Gulf Reef Club on the little island in the harbor. Far away from we, the people.

Antoinette would catch hold of hurricane Anette. Grab the chunky baby and whisper “Anegada” into her ears. “Sweet lobster,” she would say.
“Hidden as the horizon.” “My little Duene daughter.” Then she would release Anette and send the girl flowing.

When Anette was just eleven months old, Antoinette took the child to the sea. It was not a beach in the town area, for that would have been too public. Beaches were social places. But Antoinette didn’t want anyone telling her she was doing the wrong thing. Virgin Islanders of the time tended to have a healthy fear of the water. With the exception of Anegadians and St. Thomas Frenchies, most of us did not even know how to swim. Even seasoned ship hands were known to drown as easily as anyone who worked on land. Owen, with his secret Frenchy heritage, had learned to swim early. But this was considered a cowardly skill for a captain. Captains were to go down with their ship, not be saved by their own stroke. Still, Owen had taught his eldest daughter by throwing her over the side of
The Homecoming
when she was five. “Don’t fight!” he had shouted to her as her lovely limbs chopped the water. “If you fight water, you will drown.” He said this just before he dived in beside her. Then he held her and showed her how to make the water give. Swimming, it seemed, was a seduction.

But when Anette had learned to talk so early, it had scared people. What would we say of her actually swimming before reaching one year? But as Antoinette was born on the Anegada atoll, she was a swimmer. Then so would Anette be. Anegadians were all sea people.

At Antoinette’s request, Mr. Hippolyte arranged for a cart and mule to take the mother and little daughter to the country and then beyond the country. They were heading to a beach where a thirty-foot drop had just been discovered. An American Navy man had swum out and then suddenly had found himself in the deep sea. The drop, which before had just been an old wives’ tale, was confirmed. We old wives, who had always known, nodded to ourselves.

Because of the drop, it was a dangerous beach and so no one would be there. It was also a beautiful beach, where the water was as clear as rain in
your palm. And whoever owned the land around the beach didn’t bother trespassers. Already some beaches on island were closed off, owned by someone, protected with a lashed chain.

Mr. Lyte drove the mule himself. People passing called out to them, and Antoinette called back that they were going in the country to air the baby. It took mother and child and manservant a few hours to get to the country, and then to the eastern countryside, and then to the beach that didn’t yet have an official name but would later be called Coki.

It was just them alone. Just Hippolyte and the lady and the infant. The man tied the mule and fed it. The mother took out a small shawl and nursed her child with unnecessary modesty. Then Antoinette pulled out a big piece of cloth and laid it out on the sand and she ate the soft bread and sweaty cheese she’d packed, chewing the bread to mush for the baby. They all shared the water. Mr. Lyte went back to the mule.

With the groundsman at a decent distance, Antoinette removed the baby’s clothes. Then Antoinette stripped herself, so no wet clothes would reveal her doings. Drowning the child is what the island would declare. But Anette clung to her mother as the two walked into the sea like a myth.

Yes, we believe in the beach. We have always believed in the beach. Beaches are places of baptisms and funerals. Of bacchanal but also of solitude. But we did not consider the sea itself, even at its best behavior, as a place for babies. And also, it was January and no right-minded Virgin Islander swam in the winter sea. But Rebekah had said that Antoinette would not mother this one, and so Antoinette understood that Anette needed to be taught everything a mother could teach and as soon as possible. The waves were not the usual Caribbean calm. They were proper waves, large and white-lashed and buoyant. The baby was paddling on her own within the hour. Under the water with her eyes open and legs and arms coming and going and her mouth in a smile. The waves embracing her completely, then releasing her to the air for breath. Anette was a natural for the sea. Like any Anegada child.

They dried off on the sheet and then went back in and then dried off again and then went back. In between, Antoinette draped herself with the sheet and held Anette by the hand looking for sea fans. When Antoinette saw a large conch shell, she lifted it for the child.

“You can hear Papa in the shell,” she told Anette. What they could hear was the sea itself. Little Anette pressed her head to the shell. The sound made her feel sleepy. “Good night, Papa,” she said to the shell. Antoinette nursed the baby into a nap, touching her hair and face gently. No one else touched the child this way. When Anette awoke, the two went back to the sea.

Hippolyte watched them all along, despite the lady’s nudity. He needed to watch, because of the drop in the water and because of the isolation of the beach. And yes, Madame Bradshaw was a pretty woman. He watched from close enough so in case a current came he could catch them. But far enough so that he could not see the cleft in the clavicle or the bowl of the breast.

Hippolyte Lammartine was a man to be trusted. He kept all the family’s secrets—until the day he told all. Little Anette was much too young to remember this day. When later Eeona would tell her, “Don’t go near the water, you’ll drown like Papa,” Anette would believe. She never knew that her mother had already taught her how to swim.

But here is the truth. Mother and child were baptized again and again on a beach that seemed to belong to no one. Except that day when it belonged to them alone.

Papa intended to give me the scholarly education of proper young ladies. Mama argued for a place in America, but only if she could chaperone and stay on in the event I gained interest from a suitable suitor. Papa insisted to her that the current finances would not allow for such an expense. There would be passage and then lodging for four, as Mama would not leave little Anette, and Anette would of course need a nanny. I, however, knew that Papa just wanted me close. Mama wanted me as far away as possible.

Tortola was more rural than our island. It was much closer than America, closer even than Puerto Rico. Also, Mama had a cousin there who would see to my education and sieve the suitors who would come.

I did not cry until I was on the boat and St. Thomas was just a gathering of hills in the distance. Then I gave the sea my tears. Men walked back and forth behind me. I considered jumping over, simply so one of these men might save me. I did not risk this only because it dawned on me that, relieved of the longing pain in their chests and their loins, they might be delighted to see me drown.

I would miss wild Anette who could climb trees and manage other unladylike things. I would miss my mother’s stories. As for my father . . . there were no words for missing him.

My French tutor was an elder female cousin who would organize a series of
entretiens
with any well-bred French visiting the island. Still, she could not keep away suitors of all kinds. Men filled the porch steps with fruits and flowers.

I chose Louis Moreau after six months of choices. I had been away from
Papa and Villa by the Sea all that time. Moreau was from a real French family, and so with him I would be a real madame. He was not from our islands, so he was easily manipulated. I was not supposed to sail from Tortola to Anegada with Louis. Such an adventure alone with a man was forbidden. Still, I wanted to be a woman who made my own life, found my own place, not one who must ask for it like Mama.

Louis and I sailed to Anegada without telling a soul. It was only a day trip; we would be back by sunset. The elder cousin was old and overlooked the simplest things, such as whom I ventured out with and for how long. On the small vessel Louis and I kept to ourselves, as lovers do. Someone shouted that Anegada was nigh and I looked out in vain for the land. Louis took my hand in his and pointed my fingers. The island looked like the horizon itself.

Tortola, where I had been staying, is mountainous, like St. Thomas. The hills are as steep as walls. The island of Anegada, however, is not an island at all. It is a ring of coral skimming just above the water. It is scarce in trees and plentiful in sand. A submerged reef surrounds it eight miles out. This is why it is so dangerous.

Our vessel had to dock far off at the edge of the reef. A rowboat came to meet us and take us closer to land. Still, even the rowboats were unable to negotiate the shallow coral. Dark men took me and the other women up in their arms and lifted us out to carry us to shore, so our dresses would not be wet. When my carrier held me, he trembled with care. You would have thought I was a case of china dishes.

On the sand, I could see that the sky over Anegada was a huge dome. Everywhere I turned the firmament was there, landing at my feet.

“Monsieur Moreau,” the people called, nodding their heads but looking only at me. Then I saw the brashness of this adventure. Though Papa, Mama, and I had sailed a number of times aboard
The Homecoming
, we had never sailed to Mama’s homeland. I had not fully considered that perhaps Mama would have close family still on the island and that I might be
recognized. “Good afternoon,” one woman said to me as Louis and I walked. Her eyes were shining from beneath a head of hair as red as the setting sun. She seemed startled to see me. I lifted my head to show my breeding and stave off any questioning. Doing this, however, made a smile come to her face, as if she now knew exactly who I was.

“Miss,” she said to me, “you from Anegada.”

How could she have detected anything? I was wearing the European single petticoat, which shielded my shape. I was leading a Frenchman. She wore pants like a man and led a donkey. “You are mistaken,” I said, turning to Moreau. He raised his eyebrows and I raised mine in return.

“I’m not mistaken,” the woman went on. Her eyes pooled in her face. “I know a Stemme when I see one.”

I wanted to correct her; I was a Bradshaw. I was my father’s child. My mother had been the Stemme.

“You just like those Duene stories they tell the children,” the woman said. “Take this here,” and she passed me something the size of a baby wrapped in a clean rag. “Is like you arrive for mating season. Some Stemmes does leave for love, others does come.” I could not respond to such audacity, but this grown woman just patted the bundle she’d given me. “Don’t wait,” she said, before walking on.

Moreau guided me towards the beach without making comment, though from his face I could see his bemusement. I opened the woman’s offering after a respectable distance. It was red and clawed, though its belly was bursting with meat. I came close to dropping it on the ground out of fright. “Lobster!” I exclaimed. I had not before had the opportunity to eat or touch one.

“The people here are so pleasant,” Moreau said. “This was probably that poor woman’s lunch.”

I nodded, not wanting to add anything more to that conversation in the event he began to envision me in men’s pants, leading a burro.

We continued walking over ground that was not ground at all, but
coral. It was as if we were walking on the bottom of the ocean. Mama had never spoken much about Anegada. “I cleaved to my spouse,” she had said, as though Papa were her new fatherland. If Papa had not whisked her away, perhaps I would have been like a Duene daughter, as it went in my mother’s stories. I would walk right into the ocean. I would walk on the coral bottom as if walking on land.

Now Louis stretched out his long arm and gesticulated across the beach that was named Flash of Beauty. “Like you,” he said.

The waves on the beach seemed thick, as though we were in the middle of the ocean, not simply sitting on the sand. I would not have been entirely surprised to see a lovely woman raise her head from those waves and come towards us with mangrove legs and backwards feet. I could not dream why my mother had left this place. Though even as I began to dream, I knew the reason. She left for Papa.

The sea fans were bright purple. I stooped for one, and shaking it of its sand, I held it by its bulbous root and fanned myself. Far off into the water the waves stood tall and frothed white before crashing and then subduing. “The reef,” Louis said, pointing. “The Spanish named this island Anegada, the drowned land, because it has a history of drowning ships. Thousands of ships, and they remain here, under the ocean.” He pointed out to where the waves crashed far beyond the shore. “Unless you know where the reef begins, you will crash into it and sink your ship. When we own the land, people will only come if we show them how.”

As we set our blanket down for the picnic, Moreau told me of his plans to build a golf course and resort on Anegada. He spoke of the entire land as if it were his already. I could not help but wonder what would become of the woman who had gifted me the lobster. “But Flash of Beauty,” he said, as if in conciliation, “we shall keep it as a refuge for women and fish.”

I looked at him then. His hair was straight and his legs were long. His mustache curled towards his ears. His nose arched towards his mouth. I decided that I was going to marry him. He would be interesting to look at
for a long time. With him I would have Villa by the Sea and perhaps have all of Anegada. I would be a generous madame and convince my husband to release another beach for men and arachnids. We would allow native people to trespass without permission. Yes, Moreau would do. Then I would do as I pleased.

I did not see the point in waiting.

With both my hands, I loosened my hair out of the bun that held it. My hair waved out around my face and crashed down over my shoulders. I drew close to Moreau until our faces were close and my hair touched his face.

Perhaps he now leaned over me. Perhaps I leaned over him. It does not matter. Our mouths touched and his filled with the ends of my hair. My hair hid us like a wave. He reached into his damp breast pocket and pulled out a silk kerchief. Inside was my diamond-and-pearl engagement ring. “There has not been a marriage on Anegada for ten years,” he whispered.