Read Online Anna In-Between by Elizabeth Nunez - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Nunez
Tags: General Fiction, Ebook
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from America. She is embarrassed, flooded with shame.
“You thought I was somebody else, Miss Anna?” Singh’s eyes reflect puzzlement, but Anna detects a glimmer of amusement playing on his lips. “De bossman lock the gate. Anyhow, I have this.” He lifts the machete, and with his other hand draws his finger along the thin sharp edge of the blade.
She is not in America, but there is crime here. NAFTA has made fishing and growing bananas and sugarcane in the Caribbean almost futile. Islands cannot compete with continents. There is oil on her island, under the sea, under the earth, but for the displaced fishermen and for the ones who cultivated the land, there is no work. The drug trade brings income. The islands are a strainer. Drug lords bypass the sentries at America’s borders by shipping marijuana, heroin, and cocaine from South America here, packaging and smuggling them in domestic cargo bound for America. The most vicious of the drug wars get filtered out here. The crimes that happen in America are the remnants. Two weeks ago, a whole family—mother, father, and four young children all under the age of twelve—were beheaded, their heads cemented on pillars in their backyard, their bodies hacked to pieces. The Sinclairs protect themselves with electric gates, bolts on the exterior doors, and a wrought iron gate double-locked at night between their living and sleeping quarters. Anna fears these are not sufficient.
“People respect de bossman,” Singh says. “Dey safe. Nobody do dem nothing.”
“Singh.” Anna says his name with a gaiety that does not fool him.
“Don’t be frighten, miss.”
“I knew it was you, Singh.” Anna pulls down the edges of her shorts, which have bunched up on her thighs, and faces him.
Singh grins at her.
“You’re worried about Mummy, no?”
“You speak to she yet?” Singh asks.
“Oh, Singh.” This time she says his name with gravity. “We’re going to need your help. She’s sick, Singh.”
“I did think so.”
“She may have to go to the hospital.”
“I did think so,” he says again.
“She’ll need you to keep up the garden.”
“Madam know she can count on me.”
“I’ll tell her you said so.”
“And de bossman?” Singh is looking straight at her. “How he taking it?”
“Daddy is okay,” she says.
“He funny, de bossman. But he does feel things.”
“I know, Singh.”
“He don’t talk, but he does see.”
Anna is moved by his concern for her father. “Daddy is with Mummy now,” she says.
“What she sick with?”
It is easy enough for her to answer, Cancer . The diagnosis has not been confirmed by a doctor, but the evidence is there. The lump on her mother’s breast will not be benign. One in five women will be diagnosed each year. For a woman whose mother had breast cancer, the odds increase. Is she next? The statistics are there for her to read. It is no secret: for a woman whose mother has breast cancer and whose mother’s mother died of breast cancer, the chances of her getting it as well are practically inevitable.
“You know what she sick with, Miss Anna?”
She is afraid and fear triggers the slight tremor that runs through her hands.
“Is something bad, Miss Anna?” Singh asks, his eyes on her hands.
It is something bad, but she will not say. She does not say for the very reasons her father has not said. He wanted to protect his wife’s privacy. Now Anna finds that she wants to protect her own privacy. She will not give Singh access to her fears. She will not let him know that she is afraid that not only has something bad happened to her mother, but something bad is waiting to happen to her.
“I don’t know,” she says to Singh. “We won’t know until we take her to the doctor.”
This obsession with privacy.
“Nobody likes you to bleed all over them,” her mother said. Anna had just turned eight. The doll she got for her birthday had slipped from her hands and fallen on the concrete walkway.
“You thought I was somebody else, Miss Anna?” Singh’s eyes reflect puzzlement, but Anna detects a glimmer of amusement playing on his lips. “De bossman lock the gate. Anyhow, I have this.” He lifts the machete, and with his other hand draws his finger along the thin sharp edge of the blade.
She is not in America, but there is crime here. NAFTA has made fishing and growing bananas and sugarcane in the Caribbean almost futile. Islands cannot compete with continents. There is oil on her island, under the sea, under the earth, but for the displaced fishermen and for the ones who cultivated the land, there is no work. The drug trade brings income. The islands are a strainer. Drug lords bypass the sentries at America’s borders by shipping marijuana, heroin, and cocaine from South America here, packaging and smuggling them in domestic cargo bound for America. The most vicious of the drug wars get filtered out here. The crimes that happen in America are the remnants. Two weeks ago, a whole family—mother, father, and four young children all under the age of twelve—were beheaded, their heads cemented on pillars in their backyard, their bodies hacked to pieces. The Sinclairs protect themselves with electric gates, bolts on the exterior doors, and a wrought iron gate double-locked at night between their living and sleeping quarters. Anna fears these are not sufficient.
“People respect de bossman,” Singh says. “Dey safe. Nobody do dem nothing.”
“Singh.” Anna says his name with a gaiety that does not fool him.
“Don’t be frighten, miss.”
“I knew it was you, Singh.” Anna pulls down the edges of her shorts, which have bunched up on her thighs, and faces him.
Singh grins at her.
“You’re worried about Mummy, no?”
“You speak to she yet?” Singh asks.
“Oh, Singh.” This time she says his name with gravity. “We’re going to need your help. She’s sick, Singh.”
“I did think so.”
“She may have to go to the hospital.”
“I did think so,” he says again.
“She’ll need you to keep up the garden.”
“Madam know she can count on me.”
“I’ll tell her you said so.”
“And de bossman?” Singh is looking straight at her. “How he taking it?”
“Daddy is okay,” she says.
“He funny, de bossman. But he does feel things.”
“I know, Singh.”
“He don’t talk, but he does see.”
Anna is moved by his concern for her father. “Daddy is with Mummy now,” she says.
“What she sick with?”
It is easy enough for her to answer, Cancer . The diagnosis has not been confirmed by a doctor, but the evidence is there. The lump on her mother’s breast will not be benign. One in five women will be diagnosed each year. For a woman whose mother had breast cancer, the odds increase. Is she next? The statistics are there for her to read. It is no secret: for a woman whose mother has breast cancer and whose mother’s mother died of breast cancer, the chances of her getting it as well are practically inevitable.
“You know what she sick with, Miss Anna?”
She is afraid and fear triggers the slight tremor that runs through her hands.
“Is something bad, Miss Anna?” Singh asks, his eyes on her hands.
It is something bad, but she will not say. She does not say for the very reasons her father has not said. He wanted to protect his wife’s privacy. Now Anna finds that she wants to protect her own privacy. She will not give Singh access to her fears. She will not let him know that she is afraid that not only has something bad happened to her mother, but something bad is waiting to happen to her.
“I don’t know,” she says to Singh. “We won’t know until we take her to the doctor.”
This obsession with privacy.
“Nobody likes you to bleed all over them,” her mother said. Anna had just turned eight. The doll she got for her birthday had slipped from her hands and fallen on the concrete walkway.