Naga raced across the floor. She knew if she crawled, the pebbles would dig into her skin and make her sore. She made for the nearest pole and climbed to the highest rafter, where she curled up and watched the man on the crocus-sack mattress, grunting and writhing . . .
“I’m sorry.” It was a simple statement, filled with honesty and sadness, but truth was evident in the man’s voice . . .
I held a glass of champagne in my hand and stood alone under the dark night sky. . .
Gus sipped lemongrass tea from a foam cup. It was still dark. His secondhand truck idled outside the market as four men clambered into its tray. This was where he picked up workers for the day—mostly men who came to the island at night in quiet boats. The men clutched grease-stained paper bags and chattered loudly between bites of johnnycakes and various patties. Four men got into the truck’s tray. Gus was expecting five . . .
Miss Meela wailed underneath her broad-brimmed hat as the pallbearers lowered the casket, carrying her young kin.
It was all because of the squeal of the windshield wiper. Not the rumbling racket it made as it stammered back along the pane. No, that wasn’t so bad. But the squeal on the way down—shrill, insistent, bleak. Who could stand that shit? . . .
Albert was cross with himself. He had left Annabelle’s home far too late, at 9:30 in the evening and now faced the long ride back to St. Joseph from Arima in the dark . . .
“J’Ouvert morning is when the angels and demons dance,” PaPa had said. His words were on a loop in Viv’s head as she made her way through the crowds on Back Street in Kingstown. Daylight had caught the night, melting dark tendrils until they turned grey . . .