Brown Girl In the Ring Read Free Page B

own death, or Baby’s. She couldn’t see Tony’s death, not anyone close to her. And she didn’t see blind Crazy Betty until the woman was right in front of her, sightless eyes turned toward Baby, who was snuggled in Ti-Jeanne’s arms, happily gumming the mitten on one tiny fist.
    “That is my child! He’s mine!” shouted the bag lady. Her wrinkled arms reached to pluck Baby away. “What you doin’ with my baby? You can’t make a child pretty so! You did never want he! Give he to me!”
    The old fear of madness made Ti-Jeanne go cold. She jerked Baby out of Crazy Betty’s reach. Alarmed, the child began to wail. Madwoman in front of her. Hard-eyed men just behind. But at least the men had something behind their eyes, some spark of humanity. Ti-Jeanne chose. She turned and ran back the way she’d come.
    “Hey, Ti-Jeanne!” Tony reached for her arm. She yanked it away, pushed between Tony and Crapaud. She dragged the door open and ran into the roti shop. The warm, fragrant air on her face was a shock. How come she was outside, and why was it warm? Ti-Jeanne looked around her, then jumped as she felt Tony’s hand on her shoulder. “Ti-Jeanne, what’s up? You all right?”
    She didn’t answer. She appeared to be in a green tropical meadow. A narrow dirt path ran through it, disappearing in the distance as the road curved gently downward. The scent of frangipani blossoms wafted by on a gentle breeze. Baby stopped fussing.
    A figure came over the rise, leaping and dancing up the path.
    Man-like, man-tall, on long, wobbly legs look as if they hitch on backward. Red, red all over: red eyes, red hair, nasty, pointy red tail jooking up into the air. Face like a grinning African mask. Only is not a mask; the lips-them moving, and it have real teeth behind them lips, attached to real gums. He waving a stick, and even the stick self paint-up red, with some pink and crimson rags hanging from the one end. Is dance he dancing on them wobbly legs, flapping he knees in and out like if he drunk, jabbing he stick in the air, and now I could hear the beat he moving to, hear the words of the chant:
    “Diab’-diab’! Diab’-diab’! Diab’-diab’!”
    Ti-Jeanne shrank back, trying to hide Baby’s face from the terrifying sight. But he chortled and stretched baby-fat hands out in the direction of the Jab-Jab. Tony had more sense. Behind her, she could hear him whisper, “God Almighty! What the hell is that?”
    The Jab-Jab turned its appalling grin of living wood in their direction. It hopped right up to the three of them, split its wooden lips wide, and hissed in their faces—a hot, stiff wind.
    • • • •
    Which was exactly how the roti shop felt. As the tune of the Caribana hit “Raise Your Hand in the Air” crashed against her eardrums, Ti-Jeanne opened her eyes again, to find herself in Roopsingh’s roti shop. As always, the roti shop was hot and noisy. The single, rickety ceiling fan only stirred the super-heated air around. The roti shop smelled of curry and frying oil and stew peas with rice. People pushed to get to the counter, yelling out their orders; raucous soca music blared from the grease-splattered ghetto blaster. In disorientation Ti-Jeanne asked Tony, “What happen? Is where we was?”
    Tony frowned at her. “Huh? We were outside, you started running, I followed you inside. You shouldn’t be scared by Crazy Betty, you know.”
    What was he talking about? Slowly, Ti-Jeanne’s surroundings registered on her and she realised: Tony hadn’t seen what she had! Fear was like ice in her chest. Lately the visions had been growing stronger, more vivid. This was the worst one yet.
    Tony didn’t seem to notice how dazed she was. He turned to the shop owner, a slight, middle-aged East Indian man, and said, “God Almighty, Roopsingh; what the hell is that crap you playing on the stereo?” He was speaking to Roopsingh with almost the same words he’d used in her vision. Showing off as always for her