Black Cake: A Novel by Charmaine Wilkerson Page A

thought of her cakes.
    Mathilda and Pearl pocketed and divided up their cake profits and gained a few well-placed admirers in the process, women with the right surnames and enough funds to get things done. Some of whom, over time, had come to understand the misfortunes that could befall a woman with fewer material resources.
    One day, those alliances would come to bear fruit and change the course of Covey’s life. But until then, Covey had no idea that her mummy would leave the island with the help of a former customer. She did not know that Pearl would remain in her father’s employ, in part, to keep an eye on her. Covey was too young to understand what it meant to be a mother, what it must have taken for Mathilda to leave. She only knew that black cake meant sisterhood and a kitchen full of laughter.

Covey
     
    I n the spring of 1965, Covey’s life veered onto the path that would eventually connect her to Eleanor Bennett. The kitchen floor was littered with tamarind pods that day. They crackled underfoot as her father approached.
    “Mmm, tamarind balls,” her pa said, reaching into the bowl and pinching a bit of pulp as Covey kneaded it together with sugar. Pearl, described by some as the best cook in the parish, had taught Covey to mix in a touch of Scotch bonnet pepper and a few drops of rum before separating the pulp into balls, though Covey’s favorite way of eating tamarind was still fresh out of the pod, scooped up off the dirt floor under the tree, cracked open, pulled away from the stringy bits and dipped right into a bowl of sugar before being popped fully into the mouth, the tartness of the fruit drawing her face tight.
    Covey batted away her father’s hand. As he laughed, she noted a solicitous tone to his voice, a tone that rode up her back and stiffened it into a wall of resistance. When Covey’s father mentioned Clarence Henry, she knew it meant trouble.
    “Little Man?” Covey said. “What business does that delinquent have coming to our house?”
    “Clarence Henry,” Lin said, insisting on using the man’s formal name instead of the nickname he’d earned for his massive shoulders, “is coming around to see you.”
    “To see me? What for?”
    “I think he’s coming to court you.”
    Covey let out a sharp laugh. “ Court me?” She didn’t know which sounded more ludicrous, the idea that Little Man would be so genteel as to court anyone or the idea that she was expected to entertain a visit from a gangster and bully of a man who was nearly as old as her father. From what Covey had heard, Little Man wasn’t the type of person who should be welcome in anyone’s home, not even on a Sunday.
    “Court me? And what mek dat man tink …?”
    “Patois!” That’s all her father ever had to say to stop her from slipping into the dialect, which had always been off-limits to her.
    She began again. “Where did that man get the idea that he could come around to court me, when you don’t even think I’m old enough to go down to the beach with my friends?”
    “I never said you couldn’t go down to the beach, I said you shouldn’t go swimming out in the blasted sea alone in the middle of a bloody hurricane.” Swearing, on the other hand, was not off-limits to her father.
    “It wasn’t really a hurricane, Pa.”
    “No, of course not, just a deadly little storm.”
    “Plus, I wasn’t on my own.”
    “I was there, too, remember? I saw how you were not on your own. I saw how you had to pull the so-called safety boat to safety. What a joke.” Her father put his hands on his hips. “And, anyway, that is neither here nor there, young lady. Clarence Henry is coming around this afternoon, so you’d better go and get yourself cleaned up.”
    “Clarence Henry can come around to court you, Pa, I will not be here.”
    “Oh, yes, you will, Coventina.” Her father raised his voice in that way he often did when he’d been at the drink, but there was a softness around the eyes, a kind of question.