“No, I don’t want to do that.” She must think more about what that meant.
“Remember: Good fiction should be like life itself. The very best novel is one in which the general effect sensed by the reader is that intended by the writer.” He bit into his hamburger and watched a moony-eyed couple slide side by side into a booth.
Barbara watched his gaze wander over the twosome as he ate his hamburger. She wished he weren’t so darn distracted. She wanted him to help her find her savage truth.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BARBARA AT FOURTEEN
Barbados, September–October 1928
She ought to be happy. She had a whole island to explore, with wonder upon wonder to write about. Plopping down in a cane chair in their inn’s parlor, she started a letter to her father.
September 27, 1928
Dear Daddy,
The sights of Barbados would amaze you! I intend to scout every corner of the island, mingle with its colorful inhabitants, and soak up its exotic promise.
Bridgetown itself warrants much wandering—through streets that meander like old pathways, past houses painted in gay pinks, blues, and creams. The pier district is clotted with downcast donkeys hauling rickety carts and buses honking through slow-moving crowds. Black women in long dresses walk the streets, balancing baskets of mangoes, guavas, oranges, and, occasionally, fish or fowl, on their heads.
And the ocean! On our second morning here, Mother and I hiked to the water’s edge, plunged into the pristine sea, and swam out to the reef. Treading and diving, we marveled at the coral—in tubular, perforated-fan, and spine-like clusters, in pastels of ivory, deep green, and blue.
I love everything about swimming in the ocean: the tingle of salt on my tongue; hot breezes swirling over cool surf; and, afterward, hungry and refreshed, the scrumptious smack of fruit and warm bread.
She put down her pen and gazed out the window. Yes, she ought to be happy, but she wasn’t. Pangs of loneliness gripped her, and a dull, throbbing ache beat at her insides like an oversized heart.
It was as if she’d slipped into a well. From deep down, she could see a glimmer of sunlight but, try as she might, she couldn’t claw her way up its slippery walls. How could she ever escape this sickening despair?
Later that day, she and her mother hiked into the hills in search of a good view of the ocean, waving at residents on the porches of their ramshackle homes. They came upon an old man carrying his catch of shimmering blue and pink fish on a bamboo pole and ambled alongside him. When they reached his cabin, he asked where they were going.
“Up the hill to see the ocean,” said her mother.
“Can see the ocean from here, ma’am,” he said.
Barbara said, “We want to see it from way up high.”
“You white folk.” He shook his head. “Always got to be going somewhere.”
That made Barbara think: Perhaps she could find happiness in this simple and leisurely islander life. As she and her mother continued, she said, “He’s right, isn’t he? We should be more aimless. And not worry about what comes next.”
“Oh, Barbara,” her mother muttered, “always with your head in the clouds.”
She sighed. She had given herself over to the island’s drifting ways. And still, she felt bogged down in despair. It made her itch for some fresh adventure, anything to rouse her out of dreariness.
After breakfast the next morning, Barbara studied a map at the inn’s front desk. She called her mother over. “Let’s go to North Point. Look here; it’s at the top of Barbados, where the Caribbean and Atlantic meet.”
“Yes, miss,” said the desk clerk, “you can take the train to Saint Andrew’s, but I wouldn’t go any further. Nothing but bone-dry desert up there.”
“Perhaps we shouldn’t,” her mother said, turning from the desk.
“Please, Mother, let’s go. It’ll be another adventure to write about.”
So off they went, with sun hats and billowy cotton dresses. They boarded the steam train’s open-air compartment and chatted with the friendly black people, who seemed to look upon them as objects of curiosity. Along the way, they ate the oranges they had brought for the trip and emptied their canteen.
The train chugged over the island’s hilly interior and deposited them in Saint Andrew at near straight-up noon. Thirsty and hungry, they trudged northward along the dirt road running through the tiny town.
Her mother pointed at a clapboard shop on the village outskirts. “We should replenish our canteen and get something to eat.”
They walked through the wide-open door. A plump black woman sat in the corner of the shop, rocking and fanning herself.
“Hello, folks,” she said. “What you want?”
Barbara scanned the shop: the heap of overripe bananas on the counter; brown bottles of rum on a high shelf; strings of dried fish hanging from the ceiling with flies buzzing around them; and, in the corner, a stack of coconut pods.
Her mother must have already appraised the store’s unappetizing offerings. “We were hoping for some cold water.”
“No water here, but I can open coconuts for you.”
“Thank you kindly,” said her mother. “How much for two?”
Her mother paid three pence for the coconuts. The proprietor took up a machete and, with smooth strokes, hacked the tops off.
Barbara stepped up to take her coconut. “I’m Barbara, and this is my mother, Mrs. Follett. We’re going to North Point.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Mrs. Baker.” She grinned a wide-mouthed smile. “But why you want to go there?”
“To see the Atlantic,” said Barbara.
Mrs. Baker chuckled. “You an explorer?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It’ll be hot as Hades up there.”
“We’ll think of how chilly it is in the northeast states, and that’ll cool us off,” said Barbara.
“My heavens, you’re a chirpy girl.” Mrs. Baker wiped a handkerchief over her brow. “I was in New York once, in Harlem.”
Barbara asked, “Did you enjoy your visit, Mrs. Baker?”
“Oh, yes. Got some smelling salts while I was there.”
