St. George’s, Grenada, October 19, 1983
Felicity tried to remember Claude’s directions to the Canadian embassy, but she couldn’t pull them from the howling chaos in her brain. Current sensations tumbled about and tangled with memories. She had an overpowering urge to see the ocean. The first time she had floated in Grenadian waters, as warm and soothing as a bath, Claude had been at her side. The crowds thinned as she got to the Carenage, and she walked along it until she saw a quiet place to sit. The undulating waves broke the sun’s light into luminous shards, just as they had at the fort. Seagulls circled overheard or dove in dark blurs to the water. Bodies teetered on the edge of the fort and dropped from view. Felicity blinked; the fort turned into into the seawall again. She wanted to swim now, but it was too much effort. The ocean was dangerous; it was a graveyard. Her eyes closed as the sun edged towards the horizon.
Claude loped up to Felicity and took one of her curls in his hand. “There you are, Cinnamon.” He bent to kiss her and she threw her arms around his neck. “Bon jay, I’m a lucky man.”
“Where are we going?” Felicity pressed her face to his chest, placing her ear over his heartbeat. He smelled like musk and marijuana.
“Wherever you want, my love.” The setting sun streaked the sky with red, reminding Felicity of the night skies when the workers of Grenada stood tall together. This redness was darker, more viscous. It began to drip onto Felicity. It was blood. Claude’s face disappeared into its thick haze, accompanied by a loud roar.
A Jeep approached. Felicity lay curled on the sea wall. Claude was gone. A warm moistness between her legs told her she had wet herself. She needed to get to the embassy, she remembered. She swung her stiff legs over the wall. The Jeep screeched to a halt in front of her. A man jumped out of the driver’s seat and walked towards her. Felicity, now fully awake, braced herself. Maybe this was the end for her. After surviving Fort Albert, she would be shot here, against this wall. She would be united with Claude in death, a character in an opera. But then, she realized that this man was white, not Grenada white, but the white of someone newly arrived on the island, without having had time to get sunburned.
“Well, hello, little lady,” said the man. “You’re out awfully late.”
Felicity opened her mouth to say that she was a Canadian, that she needed to go to the Canadian embassy, but nothing came out. She struggled to communicate, but her tongue was heavy in her mouth, trapping sound in her throat.
“Nothing to say? You know you can be shot for being out this late? They’ve imposed a curfew. You’re lucky we’re US Marines and not your people. Come, get in the truck.”
They were American troops. Claude and Neville had feared the arrival of the US army; but she was Canadian. America was Canada’s friend. They would not act as brutally as the Grenadian forces whose work she had witnessed. She followed the man to the truck. There was another man in the passenger seat and two crouched in the flatbed. One Black, the others white.
“What’s your name?” her rescuer asked. She debated whether to say “Felicity” or “Lydia.” Deciding on Lydia, she opened her mouth, but, again, the words were a baby bird, frantically beating its wings, unable to fly. She, the owner of one of the world’s best known and loved voices, was silent.
“Aw, maybe she doesn’t speak English. Do you speak English?” he asked. When she did not respond, he said, “I’m Hank. That’s Buster. That’s Buddy. And that’s Junior.” Nicknames, Felicity thought, and wondered why that felt ominous. “Get in,” Hank said, motioning to the cabin, and Felicity did. She hoped her stench of urine and sweat wasn’t too obvious, and wondered where they would take her if she couldn’t tell them where to go.
As the Jeep began to move, Buster said, “You sure this is a good idea, Hank? You know we’re not supposed to be here yet.”
Hank shushed him, with a look at Felicity.
“Aw, she doesn’t understand,” Buster said. “They told us they speak English here. Didn’t they tell us? They said get in, make the preparations, get out. We’re not supposed to fraternize with the locals.” Hank shushed him again. The Jeep rumbled through the dark, deserted streets, until Buster said suddenly, “How about over there?”
Hank pulled the Jeep over. He leaned over the back of the driver’s seat to where Felicity crouched at the bottom of the cabin. “You ready, little lady?” he asked. Felicity’s deadened senses came alive and she scrabbled backwards but met a steel wall. “You ain’t saying no,” Hank observed. Felicity was saying no, as hard as she could. She just couldn’t speak her no. “Well, here we go.” Hank came over the seat, already starting to unbuckle his belt. Felicity squatted, trapped against the cabin wall, as he pulled his underwear aside, grabbed her hips, peeled off her sodden panties, wrinkling his nose at the stench. “No,” she cried, inside her head. She grabbed his arm and sunk her teeth into his wrist.
Her father had done this to her mother. Brian had done it to her. She would rather die than allow a United States Marine to violate her. These were the people who were coming to kill the Revo. They would rape Grenada, but they would never rape her. She bit deeper.
“Ow!” Hank snatched his hand back, his flesh dragging across her teeth. “Bitch!” he snarled. He slapped her across her face. Her lip stung. She tasted salt. He swung a fist at her face, once, twice, three times. She felt her eye swing crazily in its socket as she tried to scratch his cheek. She swung a punch. She kicked at him, aiming for his crotch. He grabbed her leg and a handful of her skirt. “Help me out here,” he called. The fabric of her dress came apart in his hands as Buster swung over the back of the seat. Felicity yanked her leg free of Hank and aimed it at Buster. She connected with his knee.
“Fucking bitch!” Buster grabbed Felicity’s shoulder. She tried and failed to wriggle free.
Hank cocked his arm once more. The blow caught her on the temple, knocking her backward. She struggled to right herself. Another punch connected with her nose. Hank grabbed her hair, yanked her head backwards. A long arc of pain sizzled through her neck. Felicity’s screams rang out so loudly inside her head, she could not believe that the whole island could not hear them. Hank’s face and Brian’s were one. Was this agony what she deserved for sending so many people to their deaths? Alison had shown her loyalty, dying with Neville, adoring him to death, despite Neville’s casual indifference to her feelings. She had loved Neville more than Felicity loved Claude. Felicity had left Claude to die, and she had not protected his lover and child. She had got Elrick killed too. She grew limp, accepting her fate, waiting for the beating to be over.
“What are you doing?” said Buster. “She ain’t worth the trouble.”
Hank let go of her hair and she flopped back against the wall of the Jeep. He bent over, breathing hard. She hoped he would shoot her quickly. Her scalp felt tender, screaming in pain. But he had not entered her. She had won.
Buster said, “Now what?”
“We could just leave her here,” Hank said.
“No,” Buster said. “All she has to do is say ‘American’.”
“Well, she comes with us, then.”
“Hey, what’s the hold up?” came a shout from outside the truck. The Black Marine poked his head into the cab. “Aw, man,” he said. “Hank.”
Hank said, “We go to the base and she stays with us till we get the all-clear.” He zipped up his pants and vaulted back into the driver’s seat. Felicity touched her cheek. It was wet, and she assumed she had been crying, but when she looked at her fingers, they were red.
The Jeep stopped in front of a small house labelled “Sun ‘n’ Sand Guesthouse.” It was a home repurposed into a bed-and-breakfast for tourists, similar to the one where Claude had taken her in Sauteurs. There was a small American flag in the window. Hank opened the door of the truck. Felicity refused to move, fearing the horrors that might await her inside. She didn’t want Hank to touch her again.
“For fuck’s sake.” He reached in and pulled her out of the Jeep, carrying her in his arms as she kicked and flailed.
“We don’t go out again unless it’s for the mission,” Buster said. “That was stupid, Hank.”
“It was dark,” Hank said. “They’re all under curfew. One Jeep looks like another.”
“Our job is to keep a low profile,” Buster said. “Report back when the conditions are right for the operation.”
The Americans are coming, thought Felicity. This group is the vanguard. They will wait until the Grenadians have weakened themselves fighting each other, and then they will pounce. They will land from the sea and from the air and then it will no longer matter who was a Henry supporter and who was a Carpenter supporter. The guns at the fort today had brought death not just to the people they had mowed down, but to the Revo, the collective work and agony and hope and blessing of the people of Grenada, so beloved by Neville and Claude. Without them, the Revo would suffocate, it would shrink, it would blow out to sea. Its black fist would be broken by the landing of the eagle on its white sands.
Hank deposited Felicity on a bed. He said to Buddy, “You’re going to have to guard her. And get her cleaned up. She reeks.”
Buddy said, “You, um, you want to have a shower?” Felicity curled up on the bed and turned away from him. He persisted, “Maybe in the morning?” He retreated to a chair near the door and placed his gun beside him.
Outside the window, the rising sun filtered through the serrated leaves of a stand of cabbage palm trees, blending with the patterns on the window shutters to create a latticed design on the walls. The light washed against Felicity’s face with the same rhythm as the ocean. Claude would be back soon with breakfast, she thought. He would have walked out to the wharf to get some fish, and they would cook it together. Her stomach griped, wanting the food now. Her hair was loose and tangled on the pillow. She had forgotten to wrap it before bed. She would have to fix it before Claude came back. She rolled over, preparing to sit up. One eye wouldn’t open; it throbbed with a smarting syncopation. Now that she thought of it, her whole face felt sore and swollen. She touched her left cheekbone with one finger, causing a stabbing response.
Claude was sitting in a chair by the door. She would ask him what had happened to her face. No, she knew what had happened. She was with Hans. They were arguing. She was trying to get away from him and she tripped. Now all her cast mates would think he had beaten her up. But if she was with Hans, how could Claude be here? Why was Claude holding a gun? Had the Revo happened? She was at Neville’s house. The army were outside. Claude didn’t love her anymore. He had Pat. She was pregnant. She looked at Claude again, but the man she thought was Claude didn’t have Claude’s face. How could he? She remembered now. Claude’s face had exploded into pieces at Fort Albert.
Acid from her stomach surged to her mouth. She leaned over the side of the bed and spat onto the floor. She was pregnant and it was Claude’s baby, but everyone thought it was Anthony’s. No, this was Brian’s baby and Claude was mad at her. She didn’t want a baby. No, her babies weren’t babies anymore. They were adolescent girls. She had left them in Vincennes. She struggled to right her mind, to keep it from lurching between present and past. She would need it to be steady if she was going to escape.
“Hold up, hold up.” The man sitting in the chair stood up, put his gun down, picked up the garbage can, and hurried over to Felicity with it. “Oh, damn,” he said. He held the garbage can close to her mouth. Felicity remembered his name. Junior. She didn’t want him near her. She tried to push his arm away, but she couldn’t make her fingers work.
“Okay,” Junior said. “Okay.” He took the garbage can out of the room. Felicity tried to sit up. She could run away while he was gone. But her eye wouldn’t open and the stinging behind it drilled into her skull. Her brain was bursting through her eye socket. Lines of dizziness forced her to put her head back on the pillow. Junior came back with a glass of water and a wet face cloth. “Here, girl,” he said. He handed them to her and retreated to his chair. Felicity tried to drink from the glass, but she couldn’t lift her head. Prickling spears pinned her to the bed. The glass fell from her hand and shattered onto the tiled floor.
“Damn,” Junior said again.
Glass was breaking. The crowd outside Government House had come to free Neville, to free everyone. People swarmed into the house, shouting “We want we leader! No Carp, no Revo!” Neville stood in the middle of the fray, his face lit by the rising sun, appearing almost holy in his delight. A seething mass of people coalesced — soldiers, journalists, and regular Grenadians — and pushed into the yard. This was Felicity’s chance to go, to get lost.
“Here, girl.” Someone was holding a straw to her lips. A straw that went down into a fresh glass of water. Not someone. Junior. Felicity forced herself to stay. If she went back there, she would have to answer the questions that hammered her swollen brain. Why hadn’t she left and gone to the Embassy? Why hadn’t she told Claude about Adele? There had been reasons, she remembered that, but she couldn’t recall what they were.
“Drink up,” said Junior.
Felicity wanted her mother. She wanted her mother to smooth her hair back from her forehead, to wrap her arms around Felicity and pull her close. Her mother had gleaming, dark skin and she smelled like carbolic soap and peppermint. She wanted her mother to rock her, to croon to her that it would be all right. Why couldn’t her body conjure the sensation of her flesh and her mother’s, almost connected? She was an actress. It was her job to feel these things. She shifted in the bed. Through her one working eye, she saw the figure by the door. Junior. He was a US Marine and she was his prisoner. She couldn’t remember her mother hugging her because she never had. Her mother didn’t love her. Felicity had two daughters, and she couldn’t remember if she had ever hugged them. She must have. But when she tried to bring the feel of those hugs into her arms, she couldn’t.
Junior came over to her. “Do you need to use the bathroom?” he asked.
She did. She hadn’t realized it until he said it. She nodded, and the motion made the pain in her head spike. Junior helped her up from the bed. As soon as she was on her feet, with his arm around her waist, she dug her elbow into his ribs, wanting to stand unaided. He let go and her knees gave.
“Whoa, whoa.” Junior grasped her again and pulled her to the bathroom. He allowed her privacy, and when she was done, he led her back to the bed. He brought her more water and helped her drink. “I’ll check on you in a bit,” he said.
Felicity closed her eyes. She thought she could hear the ocean splashing against the Carenage. She could make things happen. If she visualized them clearly enough, her dreams came true. She could bring Claude back, if she tried harder. She had been wasting her thoughts on too many other things. She needed to focus on Claude. Claude, outside the South African embassy armed only with a placard and an unerring sense of justice. Pigeons scattered as she ran towards him and his lips raised into a smile. That was yesterday. Now, she could feel Claude in the bed beside her, the length and weight of him, the way he dragged his fingers slowly across her stomach. She turned over on her side to kiss him.
The door opened, and three people came in. Neville, thought Felicity. And Lester, and Gerald Mason. Gerald who had a crush on her. But no, they were white men. She pulled the covers over her head. She blinked. Claude was gone. She wanted Claude back, but she had to stay. She struggled to remember the men’s names. Hank, Buddy, and Buster. They had busted her face. The smell of cloves and thyme swirled under the covers along with the aroma of coffee. Her empty stomach wailed.
“What did you get?” asked Junior.
“Dunno,” said one of the man. “Goddammit, no McDonald’s anywhere in this fucking place, and only one restaurant was open.”
Felicity struggled to hear the rest of their conversation, but her brain buzzed too loudly. She reached for Claude and pulled him close.
“This is for you.” Someone yanked the covers from her face. Sunlight concentrated on her one good eye. She squinted, tried to breathe evenly as the throbbing intensified. Hank, she remembered. It was Hank, and he was a threat. She rolled away. “You gotta eat,” said Hank. “Look, it’s meat and some kinda potato, and spinach.”
Felicity looked over at the paper plate he had shoved at her. It held stewed beef, dasheen, and callaloo. In London, she had learned to say “Grenadian dasheen” and “Grenadian callaloo,” because those names meant different things in other islands. In Trinidad, dasheen was the leaves of the plant and callaloo was the soup made with it. Claude had said, “They tried to unite us all into one West Indian Federation, Cinnamon, but it didn’t work, because each of us has our own culture, our own aspirations. The smaller islands like Grenada didn’t want to be subsumed by the bigger islands like Jamaica and Trinidad, and now those big islands have their independence, but we still don’t. So little Grenada will have to find her own way.” The food smelled like her mother’s kitchen, but she didn’t want to take it from Hank.
“She puked before,” said Junior.
“Fuck,” said Hank. “Maybe just a little, then.” He put the plate down on the bedside table, loaded a fork, and approached Felicity with it. She pursed her lips and turned her head away. He jabbed it at her. She pushed his hand and a chunk of meat plopped onto the sheet. “Fuck!” he said.
“Let me.” Junior approached. He sat down on the bed. “Come on, girl.”
“She’s not right in the head,” Hank complained. Felicity agreed. She wasn’t right in the head, and never would be again.
Junior reloaded the fork and lifted it to Felicity’s lips. Claude had done that. He had fed her like a baby at Alison’s house, on Christmas. If she closed her other eye, she could almost believe that Junior was Claude. The scent of the food was overwhelming. She opened her mouth.
“Look at that. She’ll only take food from another nig- Negro,” said Hank.
“Jesus, Hank,” said Junior. “Look what you did to her face.”
After they had eaten, the three Marines dragged backpacks into the room and set up equipment — radios, phones, tangles of wires. They talked as they worked. “We gotta get those kids out soon,” said Hank. “Who knows what could happen to them here.”
“Some of them don’t wanna go,” said Buster. “They say they’re fine.”
“They’re not fine!” said Hank. “They’re living in a fucking jungle full of savages and the shit is about to hit the fan.”
It already hit the fan, thought Felicity. She made herself stay, made herself listen.
“What do we tell them if they refuse to evacuate?”
“Tell them American lives are the highest priority to the president. He doesn’t want one American life lost. We’re bringing them to safety, and they can come back when things are stabilized, after a change of government.”
They began testing the equipment, reporting to someone named Flynn. “Hey, Flynn, you gotta hear this,” they said. “Hey, Flynn, get a load of this.” The radios crackled and sizzled. The air around Felicity hardened and then it shattered. Pieces of light and sound floated past her ears and her one good eye.
Felicity was suffocating. Every breath felt like her last. Each time she drew air, she sucked it through a pipe stoppered with ice. This dressing room was smaller than normal; it had a bed, and the mirror was small too. Curtain was in fifteen minutes. She needed Jack. She needed Claude, but Claude was gone. She would call Jack. There was no time. The orchestra had already started playing the Traviata overture. She was late. She didn’t have her wig on. The general manager would fire her. She tried to sit up. Her vision blurred and her brain banged against her skull. She’d never had a headache this bad before. How could she sing like this?
“Felicity Alexander is a regular performer at the Metropolitan Opera, and next week, she should be taking the stage with the lead role in Verdi’s La Traviata,” said a voice. Felicity opened her working eye. A man was adjusting the volume on a television. A soldier. Junior, she remembered. “But Felicity Alexander is missing in Grenada, where she was to appear in an arts showcase organized by the Neville Carpenter government. The death of Neville Carpenter has now been confirmed, along with that of his deputy, Claude Buckingham —” She was lost. Claude was dead. Was she dead? She wanted to be dead, if Claude was dead.
After the news, Junior switched to late night TV. He chose Bob Fernandes. He was Zebediah’s friend. Zebediah had called her once from his condo. Thinking about Zebediah made him appear on the screen, sitting opposite Bob in a leather chair. “As news of the possible killing of Neville Carpenter reaches the world,” said Bob, “We’re talking to people who knew him. Tonight, we have Zebediah Miller in the studio, host of Late Night With Z. Now Mr. Miller, Neville Carpenter was a famed playboy and party animal, wasn’t he, but he was also a radical —”
Zebediah interrupted the host. “No more radical than any Black American. I heard Neville Carpenter speak less than a month ago at Emerson College here in California, and that cat spoke the truth. And man, could he talk.”
Claude wrote those speeches, thought Felicity. Claude, who had the ideas, Claude who saw the danger and warned against it even as Neville walked right into it.
“Your ex-girlfriend, opera singer Felicity Alexander, is missing in Grenada, isn’t she?” A picture of Felicity popped up on the screen. She cringed, waiting for Junior to recognize her, but the made up, styled, smiling woman on TV bore no relation to who Felicity was now, a beaten Grenadian in a torn dress.
“She is,” Zebediah said, and he looked genuinely sad when he said, “Wherever she is, I hope she’s okay.”
She was not okay. She would never be okay again. Claude was dead, and she was lost. She reached for the tears that had evaded her so far, but they did not come. The pressure on her chest refused to be relieved.
It was snowing. There was a tear in the sky, and big white flakes spiralled down to the ground, coating leaves and grass as they fell. The wind spun them, whirled them, shook them down onto the roof.
It didn’t snow in Grenada, so Felicity must be back in Winnipeg. She was at Salvation Baptist, standing at the fence where the church property met the edge of a field. Out beyond it lay the beginning of the prairie, flat land glazed white, a gleaming sheet stretching out past the highway. The sky was white too. The sun wasn’t visible, but it shone so brightly that if Felicity looked up, her eyes squeezed shut in the painful light. The clouds were invisible above the telephone wires. Felicity’s bare hand was striking in its brownness against all the white. The snowflakes swirled past the window, and with them came a thumping, whirring noise overhead. They were pieces of paper, not snow. And the noise came from machines. The noise of war. The sun was rising, and Felicity had no idea how many days had passed. Hank came into the room and said, “All right. Time to move. Get her out of here.” Where were they taking her? She curled her body into itself, tried to anchor herself to the bed.
Buster said, “Let’s go.” He reached towards Felicity to pick her up. She attempted to kick him. Her leg flopped weakly to the bed. She forced her mind to sharpen, to clear, to plan.
“I got it.” Junior stepped into the room and sat down on the bed next to Felicity. “Where do you need to go, girl?” He unfolded a map before her. Felicity looked at it, amazed that the US Marines were using tourist maps to plan their invasion. She was a Grenadian to them, so she could not ask for the Canadian Embassy. She seized the map, looked for St. David Parish, lowered her finger to the spot.
“St. David,” Junior said, following where she was pointing, and she nodded. “Windsor Castle, that’s where you want to go?” She shook her head violently, the effort almost too much for her. “Providence?” he guessed again. She stabbed the paper emphatically, and he said, “Oh! Vin — Vins —” he gave up trying to pronounce Vincennes. “I’ll take you there,” he said. “We’re not landing up there, so it should be safe for you. Come on, now.” He helped her off the bed. She struggled to stand, unsteady on her legs. She had to walk. She remembered first Mara and then Adele toddling so proudly across the room. Her two fatherless girls, one born in hate and one in love. She wobbled through the door towards them.
As Felicity settled herself in the Jeep, Junior said, “Listen, I’m sorry. Hank — he — I should have — oh, fuck.” Felicity felt a sudden urge to lay her head on his shoulder, but she huddled stubbornly against the door as Junior consulted the map. “This place is beautiful,” Junior said. “Do you take it for granted, living in a place this beautiful?” As he drove, he said, “Know where I’m from? Detroit, Michigan. Ever heard of it? It’s not as gorgeous as it is here, but it’s home.” As they twisted and turned through the hills, sheets of paper floated in the breeze, fluttered up to stick to the windshield. Junior reached out of his window to grab one and handed it to Felicity. “Here,” he said. “Our choppers dropped these this morning.”
Felicity read, The United States Army is replying to cries of distress from Grenada. Cries of distress, she thought. Who had heard Claude’s cry of distress? Who had heard Neville’s, Alison’s, or Pat’s, or the cries she had made when a member of the United States Army battered her flesh and drew blood?
Junior said, “You don’t agree with us coming in, do you?” He dropped his voice, even though no one else was around. “I don’t, either. Truth is, I only joined the Army to go to college and when I’m done my service, I’ll be getting out.” He stopped the Jeep and consulted the map. “This is it, that Vins place. Somewhere around here, right?”
Felicity opened her mouth to thank him, but, again, her words clung to the inside of her chest. “Well, then,” Junior said, “I’ll be on my way. Take care of yourself.” He reversed down the hill, rushing back to his war, leaving Felicity alone with the sound of the breeze through the trees, the quiet fluttering of the birds, the insects, all the life in these hills that had no sense of the calamity about to befall them, or of the one that had already occurred.