“Thanks for doing that.” Daddy’s voice interrupts my thoughts. I turn around and see him behind me. He looks tired, as if today has drained him, but his eyes are as warm as always.
“How come you didn’t tell me?” My words tumble out.
“I don’t want you to worry, Eve. This isn’t over. Not yet.” Daddy looks around at the room, the chairs lined up like parishioners waiting, then turns back to me. “It’s been a long day. We should eat.”
Outside, he takes Mummy’s arm. I wish I had someone to hold my hand even when I walk a path I’ve known my whole life. Especially when that path is about to shift. The way is slick with beach pine needles and rough with raised roots. For our family, though, it’s as comfortable as our backyard; barefoot, Ruth storms right over the prickly marble-sized cones, with Esther and Joe in tow. Even in my good shoes, my footing is sure.
“Oh!” The cry from behind is sudden and high; I spin around to see Daddy down on one knee, my mother holding on to his arm.
He straightens up. “Missed a step,” he says, his face contorted with pain.
“You go ahead and catch up with the rest of them.” Mummy waves me on. “Start heating up the food. We’ll be there.”
I want to stay back, to help Daddy on his feet, but my mother’s lips are pressed too tight to invite negotiation.
Back at the house, I put the chicken in the oven, then change out of my black church dress, which has darts down the middle and requires those high-waisted elastic panties like what Mummy wears, just for it to kind of fit. Even so, I feel like a sausage stuffed into a too-small casing. I slip on a loose blue dress and shove my pointy black church shoes under the bed, where I can pretend they don’t exist for another week. I hear my parents come in, but when I step into the hallway, the door to their room is closed. I strain to hear their voices, but there is silence on the other side.
“I wanna go on Daddy’s shoulders,” Joe says, coming up beside me.
“Not now. Take off your good clothes,” I tell him.
“Where Mummy?” Esther holds Junior in both arms. Ruth shoves past behind her, rolls her eyes at our parents’ door, sticks a finger down her throat, and pretends to gag.
“Come help me in the kitchen?” I plead.
“In a minute,” Ruth calls over her shoulder, heading for the front door. “I goin across the road.”
That means dinner is on me. I dig a pack of crackers out of the cupboard for Esther and Joe and set them up in the living room, then switch on the radio to the last of the oldies broadcast, letting low, rich singing fill the air as the oven heats. I mix up the coleslaw and take out the potato salad and a pot of rice as the scent of baking chicken fills the house. It was Daddy’s week to make the marinade; he’s used a heavy hand with garlic and thyme and sour, but there’s something else in there, something sweet, and some spice. As I start on the dishes left in the sink from our rushed breakfast, “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long” comes on. As the water runs over the plates and through my fingers, I hum along. The music, the sweet smell of food, wash over me. It’s like Daddy’s in the kitchen with me anyway. Like he and I are cooking together.
There’s a brisk knock at the door. I dry my hands on the side of my dress and peep out the window. Nia stands on the doorstep with her clothes hamper. A flame of irritation flickers. Really? She has to come here now? I grit my teeth and open the door. “Hey.” Over her shoulder, I see Faith’s car pull up outside. Soca blasts brash brass like the world is made of nothing but reasons to shake and wine. Please, I pray, turn it off. Or down. At least down.
“Ooh.” Nia sniffs like she’s trying to carry our meal away in her nostrils. “You put brown sugar on your chicken. And pimento!” She thumps her hamper onto the floor. “Hey, did Faith’s daddy come by here to tell y’all not to go on the beach?”
I look past her at my best friend, who’s cut off her car, silencing the music’s trumpety-bass blast. She rummages around in her backseat, her behind in the air, her airy white-and-green polka-dot skirt in danger of flashing us if the wind so much as breathes. Why would her father come by to tell us to keep off the beach? If he was doing that, she would have warned me.
“We was at church. Why?”
“Hey, what y’all talkin about?” Faith chimes as she sails through the door. She is morning-hibiscus fresh—hair gelled in place, a fresh shimmer of something on her lips, the smell of soap still on her skin. I’ve sweated ten buckets between zipping myself into the dress before nine this morning and stepping out of the kitchen three minutes ago, and Nia’s in a faded, stretched-out tank top, and shorts that have seen a splatter or two. Faith doesn’t seem to notice as she drapes an arm over each of our shoulders.
“Your father been to see my mummy,” Nia confides, glancing back down the road. “Apparently if we go on the beach, we’re gonna be in trouble.”
Faith snorts disdainfully as she unwinds her arms. “What, he’s gonna ground you? Eve, what happened, you ain shower yet today?” she asks as she sashays into the kitchen.
“This morning.” I squeeze my arms close to my side, then turn back to Nia. This is no time to worry about smelling like daisies. “What exactly did he say?”
“He was going on about private property, and not wanting any trouble, and how he was visiting on behalf of the member of parliament, and that there was an issue couple days ago and if people were found trespassing there would be consequences.” Nia shifts her laundry basket. “You think they’ll call the police on us for what happened?”
Something in my belly somersaults. I shoot Faith a questioning look.
“Don’t ask me. We don’t talk.”
I turn back to Nia. “They wouldn’t arrest us just for going on the beach. Anyway, we have to go through to get to the church. We pay our rent; they can’t stop us.”
“I guess not.” Nia sounds unconvinced. She picks up her hamper again. “You mind if I put this on?”
“Yeah, of course.” I lead the way around to the back door and push aside the mop and bucket. “We’re low on soap,” I say, opening the washer. A stray white sock clings to the inside, crunchy and stale. I scrape it out and drape it over my shoulder to take back inside.
“It’s okay.” She settles the hamper on the ground. “You know my mummy has her special soap.” She waggles a tin that says SENSITIVE and FRAGRANCE FREE. I leave her to it and head back inside where Faith waits, perched on the edge of the counter. She’s helped herself to a bowlful of potato salad, and sniffs as I open the oven.
“What we havin today?”
“Baked chicken.” I pull out the tray of meat. The sauce is thickening, the top of the chicken getting brown, but unlike Faith, I don’t have much appetite. “Why your daddy up here going to people’s doors?”
“I dunno.” She peers through the window and looks up and down the road. “I don’t even see his car. Maybe Nia’s making it up.” She stretches out her legs, then tucks them under her, stuffing her face.
I feel a pang of irritation. Does Faith have to be so flippant? Her house might not be on Pinder Street, but she grew up on that beach, same as the rest of us, and she’s around so often she basically lives here too. She should care. “Maybe he parked a street or two over,” I say.