But here come these people, the Rastas like the one who held her up now, who believe that Ethiopia is the true Holy Land and that Haile Selassie is the living God. Decrying the very foundation of their colonial education, preaching instead that whites are the ones who are inferior and wicked. Embracing her blackness had become unnatural to Patricia, and subsequently to Vera, but she wondered now why it seemed more natural to put lye acid on the roots of her hair than to let it grow the way she was born. She understood why her mother carried on so when she saw Rastas walking the same streets as her, why she sometimes would call the police if she saw one near their house. They were manifestations of a truth she didn’t want to face, and believed that if scorned enough could be permanently banished. Her mother didn’t want to hear that more of her ancestors came from Africa than from England. That she was idolizing and mimicking the masters who raped and beat her foremothers and forefathers. That slavery was not over, and they’d never truly be free unless they rejected everything they’d been taught to value. Even the white Jesus she worshipped so feverishly. That woman would never embrace Haile Selassie, a god who looked like them, when she was taught that blackness was the opposite of everything divine.
But what if it wasn’t? What if her mother was wrong? What if Marcus Garvey was right and a black king would redeem them? Save Vera from the poverty and fear she had come to know only now, but that other black people had experienced since the first white face appeared on the shores of Africa. All she knew was that her mother who had raised her had spurned her, but this stranger now held her up.
Her mother must be fuming, seeing how the prime minister is laying out the red carpet for Selassie, as they would for the queen. How his visit is invigorating a religion that people like her dismiss as nonsense and is bringing its many followers out of the shadows. Her mother will not possibly be able to call the police on everyone fast enough. Communists, she would spit out if she saw them. The dirtiest word she could possibly utter. She didn’t think much more of Abel. While she approved of his lighter skin and red hair, ’cause it meant that somewhere in his tree, someone was white, she would never forgive his mother for having skin as black as coal and scrubbing floors.
Vera thinks of Abel as she stands on the crowded bus with her head against this man’s chest. How can a man change completely in so short a time? For the entire twenty-minute bus ride home, she contemplates whether she can ever again feel as safe with Abel as she does in this stranger’s arms.
When the bus reaches Vera’s stop, she mumbles thank you, but the man insists upon helping her off the bus. She finds that she is reluctant to say goodbye; it’s been so long since Abel has shown her affection and she feels starved for physical contact. Her hand is still up in the air, waving, after the bus has disappeared.
This is when she sees her neighbor Roman coming up the street, and she promptly vomits right at her front gate at the sight of the father of her child. She hasn’t told him about it, and she has no intention to. She didn’t choose him because she wanted to be with him. She chose him because he was there. He calls her name, but she ducks next door to Marcia Hammond’s. Marcia is the one who gave her the gully root tea she’s been drinking for the past week, and she will know what to do next.
The burglar bar gate around Marcia’s veranda has been drawn and padlocked shut, so Vera rattles the bars and yells Marcia’s name until she comes outside.
“Is wha’ wrong with you, gal? You want the whole world fi know we business?”
“The tea a make me too sick,” says Vera.
“Sick how?”
“You nuh see me just vomit right in front of me yard?”
Marcia nods and ushers her inside, looking past her, paranoid that somehow her neighbors will label her an abortionist from their brief exchange. Marcia had said no at first when Vera asked her for help. She’d only changed her mind when Vera begged her, refused to take no for an answer. Vera leaves her purse sitting on Marcia’s veranda before she enters the house.
“Why you lookin’ ’round? No one a worry ’bout me,” Vera says as she crosses the threshold.
“Me nuh wan’ advertise that me a try fi play doctor. Me nuh wan’ fi yuh husband fi find out that is me who help you get rid of him child.”
“Yuh mad? How him fi find out? Abel is the last somebody me expect fi think ’bout me today. Him no long fi talk to nobody but himself.”
Marcia laughs. “Yes, me dear, that man too funny. Every time me see him me think him try fi say something to me but is himself him a talk to.”
“Him not funny when you married to him, and when you the one pregnant by him.”
“Him mus’ did really love him partner like one bredda.”
“Like slave love master,” she said. “That fat man did make Abel run ’round every which way til him head nearly drop off.”
“He will fix him head on straight. The man just in mournin’.”
“Him will mourn him family one day,” Vera says. “Him will mourn me ’cause if him no learn fi act right, as soon as this baby gone, me gone too.”
“Stop yuh foolishness, gal. You think the man mus’ run behind you every minute like pickney. Him provide fi you, right? Him no beat you, right? Then you mus’ mind him. You still young. You hardly even married one year. You shoulda did see the kind of evil fi me husband do me, and me stay with that man fi twenty years. Then Jesus fix it.”
Vera sucks the air between her teeth.
“After you no wish you have them twenty years back?”
Marcia pretends she doesn’t hear her. She guides Vera to the back bedroom and lays her down on crisp sheets. The ceiling fan is on and the room is cool.
“You see blood yet?” Marcia asks.
“No.”
“Then it nuh work yet, foo-fool gal,” she says, and begins massaging Vera’s abdomen, ignoring her groans. Vera envies Marcia’s life. Marcia’s abusive husband was killed in a bar fight. With the money she inherited upon his death, she put herself through nursing school and bought herself a house. She never had children. She does not have to wait for a man to find himself or his courage.
“Yuh belly hurt here?” Marcia asks, prodding.
“Yes,” Vera says, wincing.
Marcia laughs. “Well, it right fi hurt you, you wicked woman. Me nuh know why you nuh just keep it.”
Vera ignores the comment. “When yuh think it will finish?” she asks.
“Soon. Me cyaan predict exactly. Tonight or tomorrow? You fi drink more. It will make it work faster. When you feel blood, make sure you go bathroom and lock the door. Make sure Abel nuh see. Me nuh wan’ that man come after me with no gun.”
“You think him go bathroom with me?”
They laugh together.
“What the time?”
“Half past four,” Marcia says. “So get off of me bed and go cook dinner fi yuh husband, you wutless gal.”
By the time Vera makes it to her door, she’s dizzy and nauseous again, but she fixes more of Marcia’s tea anyway and drinks a cup. She goes into the bedroom to lie down, falls asleep for a short time, until she’s woken by her stomach cramping. She turns her face into the pillow to muffle her moans of pain, just in case Abel has already gotten home. She hears footsteps.