This struck Bernice hard. She didn’t know who to trust now: not even Dots, who was bringing this new “sperspective” to her; and to think of it — that she had recently put Brigitte at the top of her friendship list, not more than a week ago.
“I swear to you, Dots, I swear to you this Friday morning, I swear to you … you have me wrong.”
“Listen to me, Bernice,” Dots said. She made herself comfortable on the chair, and she took out a package of cigarettes, plain tips (a habit which Bernice didn’t know she had), and she made a great performance lighting one. She offered one to Bernice, but Bernice shook her head in disdain and in disgust. “I am going to tell you something now that is going to take you as a big shock. I know more about your business than you think. Yes.” She inhaled the cigarette. She closed her eyes. She exhaled. She opened her eyes and then she said, “Last night or this morning, whichever it was, that you called me, and wake me up outta my bed, well I put two and two together, and be-Christ I did know that something was wrong. Something had to be wrong that you would call me that hour o’ the night. Foreday-morning? Boysie been creeping in my bed all hours, three, four, five, six o’clock. And in all that time, Bernice, do you think that my eyes was shut? You really think so? When every blasted night I am seeing all kinds o’ blonde hairs and long hairs on Boysie jacket? Bernice, my hair isn’ blonde. Is my hair blonde? Be-Christ, it never was, and never will be! And I’m only telling you all that to tell you this, that I haven’ been sleeping whilst Boysie was out screwing-round with Brigitte. I haven’ been sleeping whilst Estelle your sister has been running round with Mr. Burrmann. Bernice, Dots was not dozing whilst you been talking my name to that German whore, Brigitte. ’Cause, look! I is a married woman. And a married woman could see things that no damn single gal could ever see and comprehend. You ain’ know that? Marriage, Bernice, marriage is the best high school and college I know on this Christ’s earth. So before you could come to me with any more lies, either ’bout you or Estelle, just let me remind you that my name is Missis, you hear? Mistress! And even in this cruel country, that means a damn lot.”
After this, nothing more was said, either by Dots or by Bernice, who in the first place could not find much to say. Bernice felt now the same way she felt when she saw the violence through her window; and when she realized it wasn’t Boysie, but somebody else. And hearing Dots talk this way, so frankly that it was upsetting, she wondered whether she could not have been more honest with herself; whether she should not have gone downstairs last night, after the policemen had driven away; whether she should not have looked into the car to identify who was the man beaten.
She thought of it now, trying to relive the tension and the fear and the violence of a few hours ago; a night which began with the car and then the other car, and then the violence, and which ended with Estelle bleeding as if she was a pig killed by an amateur butcher; she thought of Brigitte; and she remembered the ambulance screaming across respectable Marina Boulevard where motor cars didn’t even sound their horns, nor children dare to ring their bicycle bells too loudly; nor domestic servants and nursemaids to call out to one another, as they most surely would do back in the West Indies. And all that time she had to wait in the hospital; and the evil abusive looks from Nurse Priscilla that same bitch who came in here that night when Estelle arrived from Barbados, and cocked up her fat backside and drink my drinks and eat my eats, my curry-chicken and souce, that same short-memory whore, Priscilla … She wondered whether Brigitte had really told Dots everything about Estelle, or whether Dots was making it all up.
“Bernice? Bernice?” Estelle had said in her delirium only a few hours ago. “Hold my hand, Bernie. I am so ’shamed, and I have disappointed you so much I don’t know what to do. Don’t forget to post the letter to Mammy for me, and don’t forget to remind me that Sam Burrmann ask me to go to the Immigration on Bedford, first thing Monday morning, ’cause he already fixed it up with a friend who works there. But Bernice, I really brought my pigs to find market this time, eh? I come all this way up here from Barbados to Toronto, and spoil things for you, and me, in nearly no time at all, in merely six months … but I have to put this one down to experience. And Mammy always used to
