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  Before Geneva could move, Melody came back into the room with two thick albums and a scrapbook. “This is from my collection. You will see the others in the course of your year here.”

  Geneva opened the first album and stared into the face of a youthful Stanley Walters. He was sporting an afro; his big brown eyes looked happy.

  “We have his eyes,” Geneva whispered.

  “And his ears,” Melody added, pointing to Geneva’s pointy ears.

  “He was good-looking,” Geneva murmured. “Doesn’t look like he would need to rape a sixteen-year-old girl.”

  Melody looked at her askance. “What are you saying?”

  “I was wondering how I came to be a product of Stanley Walters and Rachel Green.” Geneva skipped the page with the young Stanley and continued to look at the pictures.

  “Daddy wouldn’t rape anyone,” Melody said in dismay. “He was the kindest, most considerate man in the world. He was a perfect gentleman.”

  Geneva grunted. “So how come I'm here? He was thirty-three; my mother was sixteen.”

  “I don’t know,” Melody said defensively.

  “Your mother was pregnant with you at the time,” Geneva continued. “How could this most considerate man do something like that?”

  Melody closed her eyes. “I don’t know,” she growled. Her sister was asking her questions that did not fit with the father she knew.

  Geneva finished looking at the pictures in silence. They were lovely. They showed a happy, well-adjusted man enjoying his various adventures: climbing the Blue Mountains, parasailing, jet skiing and having fun in social settings. There were no pictures of Melody’s mother in the album, but one or two of the pictures were of a younger Melody. They looked like her baby pictures, and for a moment Geneva found herself wishing she was the daughter who had accompanied him on his adventures.

  Instead, she was abused by Rat Face; she was beaten until she was sent to the hospital when she was just four years old. While living with him over the course of 13 years, there were times when she was left out in the sun, chained to a chicken coop, or left to starve. Because he and her mother would use the food money to buy liquor. She was left to beg in the Downtown area to feed herself.

  She had probably even begged Stanley Walters too. One day, Rat Face’s son, Craig, had carried her to the business district in New Kingston to beg with him. He had told the people on the streets that she was his daughter and that she needed medical assistance. Most of the people they approached had taken one look at her undernourished body and had given him money.

  It was the biggest haul they had ever made. Unfortunately for Craig, her mother had been sober at the time and was in one of her you-need-an-education moods, so she had forbidden her to go back to New Kingston with him.

  Geneva closed the album she had been gripping and stiffened her spine—she didn't want to see any more happy pictures of Stanley Walters.

  Melody, sensing Geneva’s change of mood, went to sit across from her. “I'm sorry,” she mumbled, “for my father’s actions.”

  “I am fine. You can’t apologize for something your father did,” Geneva replied and got up and headed to the French doors which opened onto a patio. Her room was facing a swimming pool and a garden. How sweet, she thought resentfully. The only swimming pools she grew up with were the fetid water-filled potholes in the middle of Black Lane. She imagined Froggie’s two-bedroom house and its cramped quarters. It seemed so dirty and pokey compared to this splendor.

  “My mother didn’t know about you either,” Melody said, sighing. “She doesn't show much emotion, but I'm sure she feels bad about what Dad did too."

  “How come she wasn’t in the album I just looked in?” Geneva asked curiously.

  “They had a strange relationship…”

  “Melody,” a voice called from the passageway.

  “In here,” Melody replied, and a medium-built woman in a uniform appeared at the doorway.

  “Miss Melody, your mother wants to see you and the new miss in her office now.” She nodded and smiled at Geneva.

  “Marcia,” Melody said, her smile not as bright as before, “this is Geneva, my sister.”

  “Howdy do, Miss Geneva,” Marcia said pleasantly.

  “Come let us go and see what Mom wants,” Melody said, following Marcia as she headed through the door. “After you change into something a bit more…I mean…less revealing.”

  Geneva glanced down at her mini skirt and slim top. “No way. This is my best suit of clothes.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to go shopping then, probably in Miami, if we can’t find anything for you to wear here.”

  Geneva laughed. “No thanks. I have my clothes custom-made by Jasmine in Black Lane. Nobody can make my clothes as good as she does.”

  Melody looked shocked. “You have an exclusive designer? That’s even better than I thought. Did Jasmine have her clothes displayed at Caribbean Fashion Week?”

  “Fashion what?” Geneva squeaked, thinking of Jasmine’s one-room house and the bed in the corner with her sewing machine jammed beside it. “Oh no, Jasmine is so exclusive only certain people can wear her clothes.”

  “Ah,” Melody whistled, looking Geneva over again. “The top is not so bad. I wonder if Jasmine would want to do something exclusive for my friends and me?"

  “I have no idea,” Geneva looked doubtful. “I would have to beg and plead with her first.”

  “Please, Geneva, please. I'm entering the Miss Jamaica pageant this year, and I want to have an exclusive look.”

  “All right. I’ll call her tonight.” Geneva’s brain started ticking. Poor Jasmine. She could hardly afford to buy cloth, and her little sewing machine was almost on the verge of dying.

  “Um… Melody, when do I get my money?”

  They were heading to the study for the requested meeting with Pamela.

  “Oh, you will get a monthly allowance of two hundred thousand until you get your full inheritance at the end of the year. Plus you will share in the profits from Daddy’s many business ventures. You are rich.”

  Geneva nodded excitedly. That means Jasmine could get as much cloth as she needed and as many sewing machines. She would probably have to rent a shop so that she could look respectable if she were going to have an uptown clientele—Half-Way-Tree might be a good location.

  They stopped at the entrance to the study, and Melody took a deep breath and squeezed Geneva’s hand before they went in.

  A middle-aged woman sat behind a desk in an office with books lining the walls. Her hair was cut in a sleek bob, and it had blonde streaks running through its thick, brown mass. Her eyes were cat-shaped and light brown. The expression in her eyes was cold and hate-filled. Her lips were full and slightly red. She would be beautiful if she smiled, Geneva thought. She looked vaguely familiar. Maybe she had seen her on television. She certainly looked glamorous enough; her skin was well maintained, probably due to hours of spa treatments.

  “What kept you so long?” Pamela asked, looking at Melody before glancing disapprovingly at Geneva. “You are now a Walters, however that came about. From the first time I saw your picture, I knew that I couldn't protest further about your paternity. I have decided to throw a party to welcome you into the family, for the lawyers’ benefit, as well as to show a united front in the face of the many rumors that will be floating about as soon as this becomes public. It will be done in twelve weeks. I figure by that time you will be able to at least show that you are worthy of your last name.”

  “Excuse me,” Geneva said, clearing her throat. She felt a bit afraid of Pamela, the way she looked at her coldly and acted as if she was an insect to be tolerated. “How can I show that I'm worthy of the name?”

  “Atrocious, simply atrocious,” Pamela winced. “Your accent, that whole get up, it speaks ghetto. It just highlights that you are not one of us. I will have to arrange for some tutoring in etiquette and all the social graces that I know you lack.

  “Melody,” she a
dded, turning to her daughter. “I want you to oversee the tutoring. I called Gonzalez last night and he will be flying in from France to help us out. I knew something like this would happen. Luckily, you have a high school education,” she said, turning to Geneva again. “I've arranged for you to be enrolled at the university that Melody attends.”

  She nodded in dismissal, and Melody turned to leave. Geneva stood where she was.

  Pamela looked at her balefully. “Get out of my office and throw away that atrocious wig. You have twelve weeks. If you embarrass me in front of my friends, I will make your year a living hell. Got that?”

  Geneva nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. She had never expected a warm reception, but this was outright hatred.

  “Don’t worry,” Melody said when they were back in Geneva's room. "It will be fun, like a make-over, and if we are really careful, we can avoid my mother most of the time."

  “I miss Froggie. I miss my friends in Black Lane,” Geneva said, sniffling.

  She had never felt so humiliated in all her life. Being rich didn't feel all that great; she got more respect in the ghetto. Stanley Walters should not have made such a ridiculous stipulation in his stupid will. Why couldn’t he have given her the money and let her do what she wanted with it? Pamela was like an evil witch. She hadn’t even said good morning. Stanley Walters, despite his history with her mother, must have been a good father because Melody was as warm as her mother was cold.

  The sisters talked all day. Geneva marveled at how sheltered and naïve Melody was, and Melody cringed at how ignorant and under-exposed Geneva was. They became fast friends despite their differences, and long after both of them had gone to bed, Pamela was up putting together a list of etiquette and good graces that Geneva had to learn.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Pamela was already at the kitchen table when both young ladies came for breakfast. She had her list ready, and after looking disapprovingly at Geneva’s scantily covered body, she started to read aloud.

  “First, I will personally take you to my store.”

  “But… I already have a dressmaker,” Geneva stammered, spilling her juice in the process.

  “No, you don’t,” Pamela said and looked at her sternly. “You can use her for some occasions, but when it comes to lunches, dinners and charity functions, you have to dress like a lady, not a tramp.”

  Melody looked over at Geneva and winked. “Don’t tell her I am using Jasmine,” she mouthed.

  Geneva slid into her seat as Marcia tidied up the spilled juice. The kitchen was on the ground floor of the two-story house. It was huge and had granite counter tops and sleek, modern appliances that looked like they belonged in a space movie. With seats for six, the breakfast table faced the pool and the gardens at the back. To Geneva, it seemed like a great place to start the day if Pamela wasn't around.

  "Second," Pamela continued, "you must speak Standard English. Try and accomplish this sooner than later. You sound like a brawling fisherman's wife on market day."

  “Nothing is wrong with how I speak,” Geneva blurted out self consciously, "and I've never sold fish in my entire life."

  Pamela closed her eyes and started counting to ten loudly.

  When she reached ten, she opened her eyes and continued as if she had not been interrupted. “Third, you will be tutored to appreciate fine music. None of that drivel that I am sure you listen to. I will ask Gonzalez to start you off with classical music. A bit of Beethoven and Haydn should do you well.”

  “Listen here,” Geneva piped up. “There is nothing wrong with…”

  "Don't defend your dancehall music to me," Pamela said snidely, realizing that Geneva was becoming angrier by the second. "I want you to be exposed to the music that our circle of friends like so that you can relate."

  Geneva shrunk back once more and sighed. “This is too hard. I just want to be me.”

  “Impossible,” Pamela snapped. “Not here. When you get your inheritance you can be the laughing stock of the world for all I care, but not while you are living here. This brings me to a sore point: You were living with a man whom you were not married to. That is downright wrong, so I have thought of a story to rectify that.”

  “What!” exclaimed Geneva.

  “You will have to engage him while you are living here. Say he is your fiancé, not your boyfriend.”

  “But Froggie…”

  Pamela held her head in her hands. “What kind of a name is Froggie?”

  “It’s a nice name,” mumbled Geneva. “I think it's nice.”

  “Use his given name when you are mentioning him,” Pamela said, sounding pained. "I am sure he must have one. That’s all for today. We leave at ten for the clothing store.”

  Geneva looked at the various dishes Marcia was putting out on the side table and cursed Pamela in her head. “Stanley Walters didn't have any taste if he hooked up with my mother and you,” she said, the words inadvertently escaping her lips. She wished them back as soon as Pamela looked at her sharply.

  “What?” Pamela growled. “My husband was a rutting beast like any other man. He was satisfying base urges. Your mother was just an under-class whore. How dare you place me in the same category as her?”

  “Mother!” Melody squealed uncomfortable with the viciousness with which Pamela attacked Geneva.

  Geneva felt her body heating up, but then it subsided. Pamela must have been very angry when she found out about her existence, probably betrayed and bitter too. Besides, Geneva couldn’t take umbrage to Pamela calling her mother a whore. For a while, her mother had been dabbling in prostitution to feed her alcohol addiction. She couldn’t deny that.

  “It’s not good to speak ill of the dead,” Geneva remarked calmly. She chose a blueberry muffin and chewed quietly.

  Pamela stared at her for a while, amazed at her calm response, then yelled at Marcia for some chamomile tea.

  ****

  Later the girls retreated to Melody’s room to find something suitable for Geneva to wear to the clothing store. Geneva sat on the bed and stared uninterestedly into Melody’s walk-in closet. She was not in the mood to try on clothes and act girly and excited.

  “Why is she like that?” Geneva asked Melody quietly.

  Melody came out of the closet with a black pants suit and held it up. “Do you like this?”

  Geneva shrugged.

  “Okay… Okay.” Melody went back inside the closet and brought out a casual red dress. “This is a Christian Dior.”

  “Why is your mother so cruel?” Geneva asked, looking unimpressed by the dress before shaking her head.

  “My mother is what you would call chronically unhappy… perpetually troubled… burned by life.” Melody went back into the closet and rifled through the clothes, looking at items and shaking her head.

  “Why?” Geneva asked at the doorway.

  “I have no idea,” Melody said, looking at Geneva. “All I know is that she has always been like that, so you don't have to worry that you are the reason for her bad temper. You are just an easy target. Dad is gone so...”

  “How was her relationship with Stanley? I noticed that she wasn't in his adventure album.”

  Melody sighed. "Let's just say that if there were no Marcia, I wouldn't know what a mother's warmth is—my mother sees life in dollars and cents. Dad used to say that she is unhappy about many things so we have to accommodate her. They didn’t have a Cosby marriage. That’s for sure.”

  "It must be terrible being unhappy for twenty-five years," Geneva remarked and held out her hand for the blue dress in Melody’s hand. “This is it.”

  “Dad used to avoid her a lot. When I was younger, I was afraid of her. My grandmother is the same, very cold and mean. Grandfather is the same as Dad was, warm and happy-go-lucky. Mom has a younger sister, but the family never speaks about her.”

  “It fits nicely,” Melody said, glancing at Geneva in the mirror. “It’s amazing how alike we are, though you are a bit more endowed in all the right pla
ces. Same skin, same hair, same features. I always thought I had my mother’s nose, but you have it too.”

  “That’s a scary coincidence,” Geneva said and twirled in the mirror, “having a similarity to the Great Witch Pamela.”

  Melody groaned. “I should reprimand you for calling her that, but facts are facts. Let’s go before we upset her by being late.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The weeks that followed were a whirlwind for Geneva. She was constantly amazed by the difference in lifestyle when money was not an issue. Whenever she looked in the mirror, she didn't recognize herself. The lovely, colorful wigs she loved to wear were confiscated and burnt by Pamela. Her clothes were all replaced with ones from designers she heard were good—she still felt as if Jasmine could have done a better job, but she withheld her opinion lest she was treated to a Pamela explosion.

  The explosions were frequent and deadly; they attacked every aspect of her past life. Geneva was slowly beginning to realize that torture was Pamela’s only relief from her unhappiness, and she was a very easy target for Pamela's acerbic tongue.

  The lawyer, Mr. Davis, came by to check on her progress and was astonished to see her. She wasn't the same girl he had dropped off on the first of January. She was also talking more carefully now. Every time she said a word in patois, Pamela would stare at her hard until she corrected herself. She felt as if she was in a fancy finishing school with a dragon for a headmistress.

  She longed to go back to Black Lane to see her friends, but because of the ongoing feud with Fourteenth Street, Froggie had declared the area unsafe to visit. Geneva spoke to him on the phone, but he sounded distant and spoke to her as if she was a stranger. Her pleadings for them to meet in a neutral area were met with silence, and Geneva was left confused. Froggie had been the only stable, sane person in her life, and she wasn't doing well without him. After weeks with Pamela and getting her self-esteem constantly kicked to the ground, the ghetto was looking more and more attractive. At least, there she was comfortable in her own skin.