Where the heart is ...

Kristine Atterbury, Contributor

Duane awoke to the acrid, slightly sweet smell of breadfruit roasting on the gas stove. He stretched his legs towards the foot of the bed comfortably, feeling contentment in the familiarity of the sounds the house made at this time of the morning. He could hear the chickens clucking right outside his window, and the slow, dragging gait of his grandfather as he fed the animals. He could hear the creak of the wood beneath his father's heavy footsteps, and the whistling of the morning breeze through the windows. Nestled high upon a hill in Fern Gully, the home of his childhood felt almost like a different planet in comparison to the city of Chicago. He regretted staying away so long.

The door was thrown open and his mother barged through it in her usual way. She smiled at him, took a look around the room and began picking up the clothes he had left on the floor after arriving late the night before.

"Morning, darlin'. Go outside and pick some lime for me nuh?"

Duane shook his head and sat up. You would never know four years had gone by.

As he stepped outside, the morning sun assaulted his eyes but the warmth felt good on his bare back. He walked across the yard barefoot, enjoying the feel of the damp, springy grass between his toes. He knew the way well, stepping past the boundary of his parents' backyard and along a well-worn path that cut through the large bushes and shrubs that clogged the hillside.

The lime tree stood where it had always been, the heavy green globes protected by thorns all along the branches. Duane reached gingerly into the tree, grabbing each lime and twisting it quickly to avoid the backlash of the sharp branches. He was trying to coax a particularly large one from its anchor when he heard a rustle ahead of him. He looked up and his heart nearly stopped.

She stood just a few feet away from him, her eyes wide, her mouth frozen into a perfect O. She was wearing pink shorts and a large white T-shirt that exposed one shoulder, her smooth brown skin shining beneath the rays of sun streaming through the coconut trees. Her hair was carelessly pulled into a short ponytail that rested loosely at the top of her head. Tiny strands clung to her damp hairline. She was sweating and as beautiful as ever.

Stunned

Duane swallowed and tried to shift his mouth into gear, but before he could speak she spun around and slipped through the trees quickly, disappearing almost instantly. He finally found his voice.

"Nala!" he shouted after her. As he let go of the lime, the branch flew out of his grasp and caught him right under the chin, the tiny thorns raking across his skin. He winced and cursed under his breath, before looking back at the spot where Nala had disappeared. He wondered if he should go after her. But what would he say?

He picked up the bag of limes he had collected and pushed his way through the bushes irritably.

As he veered back into the yard, muttering under his breath, his mother stood in the doorway, an expectant look on her face. He pushed the bag of limes into her hands and gave her a glare.

"You knew she was going be down there, don't it?"

Her face was expressionless, as she looked right back at him.

"Time to eat." And with that, she turned to set the table.

After breakfast, Duane worked with his father on the road, making deliveries. He spent the day thinking about Nala. Could the hurt have lasted all this time? Could she really still be angry with him?

He had thought about her often while he suffered through his first few Chicago winters. He survived every bitter snowfall, every drop of freezing rain by remembering the sand beneath his feet and Nala's warm, sun-kissed body in his arms. They had practically grown up together, their houses just a few minutes walk away from each other. Nala was two years younger and as a child she followed him everywhere, treating him with open adoration. He taught her how to catch a jellyfish without getting stung, how to break open a coconut, how to climb the winding branches of the large plum tree so she could reach the fat, juicy red plums that hung hidden in the top branches. And after they grew out of running and climbing, and turned to spending their time walking slowly along the seaside looking for treasures thrown up from the reef, he taught her how to kiss.

Different paths

He remembered the day that adoring light went out of her eyes. Nala was only 18 when she decided that she knew what she wanted to do for the rest of her life. Duane sat in muted horror as she talked about getting married, having five children just like her parents, building their own house, and taking over her father's farm. And when she waited excitedly for his response, he didn't know how to tell her what he wanted.

At 20, Duane wanted to go out and see the world. He wanted to see what other countries looked like, the way other people lived. He secretly wanted to know what it was like to touch another woman. When he tried to explain his feelings, the words came out sounding cold and halted.

After she left, her face pale and pinched, Duane didn't have the courage to face her again. So when his scholarship came through, he left without saying goodbye. He never called her, not even when he felt lonely and displaced. Not even when the women of Chicago repulsed him with their bright red lipstick, loud voices, stifling perfume, and heavy braids that hung down to their bottoms. Not that he didn't enjoy himself with a few girls, but there was no one like Nala.

That night, following his instincts, he made his way down the hill, through the downtown area, and onto the tiny strip of beach where the fishermen kept their boats tied to an old wooden dock.

Old longing

She was there. Her feet bare on the damp sand that shimmered in the moonlight, her hands hanging loosely by her side, hands that were rough from working around the farm, but with fingers that were long and elegantly shaped. Her hair was pinned up like it always was in a loose bun at the top of her head. But something was different: a tattoo at the nape of her neck, an intricate blue hibiscus. It made her seem older somehow, different from the little Nala he remembered. And she was different, he saw, the orange cotton dress she wore doing little to hide the roundness of her hips and thighs and the swell of her breasts. Yes she was different, and now he was facing her, and he saw that there was no adoration in her eyes, but something bold and new and exciting.

He felt an old longing ignite inside him, and he abandoned all the things he had wanted to say to her when he saw the same feeling mirrored in her eyes. There, by the tiny strip of beach they had discovered as children, he held her and kissed her, focusing on the feel and shape and warmth of her. The newness of her. The familiarity of her.

It was time to come back home.