Here Comes the Sun by Nicole Dennis-Benn

operating on some kind of algorithm. The first time coincided with the first night Margot stayed over. A Saturday night. Verdene had woken up that Sunday morning to the slaughtered animal’s blood trailing her walkway to the veranda. The blood was smeared across the doorposts and columns. And on the veranda grill and the gate. The blood of Jesus be upon you! was scrawled on the wall on both sides of the house.
    Those were the same words the old woman had uttered just days before to Verdene. Verdene did not have it in her then to do anything about the incident. What could she have done? Her first instinct was to call the police. But they would hear her accent and want her to pay them something extra to track down the perpetrator. Her next instinct was to march next door, through the lush banana leaves that separated her house from the old woman’s, but Miss Gracie might have gone off, drawing more unnecessary attention to Verdene. The old woman is senile, but it would still be her words against Verdene’s. So Verdene cleaned up the mess herself. She fetched the shovel and silver bucket. She did so as quietly as possible, since she didn’t want to wake Margot. The night before they had sipped tea and lounged in the living room—Margot on the sofa and Verdene on the floor mat—a good distance between them. It occurred to Verdene then, as she stood on the veranda with the pail and shovel, that while they talked that night, someone was violating her property. Someone who could have seen them.
    That bloody morning she made her way toward the garden, though a steady stream of churchgoers were passing by. She waved at them, bowing her head reverently just like her mother had taught her to do. “ Always be nice and cordial . . . ” Ella used to quip, aware of the neighbors’ eagle-eyes, especially the women’s, when she returned with all her foreign dresses. And so, like her mother, Verdene waved, her arm a windshield wiper that smeared their frowning faces. She put on her best smile stretched across her face like a taut elastic band, barely touching her eyes. The churchgoers gathered speed, and once they passed, Verdene picked up the dead animal from the flower bed with the shovel. Margot appeared in the window, her face like a full moon, with the curtains hiding the rest of her body. Verdene lowered the shovel. She saw the terror in Margot’s eyes and forced herself to keep digging a hole by the soursop tree. The same place she would put all the other carcasses.
    â€œ Please ,” Verdene had said, pushing Margot away gently when she came up behind Verdene inside the house that morning, “ give me a moment .” She leaned against the kitchen sink, her back toward Margot. Following the huge silence between them, Verdene told Margot, “ It will always be like this. This life. With me. ” Verdene’s back was still turned. As she awaited Margot’s response, she closed her eyes to keep back the burning tears that had welled up. She sucked on her lips, almost tasting the kiss they had shared the night before. Their first. But Margot didn’t respond. Not immediately. And though she held Verdene from behind, her body warming Verdene’s, her face resting in the crook of Verdene’s neck, Verdene sensed her reserve, felt her leave the room, the footsteps receding, a door closing softly.
    It’s ironic how she had wanted Margot out the picture when she first met her. During her second year at university, Verdene had come home to find a girl sitting on the sofa in her mother’s living room. The girl was probably ten years old at the time, with long, skinny legs that were ashy with too many scratches. They were hanging off the couch, swaying back and forth. The girl’s hair was uncombed and the pale dress she wore was soiled with dirt. Verdene wondered if her mother had rescued a stray. As a schoolteacher, Ella was inclined to take in neighborhood