Distant+Whispers

for all of the Catholics to get things right with God.”
“And another thing, Petra,” her mother placed her fingers to her lips, “what about—”
Petra smiled and waved her finger. “Noooo, mommy! You’re just asking questions to get me to
stay. I have to go.”
“It’s still early, Petra,” her mother whined. “Wait a while. Yuh cousin Nigel go reach soon. When
de las’ time yuh talk wit’ he?”
“Nigel?” Petra looked nervously at the main road. “Oh Gawd no!” Petra grabbed her bag. “Ah
gone, mommy, ah gone!”
Mommy put on one of her fake pouts. “Aww, Petra. De two of yuh were so close. Since small.
Yuh angry wit he?”
There was genuine concern in her mother’s voice. Nigel’s place in mommy’s life was almost
equal to Petra’s. Mommy had raised Nigel after the tragedy in his life that took his mother.
Petra hesitated. Life had not been kind to Nigel and she had been a part of that. Despite all of his
success, Nigel still harbored bitterness because of the way that some of the girls at Saint Joseph’s
Convent had belittled him. Because of that, Nigel’s racial animosity was almost equal to mommy’s.
The evils of racism and classism. That’s all Nigel talked about. Petra shuddered at the thought of
having to confront Nigel.
“No, mommy,” she said, backing away across the yard, looking both ways for Nigel’s approach.
“I’m just busy, that’s all.” Her mother poked her lips even further. “Stop it, mommy! I really do have
to go. I need to get to my apartment in St. Ann’s before the bacchanal starts and the roads are too
jammed up.”
“Um-hmm!” The pout faded from her mother’s face. “Okay then. Bye bye,” her mother said,
without emotion. She turned abruptly from Petra and gazed out over the hills.
Petra wilted, as her mother knew she would, and walked backed to her mother. She touched the
woman’s shoulders and her mother angled her cheek for Petra’s expected kiss.
“I love you, mommy,” Petra whispered.
As Petra turned to leave, her mother placed a hand on her daughter’s arm. Her eyes bored into
Petra. “Be strong, Petra. Remember, yuh from Laventille. Yuh a fighta. When dem push, don’ just
stand dere, push dem back!” She furrowed her brows and inspected her daughter’s face. “Yuh
lis’nin?”
“Yes, mommy. I’m listening.”
Petra eased her late model Toyota down the deeply rutted Picton Road, trying to quell the
uneasiness in her belly. The vista of the Gulf of Paria and the twin towers of the Eric Williams
Financial Center, which housed TnTClaims, disappeared as she entered the valley of haphazard
shanties held together by sticks and stones, foraged bricks and cardboard.
She weaved her way through a caravan of vendors descending into Town. Dark muscular backs
were bent under the weight of huge water coolers filled with chilled beer while women with thick
hips and smooth, girlish, chocolate faces distinguished by full cheeks balanced large containers on
their heads.
As her car passed they swiveled their heads and smiled greetings towards her. Good morning
Petra! She smiled and beeped her horn. The vendors began leaning towards others and pointing
towards her car. The word quickly spread. It’s Petra! Our Petra! Other faces turned towards her car,