St. Thomas By Arya F. Jenkins

​ST. THOMAS

​

         We arrive jet lagged from New York, dad sure that our being red-eyed means we’re buzzed on something. 
       “What did you drink, you poor baby?” He kisses Sissy on the cheek at the airport. “You’re 17! You bad, bad kids.” He wraps my hair around one hand, tourniquet-style, and turns it into a man bun, then slaps me on the back. We’re all wearing khaki shorts, white shirts and flip flops. Our knobby knees give away our familial connection. Dad, who is wearing a Panama hat and has acquired the seasoned dark red tan of an island alky, is hammered at 11 AM.
       As it’s super sunny in St. Thomas and we’re quite fair, I suggest picking up sun block on the way to dad’s condo. We know he has a pool, where we expect to crash for the next few days. In my backpack are two sets of bathing suits, Sis’s and mine, and two toothbrushes. Anything else we will buy. 
       “No way,” he says, flourishing his nail-bitten hands, a new thing. “We have to go to this place, I have to show you. What do you think I invited you dopers here for anyway? Come on!”
       Everything is exaggerated with him normally, and especially when he drinks. He’s wearing all these cheap rings on his hands that look like they were picked up at some pirate shop. I put a hand on Sis’s shoulder as we slip into a cab. 
       A few minutes later we’re seated in a restaurant called Grace’s Café that by the way dad talks about it, you would think was the prize at the end of a rainbow. Colorful island paintings decorate the stone walls and a long mirrored bar flanks one side.
       “Is it new?” Sis sips her water like it’s a Long Island Iced Tea, conservatively, through a straw, blondish hair strands falling over her eyes. She’s in cautious mode because dad is drinking, and we know what that means. He will get very loud and we will feel humiliated before it’s all over and he passes out. Dad orders a Margarita, and so do I because what else is there to do. 
        He’s talking a mile a minute, waving his arms explaining, “There was this really bad fire in an alleyway. Everything burned to the ground, including Grace’s, which was smaller, so yeah, this is new. Don’t you love the bamboo stools at the bar? This place is so cool. You kids like Creole food, right? Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re here. We are going to have such a fucking good time. Crazy, right?”
        Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Sis bending over her drink, responding with a slightly raised eyebrow.
       “We’re going out on a boat. I know this guy--” Sis and I give each other a look that says this we’ll be sure to avoid, being alone with him out at sea.
       “This guy knows fucking everything about sailing and the island,” he says.
       The real sign he is pie-eyed is he when he starts swearing. I don’t know if he thinks it’s cool or what, but even here with nobody we know around, it just makes us cringe.
        Sis is wearing a blank stare, just sipping, slumped, trying to act invisible. She’s slung her Burberry bag over her opposite shoulder as if to guard against other dangers besides the obvious one sitting across from her. While dad goes on about the “fucking suntan you guys are going to get by the pool to make everybody jealous in Greenwich, including your mother, ha, ha, ha,” I undo the man bun he made, pulling my hair back into the elastic hair band I carry next to my green Eco-friendly wrist band, a move he doesn’t notice of course.
       We all order burgers, which here come with rice and plantains. While Sis and I eat slowly, trying to savor what there is, dad keeps talking while shoving food around his plate with a fork, and I realize this may be all the food we get for a while as dad’s condo is probably stocked with booze only—maybe sodas, if we’re lucky.
        Afterward, Sis and I just sit, hands on our laps, dead-eyed, the way we would at home before being excused. If mom was around, we’d book so they could duke it out alone.
       “Harvard! Ha! If your frat buddies could see you now.”
       “You’re a class A bitch.”
       “Well at least we have class A kids.”
       This is probably running through Sis’s head too—memories of how it used to be. Fun times. 
       Our waitress, a black lady with a short Afro, black skirt and yellow tank top is making a fuss over us, pointing to dad, “you good?” placing a hand on my shoulder as she goes around to pour more water into Sis’s glass. By noon, half an hour after Sis and I have finished eating, dad is three drinks in, his plate still full. An older couple sitting next to us, he with a slight gray beard, she, with this I-know-what-you-must-be-going-through look keep glancing our way. It’s something we’re used to.
      Finally, during the only lull in his conversation, when I think he’s nodding off, dad pulls out a credit card and pays the bill. Sis and I practically run to the door. “Wait, wait, I’m missing something, I’m sure,” he says. Looking back, I see him teetering in place, hat askew, as he pokes through his wallet, which looks empty from here. For a moment I imagine he’s just a stranger, and I wish I had something to give him because he looks like a hobo standing there alone in his own little world. Then he looks up, sees us, snaps his fingers as if recalling something else he has to tell us, something we’ve probably already heard. 
                                                                                                                              *    *    *    *
​

Arya F. Jenkins is a Colombian-American poet and writer whose fiction has been published in journals and zines such as About Place Journal, Across the Margins, Anti-Heroin Chic, Cleaver Magazine, Eunoia Review, Five on the Fifth, Fictional Café, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Matador Review, Metafore Literary Magazine, Mojave Literary Review, Vol. 1 Sunday Stories Series, and Provincetown Arts Magazine. Her fiction has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize. She is the author of three poetry chapbooks. Her short story collection BLUE SONGS IN AN OPEN KEY (Fomite, 2018) is here: www.aryafjenkins.com.

---