Skin Folk by Nalo Hopkinson Page B

happy.
    Beatrice gave in more to Samuel’s diffident wooing. He was cultured and well spoken. He had been abroad, talked of exotic
     sports: ice hockey, downhill skiing. He took her to fancy restaurants she’d only heard of, that her other, young, unestablished
     boyfriends would never have been able to afford, and would probably only have embarrassed her if they had taken her. Samuel
     had polish. But he was humble, too, like the way he grew his own vegetables, or the self-deprecating tone in which he spoke
     of himself. He was always punctual, always courteous to her and her mother. Beatrice could count on him for little things,
     like picking her up after class, or driving her mother to the hairdresser’s. With the other men, she always had to be on guard:
     pouting until they took her somewhere else for dinner, not another free meal in her mother’s restaurant, wheedling them into
     using the condoms. She always had to hold something of herself shut away. With Samuel, Beatrice relaxed into trust.

    “Beatrice, come! Come quick, nuh!”
    Beatrice ran in from the backyard at the sound of her mother’s voice. Had something happened to Mummy?
    Her mother was sitting at the kitchen table, knife still poised to crack an egg into the bowl for the pound cake she was making
     to take to the shop. She was staring in openmouthed delight at Samuel, who was fretfully twisting the long stems on a bouquet
     of blood-red roses. “Lord, Beatrice; Samuel say he want to marry you!”
    Beatrice looked to Sammy for verification. “Samuel,” she asked unbelievingly, “what you saying? Is true?”
    He nodded yes. “True, Beatrice.”
    Something gave way in Beatrice’s chest, gently as a long-held breath. Her heart had been trapped in glass, and he’d freed
     it.

    They’d been married two months later. Mummy was retired now; Samuel had bought her a little house in the suburbs, and he paid
     for the maid to come in three times a week. In the excitement of planning for the wedding, Beatrice had let her studying slip.
     To her dismay she finished her final year of university with barely a C average.
    “Never mind, sweetness,” Samuel told her. “I didn’t like the idea of you studying, anyway. Is for children. You’re a big woman
     now.” Mummy had agreed with him too, said she didn’t need all that now. She tried to argue with them, but Samuel was very
     clear about his wishes, and she’d stopped, not wanting anything to cause friction between them just yet. Despite his genteel
     manner, Samuel had just a bit of a temper. No point in crossing him, it took so little to make him happy, and he was her love,
     the one man she’d found in whom she could have faith.
    Too besides, she was learning how to be the lady of the house, trying to use the right mix of authority and jocularity with
     Gloria, the maid, and Cleitis, the yardboy who came twice a month to do the mowing and the weeding. Odd to be giving orders
     to people when she was used to being the one taking orders, in Mummy’s shop. It made her feel uncomfortable to tell people
     to do her work for her. Mummy said she should get used to it, it was her right now.
    The sky rumbled with thunder. Still no rain. The warmth of the day was nice, but you could have too much of a good thing.
     Beatrice opened her mouth, gasping a little, trying to pull more air into her lungs. She was a little short of breath nowadays
     as the baby pressed on her diaphragm. She knew she could go inside for relief from the heat, but Samuel kept the air-conditioning
     on high, so cold that they could keep the butter in its dish on the kitchen counter. It never went rancid. Even insects refused
     to come inside. Sometimes Beatrice felt as though the house were really somewhere else, not the tropics. She had been used
     to waging constant war against ants and cockroaches, but not in Samuel’s house. The cold in it made Beatrice shiver, dried
     her eyes out until they felt like boiled eggs sitting in