Daughters of the West Indies: A Historical Novel

By Anthea Japal

In the West Indies, women are expected to be strong. Some of them are the cornerstone of numerous single-parent families, and they do their best, for better or for worse, to raise their children. The passivity of women underscores their collective sense of worth, and this plague is passed from mother to daughter and beyond. In the islands, women are raised to accept their roles as second-class citizens, to be used and manipulated.

So when Cesselee, a teenage mother, rises up to challenge this expectation and avenge her rape, her misogynistic culture fights back. Angered by what she considers to be injustice, she follows the dubious advice of her childhood friend, Little Johnny, who loses his life in a fire while trying to save a homeless drifter. Cesselee is imprisoned after she sets her tormentors dental office on fire. Now, her rapist remains free, basically unpunished for his actsas she is dealt a harsh sentence for hers. In a series of letters to her lover, Cesselee shares her deepest thoughts, cherished memories of her childhood, and her hopes for the future.

In prison, Cesselee finds strength in the plight of the women she meets. Yet despite the friendship of a female prison guard, Roberta, and fellow inmate Vicky; the support of her mother, Mary; and a marriage proposal from Warden Moore, the experience proves too much for the gentle beauty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475905526

Anthea Japal

I was born and raised in Grenada, the Caribbean's Isle of Spice. Here, I developed the love of stories and the art of storytelling. In my youth the telling of Anansi Stories was part of an oral tradition, which did not survive the coming of age of the Caribbean Territories. Sadly, for me that tradition and many of these stories are lost forever to a new generation of Caribbean Peoples. The stories I do remember, I sometimes tell at family gatherings. One of my favourites is Anansi and the Tar baby. However, casting aside the nostalgia, my purpose for writing Anansi stories is to bring this folk-hero into the present.

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Copyright © 2012 by Anthea Japal

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-0554-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-0553-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-0552-6 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 5/14/2012

Contents

Prologue

Epilogue

Endnotes

Prologue

The first time I had laid eyes on Cesselee—I’d asked her name of the vendor standing nearby—had been at the Annual Easter Harvest. She had been standing with her two older sisters at the ice-cream stall a few yards away. The three were conspicuous because they were accompanied by a spotted puppy that she, the youngest, carried in her arms. She was ill dressed compared to the other much older two girls. The closeness of the two underlined their estrangement from the younger—the several steps between them obviously consensual. Of all four, the puppy seemed the most comfortable, looking around with avid interest at what, for it, must have been an unusually large crowd of unfamiliar people.

Ears perked, beagle-like little eyes perplexed, the poor thing seemed not to know quite what to make of the scene but was content to trust its little mistress and sat quietly looking over her shoulders. She, however, was defiant; righteous indignation at her sister’s obvious embarrassment of her presence as they came into the crowd gave her skinny body an illusion of maturity—possibly a mirage of her ill-fitting muumuu, apparently designed for a more mature figure. Even as I watched, the little mutt wriggled; the tension in the girl’s arms had become uncomfortable. Quickly, she adjusted the embrace, moving her pet to her armpit with ease. I would learn later that it was the only survivor of a litter of six of a mother that had died after contracting rabies. Cesselee had nursed the thing back to life, rewarding it for its willingness to live. They had been a pair ever since, and I personally experienced her heartache when Jumbie died at the ripe old age of eight. We would bury him in the garden, just she and I. That was three years ago. She took comfort in our lovemaking there. To me, it was like spring in a wonderful place. What became very obvious was the exceptional capacity to love deeply and faithfully that she possessed. She loved for love’s sake.

Hilda, the ice-cream vendor, took a well-earned rest from churning her laborious machine and greeted the young girls cheerily. They, in turn, returned an equally cheerful answer, as well as passing on a greeting from their mother with the casual confidence of a San Simeon native. The greeting was passed on like a treasure, as these greetings were among these villagers. Without a pause or question, Hilda began scooping the cones. The sisters passed the first ice cream, like a ritual, from the hand of the vendor and hand to hand unto the youngest of them, the elder two watching with disgust as she took it and walked away from where they stood. These two continued to stay, apart, partaking of their own treat eventually, totally ignoring the younger, while she shared hers with the delightful little dog, oblivious to anyone else in the park. When the cone was finished, the mismatched pair had snuck into the churchyard to play by themselves—she running in circles, arms outstretched as the little mutt followed energetically barking, his cup of joy overflowing. I thought to myself then what an unusual child she was, at about eight years old already showing the promise of a strong and beautiful woman. I filed away my thoughts, continuing with the dutiful tour of the harvest.

I had very recently taken up my office as a minister of the Gospel in the West Indies and was anxious to fulfil my commission. Walking in the footsteps of my father, I had requested and been granted this region as a harvest field. Tom Brady, my senior and mentor, friend and fellow missionary with my father, was soon to be my father-in-law. Only months out of seminary—magna cum laude—at the end of my course of studies, I had been enthusiastic and idealistic in regard to my role as it related to the future of my parish. I considered myself God’s gift to San Simeon and Levera as a whole. I envisioned my church assembly growing by leaps and bounds numerically and spiritually because of my influence, training, and hard work, and, eventually, my superb leadership. I would—I convinced myself—accomplish more and better results than my father or Tom Brady ever had. My world had been perfect.

***

And it will be again, I thought when Cesselee stepped into the arched hallway. I forced myself to breathe. Only as she stood looking about anxiously in confusion did I realize that I had not moved from where I had sat in the shady veranda, fanned by the leaves of the doll palm trees; the past minutes seemed like two hours waiting for just this moment. I forced myself to move. Walking toward her felt like a dream; I pinched myself. The act made me smile as a vision of Marshall, our son, flashed across my mind’s eye. Just then she smiled shyly. My breathing stopped as she dropped her small bag and held out her hand to me. When I touched her, I came back to earth again; I could hear, see, and smell everything around me again. It was as though a bright light had just flashed on to a beautiful painting hiding in a dark room, in which she was the centrepiece. I could hear her heartbeat, I could see the pulse beating rapidly in her throat, and I could smell her. I could feel her very slim fingers gripping mine tightly, as she had often done in the past. And in a moment like this, the simplest of imaginations occurred in my thoughts: Which one of us is gripping tighter?

This time, the bundle in her arm was a baby, neatly wrapped and clutched securely to her bosom. I couldn’t take my eyes off her for even a moment. I could see all of her in just one glance, but it was her sad eyes that caught my attention and moved me at the deepest core of my being. Their image, I knew then, would stay with me for the rest of my life. She was more beautiful than ever. Her warm smooth skin, slender frame, and long elegant limbs accented her quiet yet careworn manner. How could she be so exotic and yet at the same time be so much a part of me? The past year had been bittersweet. Waiting for the day when I would see, touch Cesselee again had been bitter. Knowing that she was in the world somewhere and loving her had been sweet—very sweet indeed.

I had consciously looked for her at every harvest since that first one, watched her grow from a defiant and independent ten-year old to a gangly adolescent, naively confident of herself, beautiful, and friendly. Her popularity with her friends had been evidence of that fact. And when Dorothea had suggested bringing the young teen into our home, I’d actually been quietly thrilled. In the past four years, I had gotten to know her well—bone of bone and flesh of flesh. At sixteen, after two years of living at Hillsview she had been a woman in every way—boldly passionate and true, intelligent, and intriguing. More woman than any woman I had ever known. A diamond in the rough, under trial by fire and emerging more beautiful than before.

I wrapped my arms around them. The baby sighed and prompted me to lift the light cotton towel covering her face. A younger female version of Marshall peered up bravely. I was pleasantly stunned, speechless. A two-week journey across the Atlantic was never more rewarding. My heart skipped, jumped out of my chest, and disappeared down the narrow Mac Adam road. At this moment, I realized I was hopelessly in love for the very first time. But when I awoke from my daydream, it wasn’t Cesselee presenting to me this child; it was Forsythia De Gaul.

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February 2

Dear Mr Purcell,

I hesitate to write, yet I am compelled to as if by a power higher than myself; whether within or without, I do not know. But I know that I do not like being here, and I need to tell someone how I feel. You have been good to me, stood by me, and defended me when there was no one else. I wish things were different, but wishing is so useless, as useless as the time I have wasted and am still wasting here; and that is the only reason why I shouldn’t be here, really. It is lonely and empty. What I am trying to say is that, although I shouldn’t be here, I deserve to be here for what I had done. I should be spending my time at home, caring for Marshall. That is what I would choose to do if I had the choice. But I surrendered that choice, and that is what I regret. I want you to know that.

I wanted most of all to wish you a very happy birthday. It is also my baby brother’s birthday. Aren’t these coincidences interesting? Although they are natural, they are also very intriguing. Three of my cousins are born on the same day, and Margaret—my very best friend—was born on the same day as her grandmother. There is also a husband and wife, Gloria and Eric, in San Simeon who were born on the same day in the same year—as if they were twins by a different mother and father. Smile. I guess they took their birthdate as a sign that they were destined to be together.

I know you will be thinking of Ms Purcell today. I am too. Do you know the saying we throw about on this island, Give Jack his jacket and put on Mary’s panty to fit her? Well, I do not hesitate to say that Ms Purcell was a special lady. I will take that back as that silly phrase does not do her justice, but I have already written it and will not erase it, so I would write a new one if I dare. Give Jack his jacket and put on Mary’s hat to fit her. I think the choice of panties as a garment to symbolize women is sexist. It implies that women are naked, whereas a man is clothed in many layers of respectable formal outer garments. It implies that, even if she has her panties on, a woman has no other clothes on comparable to the man’s jacket. It implies that we are only about our sex and not our humanity.

Anyway, here I am with so much time to think about things, so much to remember, and what comes to mind is that time when she refused to ride in the Studebaker because you had helped out the undertaker and driven the dead to the cemetery in your car. Do you remember? It had been a very rainy day and the undertaker’s car had broken down. You drove way out to the countryside to a small village—Marlmount is the name I recall you saying—only to find that the grave wasn’t yet dug because of the rain. So you had to drive all the way back to the city with the dead where it was re-iced, load it up again the next day, and bring it all the way back to Marlmount. That was too much for Ms Purcell. For months she refused to set foot in the car. Regrettably, the last time I laid eyes on her was that day she boarded the ship for England with the twins. It was the day of Christine’s funeral.

I remember thinking at the time how we used to beg for the ice from the top of the coffin when anyone had passed in San Simeon and suck on it. It was a treat, and we held on to chunks of it until our hands were numb trying our hardest to finish it off before it all melted away in the afternoon sun. People are always buried in the late afternoon, when the sun is splitting the dirt as they say. I have wondered why not in the morning, when the sea breeze still caresses the land. We sometimes fought over who got the biggest piece of ice. I remember in particular when my grandfather died; my sisters, cousins and I it was understood were privileged to have rights to the biggest pieces. Someone like Ms Purcell, I thought, perhaps wouldn’t want any part of that either—being a well brought-up child—which would only leave more for the rest of us kids. I hope you don’t feel sad because I speak of her. My life is better for having known her, and wherever she is, that place is better for her having gone there.

I don’t know what it is like in other parts of the country, but whenever a hearse came to San Simeon, we were almost hypnotized. It was this exotic thing. Perhaps it was because there were rarely any motor vehicles there. Yours was the only one. Perhaps it is because there are rarely any deaths there. There was rarely anything really significant happening, to be honest. The boys stood around it and stared at it. Every funeral closed with them running after it all the way to the main road, despite the ample forbidding from the drunken undertaker. I must go to sleep now. Thank you for being my friend. Happy birthday, sir.

Your daughter,

Cesselee

P.S. I should have written to you sooner. I am so sorry.

February 6

Dear Reverend,

XO XO XO XO XO XO XO XO XO XO XO XO XO XO XO XO XO XO XO. What an unusual way to start a letter. But these are hugs and kisses for Marshall. The days go by slowly here. What is even worse, the days ahead stretch out in my mind like an eternity. It scares me. I know how to be happy, how to be sad, and how to be afraid. But I don’t know how to be lonely. It is not a matter of being by myself; I have always done that and, I think, very well. I am not really alone here either, but I am dreadfully lonely. I have become familiar with the surroundings, but not comfortable. The cell where I sleep is the size of the cot but for the narrow walkway from the door by which to access it. You could think of my dismay when compared to our spacious room at Hillsview. The walls here seem to close in on me, despite having grown up in a small house with Mother Mary. But I console myself, imagining the notorious dungeons of Chateau D’If.

I share the female quarters of the prisons with five other women, all much older than myself. The male guards—many of them—usurp the major part of the compound. We are not allowed to share any space with them, as if anyone would want to. They are under the supervision of the male inmates and the warden, who is in charge of the entire prison. The male guards are the ones who scare me. They are everywhere all the time, even at night, which is their job of course, but somehow I don’t feel protected.

We have two female guards, of course, but they don’t stay here at night. One of them, the