It was a protest, or what passed for one in Georgetown.
Xana watched from the cover of shade as the reporter, the American, left the crowd loitering in front of Royal House and trotted across the street. Abby something. That was her name. She stood out, with her lean figure and pale skin, but she moved among the Afro-Guyanese men with confidence. They’d never accost a white woman.
Hand-lettered signs rested against palm trees or lay on the ground while their owners smoked and sat and waited for an audience. Everything was quiet, but Xana knew that would change. As soon as someone important appeared, the men would jump to their feet and hoot and holler, as if called to cue by an invisible director. Even the uniformed policeman resting on the concrete barrier, a lighter-skinned Indo-Guyanese, would leap up and join the show. He’d drop his cigarette and jostle with loose arms, pretending to hold the crowd at bay.
And the American would turn it into news, just like she’d done to Xana. “The Goliath of Guyana.”
Xana watched Abby approach through the vacant lot across from Royal House. Someone had staked a “No Dumping” sign to the ground, a stab through the heart of the refuse that had gathered in defiance. Flies milled in a lazy caricature of the demonstration across the street. The South American sun burrowed into everything from above.
Abby stopped at the narrow grove at the back and covered her eyes with one hand. She had bony cheeks, a long nose, and sharp brown eyes that matched her shoulder-length hair. “You’re a hard woman to find.” Her thin lips barely covered a mouth full of big teeth. Once straightened by braces, they had started to slip crooked. She tried to find Xana’s face in the shadows of the trees, but it was too high and the shade too dark.
A breeze rustled the branches.
Xana Jace stood seven feet eight inches tall. To most of the people who knew her, she was a nuisance. To everyone else, a monster. Certainly she looked the part, with a heavy brow, a stout jaw, and a thundering gait.
She wiped her hands on her heavy work pants and looked across the vacant lot. There was no way around the crowd. She stepped from the shade.
Abby moved a second hand to her forehead. She’d forgotten about the afro. “Here for the big show?”
“Please don’t talk to me.” A hot wind whipped Xana’s tangled curls in front of her eyes. Her wild hair was all that remained of the scrawny, wide-eyed girl of her youth. It was several shades lighter than her medium-brown skin, and striking. It had turned a few heads. Before. Xana pulled it back and affixed it into a bushy tail.
Abby looked down. “How’s the foot?”
Xana stepped away, revealing a slight limp. Her right foot was mangled, and she hid it inside her custom-ordered heavy work boots. “It’s fine. Please leave me alone.”
“I’m not your enemy, you know.” The American followed her past the pile of trash. Flies bolted and returned.
“That doesn’t make you my friend.”
“I never said I was your friend.”
Xana spoke without turning. “Yes, you did.”
“I didn’t think people would respond to the article that way.”
Xana stopped. A man in the milling crowd pointed at her. Another turned to look. That’s how it always started, with the silent accusation of a pointed finger.
Look. Look at the monster.
But Xana wasn’t a monster. She was merely host to one. It had first appeared as a tiny bulge from a gland in her head, half the size of a pea. It secreted something, like a whisper to her cells telling them to grow and grow.
And grow.
The reporter kept her hands to her forehead to block the sun. “It was an honest mistake.”
“This isn’t America.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Xana cocked her head at the foreigner. “Please stop following me.”
“Aren’t you curious why there’s a protest in front of your lawyer’s office?”
“Mr. Renkist will know.”
“You trust him?”
Xana frowned. “He’s my attorney.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“He’s the only who stands up to the McDooms.”
Abby rolled her eyes. “He’s not the only one.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. You report on them. There’s a difference.”
“It’s because Feathers is in there.”
Clement Feathers was the McDoom family attorney and a piranha. Xana noticed the Mercedes parked next to a row of palms down the street. A bodyguard leaned against the car and read the paper.
“They’re protesting the labor remission. Or something. I’m not sure most of them even know.”
Xana scowled. “The what?”
“Look, you don’t want to go through that crowd any more than I do.”
“You’re a white woman. They wouldn’t dare. Not in public anyway.” Xana looked again at the listless young men. They stretched end-to-end across the wide lawn of Royal House, like a dark and angry coil ready to spring. Some whispered at her in the distance. Some paced. Some sat on the off-white steps leading up to the veranda. The paint on the wood was cracked and chipping. It was a long walk up the sidewalk.
“There’s a back door—a walkway from the courthouse. Underground. The British built it in the colonial days. It’s all linoleum and fluorescent lights now. My press credentials can get us through the security.” Abby almost choked on the word. There was no security in Guyana.
“I don’t want your help.”
“I know. But I owe you. I have a son, too, you know.”
“Then why aren’t you with him?”
“It’s a long story.”
Xana looked at the crowd.
“Hey . . .” A man called to her and stepped forward. “Hey, you!”
Xana turned. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you.”
“Of course not.”
The big woman walked back across the lot and through the grove of trees at the far end. She stayed ahead of the reporter. Siegel. That was her name. Abby Siegel. Xana still had a clipping of the article somewhere.
“So can I ask you about this morning?” Abby had to walk double-time to match Xana’s stride, even with the slight limp.
“What about it?”
“Oh come on. This is a sleepy little country. It’s not every day gangsters burn someone’s house down.”
“I stay away from criminals.” Xana crossed a cracked asphalt road and walked onto the wide back lawn of the courthouse, once the governor’s residence.
“But why is Mama looking for you?”
The big woman stopped on the grass. It was spotted in dead leaves and fronds from the tropical plants that rimmed the square. In the distance, the ocean clamored. “What do you care?”
“Figtree’s like an hour away.” Abby looked Xana in the eyes. They were a lighter brown than her skin, just like her hair. “That’s where you’re staying these days, right?”
Xana nodded. It was a temporary arrangement with her cousin until she could get back on her feet.
“That’s a long way to go just to have a chat.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“People like Mama don’t burn houses for nothing.”
“I meant it’s probably a misunderstanding.”
“Riiiiight.” Abby started walking again. Xana hadn’t changed.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The big woman walked after her, but the reporter didn’t stop. Did she know something? Xana grabbed her arm. “Wait a minute.”
“Don’t touch me.” The American spun and pulled free. “I don’t like people touching me.”
“What do you know?”
Abby shrugged. “Why would I know anything?” She put her hands in her pockets.
Xana took a long deep breath and looked toward the water in the distance. The wind was warm. “I don’t understand.” Xana worked the night shift. She’d slept through the morning and missed all the excitement.
“Come on.” The American walked through the back door of the courthouse. The hinges creaked. A small security station rested at the bottom of a half-flight of stairs. Everything echoed. The building smelled of dust and yellow paper. The reporter flashed her credentials to the lone guard and nodded at Xana. “She’s with me.”
“Wait.” The guard stood and raised his baton in front of Xana. “Turn around.” He frisked her and lingered luxuriantly on her large buttocks, a delicacy for most Guyanese men.
Xana didn’t flinch. She just stared at the door.
Abby turned away from the groping.
When the guard had had his fill, the pair walked down a long hall covered in weathered vinyl. Fluorescent lights shone overhead, but their spacing was insufficient and the women moved in and out of darkness.
“Why do you let people do that?” Abby whispered to keep below the echo.
“Do what?”
“Push you around like that. You had almost two feet on that guy, and probably a hundred fifty pounds or something.”
“He’s a policeman.”
“So? He’s still not supposed to grab you like that. Push him out of the way. This is Guyana. He’s not going to say anything. And no one would care if he did.”
“Mal McDoom would care.”
The reporter sized up the giant. The tips of the woman’s bushy pony tail brushed the lights overhead. She looked so out of place. And that face . . . “You have no idea what Mama wants.”
“No.” Xana squinted. “Do you?”
Abby smiled, revealing her big teeth. “Don’t trust me?”
Xana made a face.
“Hey, I’m just doing my job.” Abby pointed down the hall. “Royal House is just up those stairs. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a trade?”
Xana waited for an explanation.
“You know . . . a you-help-me-I-help-you kind of thing.”
“I don’t want your help. And I certainly don’t want to hel—”
“Fine. Right. Whatever. But Mama’s a hard problem to shake. And from what I understand, you only have till tomorrow. So if you change your mind, come downtown. Supper time. I’ll be on a stakeout.”
“A what?”
“Cynthia’s Doubles. You know, by the Chinese restaurant.”
“I know it. Don’t wait.”
Abby flashed a mock smile and took a couple steps back. “I hope ol’ Arthur has good news for you.”
Xana watched the reporter walk back the way they’d come. That was quick. She was a huntress. She was after something. Luckily, Xana wasn’t it. She wanted nothing to do with the woman. She let out a sigh and realized she’d been clenching her fists throughout the conversation. She shook her hands loose. One of her curls snagged on a ceiling tile and she jerked her neck to pull it free, then slouched down the corridor.
Xana walked up the stairs to the third floor. Two people stopped to look at her as she passed. She ignored them and hunched down the east hall and into Arthur Renkist’s office. The man was in the next room with the door closed. He had no secretary and no view. The windowless walls were covered in faux-wood paneling to half their height. The remainder was painted a dull green.
Xana sat and waited. Her butt barely fit in the chair. She had to squeeze in. She looked at her hands. They were worn and calloused from work. They were so big. Had she grown? She made fists as the clock on the wall ticked seconds.
She had been a pretty girl once—if a little scrawny—with dainty, feminine hands. She started growing at puberty and never stopped. By her early 20s, when she passed six feet, it was clear something was wrong. That’s when she went to the free clinic. That’s when they told her about the monster and how it would choke her heart.
Clement Feathers emerged from the next room and walked into the hall. He didn’t acknowledge the big woman. He didn’t even look at her. He simply strode past in his finely tailored suit. That was fine with Xana.
Arthur Renkist sat behind his desk. He was old, just like the framed portraits of long-dead governors that lined the hall outside. His dark skin was wrinkled. He had lost most of his hair. The remainder was white. His suit didn’t fit well.
He waved her in. “We have a few things to talk about.”
“Did the judge rule on the motion?” Xana ducked under the door frame and stepped in.
“We’ll get to that.” Renkist motioned to a chair. His hands shook. “That reporter came by earlier. The American. The one who wrote the story.”
Xana nodded. “I saw her.”
“That was a bad bit of business. I always wondered how much that contributed to the accident. But I never wanted to ask.”
Xana ignored the half-question. “What did the judge say?”
“Also, you got another email from your mysterious admirer. How many does that make now? Four? Five?”
“Five. Just delete it. Please.”
“What do they want?”
Xana shrugged. She stared at the court papers on the desk. Renkist was stalling. It must be bad news. “The judge said no, didn’t he?”
“We knew that was a possibility.” Renkist wouldn’t make eye contact. “The situation with the car—”
“But you said he understood.” Xana never saw the judge. Arthur said it would be better if she stayed out of sight.
“He understands about the accident. I meant that living all the way out at Figtree Cove and with no car, you’re having trouble with steady employment, which was a condition for reinstatement of visitation.”
Xana had gotten frustrated with the jalopy she’d purchased. She’d spent all the money she’d saved working her old job on the docks, enduring the taunts and constant gawking. She hardly saw her son. But the job was a requirement for her to retain custody. And the car was a requirement for the job; there was no other reliable way across the river. When it just stopped running, she knew she’d been taken advantage of. Again. She felt watched: by the courts, by the McDooms, by everyone who stared at her as she passed. She was going to be late picking her son up. They only needed one excuse. She’d gotten angry. Why did she have to be so stupid? Why had she trusted the salesman?
Xana had kicked the little car as it rested on the side of the dirt road. She’d kicked it with all her might. Anyone would have. And for anyone else such an outburst would have resulted in little more than a stubbed toe and bruised pride. Anyone, that is, except Xana Jace.
She bent the front of the vehicle and turned it on its side, wrecking it and nearly injuring two pedestrians. She’d torn through her shoes and down to the bone, leaving her with mangled toes, no car, no job, and no AJ.
Unfit, they said. Violent, they said.
Just look at her, they said. We must protect the boy.
“I haven’t seen AJ in almost a year,” Xana pleaded with her attorney. “How can they just keep me away? I’m his mother.”
Of course, the story in the papers hadn’t helped. It cataloged her accidents like a shipping manifest. Xana still fumbled inside herself, a stranger in her own flesh. She hit her head on door frames and knocked over furniture. Children stepped closer to their parents when she appeared, or asked if she was a giant. Or a monster. She was training herself to wear a resting smile. Without it, her heavy brow and prominent jaw lent her a persistent diabolical scowl.
And Abby had covered it all. She’d been very thorough.
Renkist raised his hand in the air above his desk and held it. His mouth hung open for a moment. “That’s not the worst of it, I’m afraid.” He lowered his hand onto some papers. He glanced at his client and looked away. “The judge overruled the motion on grounds of inadequate jurisdiction.” He looked to Xana for a reaction.
She was confused. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It means the judge doesn’t have the authority.”
“But how?”
“Because AJ is no longer in the country.”
Xana froze. Her heart skipped. “W—what? Where is he?” She stood and the chair fell over.
“Calm down, Ms. Jace.”
“Where is he? Is he okay? Where is my son?”
“America. New York, I think. Mr. Feathers’s rejoinder didn’t specify.”
Xana paced in a circle. Her heart beat faster. Her eyes clenched wet. America! She could never get to America. “But how can they do that? How can they just—just—”
“Declun has legal custody. Once your visitation rights were revoked, AJ’s residence was no longer a matter for the court.”
Xana swallowed her tears. She refused to cry in front of Arthur. Refused. But her body wanted to heave and shake. “But he’s my son.” She couldn’t believe it. It had to be a mistake. Maybe Arthur had misunderstood.
“I know. It’s a terrible thing. But unfortunately, strictly speaking, it’s not illegal.”
Xana stood in the small windowless office, her curls brushing the ceiling, and put her face in her hands. Xana told herself to stay calm. It had to be a misunderstanding. She took a long, shaking breath before looking up.
Arthur could tell she was holding it all back, but it was awkward all the same and he shifted in his seat. “If it’s any consolation, they sent him to get an education. Or so I’m told. Feathers wouldn’t say where of course, but they wanted you to know it’s a very fine private school that will prepare him for college.”
Xana couldn’t speak. He’d be alone. In a strange country. He wouldn’t know anyone. He was only seven. He’d be so scared. Her heart pounded. She could feel her skin flush and her arteries pulse. She had to calm down.
Renkist pulled an envelope from a drawer and set it on the desk without looking at his client.
Xana knew what it was. A bill. She grabbed at the little cross that hung under her shirt. The cotton bunched in her hand. She felt the tiny tips of the crucifix poke through to her skin.
The lawyer cleared his throat. “Are you sure you don’t want to read the email? I printed it.”
Xana shook her head. Her heart beat in her ears. The room was so small. She had to get out. She grabbed the envelope from the desk, ducked under the door frame, and trundled down the hall.
AJ wasn’t across town. He wasn’t at his grandparent’s summer retreat in Aruba. He was in America.
America.
It had to be a mistake. Xana walked out of Royal House as she had a dozen times before. She forgot about the protest until the doors were open and she stood on the veranda staring out at the lawn. But the men were gone.
Xana was alone.