After Mrs. Baker told them about visiting Harlem, which she claimed was just as hot as Barbados, her mother announced, “Well, we’d better be going.”
They threaded their way along the dusty path, tipping their coconuts and gulping down the milk.
“At least,” said Barbara, “this qualifies as both drink and food.”
“I’d have drunk just about anything. Thirsty as a dried-up sponge,” said her mother.
“That story Mrs. Baker told about her smelling salts was entertaining, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” her mother said, “you’ll have to write about how she kept saying ‘Goodness, I’m not well today.’”
“And how she dug around in her big pockets for the smelling salts. When the light hit the bottle, you could see there wasn’t a drop left.”
“My Lord, all this time, that dried-up bottle’s been reviving her.”
“Here’s how I’ll tell it, Mother. I’ll lead up to that part, saving it for the end. First, say she smelled the salts and declared herself like new again.” Her father had taught her that—to save the best part for last.
Her mother swung her head to the side and caught her eye. “So, you’ll include that in the book?”
“I’m only thinking of writing about it in a letter.”
“Then, we can use your letters to put together the chapters.”
Barbara didn’t answer. She preferred not to discuss the matter.
Her mother apparently got the message. She adjusted her hat and said, “Lord, it’s hot.”
They continued in a northerly direction, passing rows of taro and yam plants, fields of cotton and sugar cane, spread-out cabins with pigpens, and the occasional goat scrounging for grass on a craggy slope. As they continued their journey, the terrain turned rocky, the trees disappeared, and cactus cropped up. No goats grazed this land; no cabins populated the roadsides. For roughly two miles, they hiked and saw not a soul.
“I can’t go much further,” said her mother. “This heat’s killing me.”
“We’re close now. I can smell the ocean.”
Onward they trudged. Another quarter mile, around a bend, and they stood on a sandy expanse before the glistening sea.
“Our geographic goal,” said Barbara. “The very point where the Caribbean and Atlantic meet.”
Barbara trotted toward the sea’s edge, enticed by its curling waves and misty scent, while her mother trudged along behind. Barbara removed her shoes, dropped her knapsack, and splashed into the frothy waters, turning around to cast her hat onto the beach.
Shucking off her shoes and hat, her mother waded in. A wave smashed down on them, swept them back, then gathered them up and pulled them seaward.
Barbara plunged through a crashing wave and hollered, “Careful, the waves are strong.”
Her mother bobbed with the sea’s rolling surges. “God, I needed to cool off.”
“Doesn’t it feel glorious?”
Only once they slipped back onto land and started their trek back, their cotton dresses quickly dried, and the sun recommenced its torturing ways. Their hair, even done up as it was under their sun hats, dried, too.
“Oh, for a coconut,” said her mother, trudging by her side.
“I keep seeing that stack of them at Mrs. Baker’s store.”
“Barbara, I’m feeling faint.” Her mother stopped and dropped to her knees.
Barbara looked down on her. “What’s wrong?”
“Must be the heat,” she said, crumpling over.
“You have to get up.”
“I can’t. I’ll faint.”
“Come on. I’ll help you.” Barbara took her mother’s arm and tugged.
Her mother struggled to her feet, only to falter and drop down flat on her back.
Barbara stood over her mother, who looked up at her with helpless, blinking eyes. Adrenalin pulsed in Barbara’s veins. Her head throbbed from thirst. What should she do? She took off her hat and knelt beside her mother. Resting her hat over her mother’s face, she said, “Cover up with this.”
Panic seized Barbara. They were at least two miles from any help. She must get her mother cooled. But how?
She retrieved her pocketknife from the rucksack and scraped at the earth. She stood and gouged her heel into the ground. Between her knife and heel, she managed to dig a pit a few inches deep. Kneeling, she scooped out a patch large enough to accommodate her mother’s torso.
“Move over here, where it’s cooler.” She helped her mother into the hollow groove.
She stood and looked around—such barren terrain. Robinson Crusoe had found a brook and spring on his island, but she doubted they’d be so fortunate. She eyed the landscape, rocky and brown, except for a few stands of prickly pear. That’s it, she thought. Cactus.
She foraged a pile of the plumpest ears she could find. She sat down with the sun at her back, shadowing her mother from it, and took up a cactus ear. She carved out the prickles, so sharp and thick they stabbed her as she worked and sliced off a bite-sized chunk. Beads of moisture showed on its flesh. “Here, Mother, suck on this.”
For an hour, Barbara sat beside her mother, patiently feeding her cactus juice. “Can you get up now?”
“Not yet. Let me rest a little longer.”
Slowly her mother revived, though she insisted she couldn’t walk in the heat. Finally, when the sun dropped toward the horizon, and its scorching heat abated, they tramped back to the clapboard shop.
They told Mrs. Baker about their misadventure. She let her mother sniff her smelling salts and opened coconuts for them.
On the return train to Bridgetown, Barbara composed an account of the events in her mind, figuring out just how she’d order the story. Quite possibly, she’d saved her mother’s life. Wouldn’t this be a tale to make her father proud?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HELEN
Barbados, November 1928
Helen had consigned them to this undertaking out of desperation. And in theory, it made sense—to live cheaply while collecting rent on the New Haven house. Now that plan bumped up against reality: They needed to pay for food and accommodations, as well as inter-island travel and the return trip. What if she ran out of money or succumbed to disease or hopelessness? She must explain the
