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I did not see her at first I remember. For not only was it dark inside the crowded disembarkation shed in spite of the daylight flooding in from outside, but standing there waiting for her with my mother and sister I was still somewhat blinded from the sheen of tropical sunlight on the water of the bay which we had just crossed in the landing boat, leaving behind us the ship that had brought us from New York lying in the offing. Besides, being only nine years of age at the time and knowing nothing of islands I was busy attending to the alien sights and sounds of Barbados, the unfamiliar smells.

I did not see her, but I was alerted to her approach by my mother’s hand which suddenly tightened around mine, and looking up I traced her gaze through the gloom in the shed until I finally made out the small, purposeful, painfully erect figure of the old woman headed our way.

Her face was drowned in the shadow of an ugly rolled-brim brown felt hat, but the details of her slight body and of the struggle taking place within it were clear enough—an intense, unrelenting struggle between her back which was beginning to bend ever so slightly under the weight of her eighty—odd years and the rest of her which sought to deny those years and hold that back straight, keep it in line. Moving swiftly toward us (so swiftly it seemed she did not intend stopping when she reached us but would sweep past us out the doorway which opened onto the sea and like Christ walk upon the water!), she was caught between the sunlight at her end of the building and the darkness inside—and for a moment she appeared to contain them both: the light in the long severe old-fashioned white dress she wore which brought the sense of a past that was still alive into our bustling present and in the snatch of white at her eye; the darkness in her black high-top shoes and in her face which was visible now that she was closer.

It was as stark and fleshless as a death mask, that face. The maggots might have already done their work, leaving only the framework of bone beneath the ruined skin and deep wells at the temple and jaw. But her eyes were alive, unnervingly so for one so old, with a sharp light that flicked out of the dim clouded depths like a lizard’s tongue to snap up all in her view. Those eyes betrayed a child’s curiosity about the world, and I wondered vaguely seeing them, and seeing the way the bodice of her ancient dress had collapsed in on her flat chest (what had happened to her breasts?), whether she might not be some kind of child at the same time that she was a woman, with fourteen children, my mother included, to prove it. Perhaps she was both, bath child and woman, darkness and light, past and present, life and death—all the opposites contained and reconciled in her.

“My Da—duh,” my mother said formally and stepped forward. The name sounded like thunder fading softly in the distance.

“Child,” Da-duh said, and her tone, her quick scrutiny of my mother, the brief embrace in which they appeared to shy from each other rather than touch, wiped out the fifteen years my mother had been away and restored the old relationship. My mother, who was such a formidable figure in my eyes, had suddenly with a word been reduced to my status.

“Yes, God is good,” Da-duh said with a nod that was like a tic. “He has spared me to see my child again.”

We were led forward then, apologetically because not only did Da-duh prefer boys but she also liked her grandchildren to be “white,” that is, fair-skinned; and we had, I was to discover, a number of cousins, the outside children of white estate managers and the like, who qualified. We, though, were as black as she.

My sister being the oldest was presented first. “This one takes after the father,” my mother said and waited to be reproved.

Frowning, Da-duh tilted my sister’s face toward the light. But her frown soon gave way to a grudging smile, for my sister with her large mild eyes and little broad winged nose, with our father’s high-cheeked Barbadian cast to her face, was pretty.

“She’s goin’ be lucky,” Da-duh said and patted her once on the cheek. “Any girl child that takes after the father does be lucky.”

She turned then to me. But oddly enough she did not touch me. Instead leaning close, she peered hard at me, and then quickly drew back. I thought I saw her hand start up as though to shield her eyes. It was almost as if she saw not only me, a thin truculent child who it was said took after no one but myself, but something in me which for some reason she found disturbing, even threatening. We looked silently at each other for a long time there in the noisy shed, our gaze locked. She was the first to look away.

“But Adry,” she said to my mother and her laugh was cracked, thin, apprehensive. “Where did you get this one here with this fierce look?”

“We don’t know where she came out of, my Da-duh,” my mother said, laughing also. Even I smiled to myself. After all I had won the encounter. Da-duh had recognized my small strength—and this was all I ever asked of the adults in my life then.

“Come, soul,” Da-duh said and took my hand. “You must be one of those New York terrors you hear so much about.”

She led us, me at her side and my sister and mother behind, out of the shed into the sunlight that was like a bright driving summer rain and over to a group of people clustered beside a decrepit lorry. They were our relatives, most of them from St. Andrews although Da-duh herself lived in St. Thomas, the women wearing bright print dresses, the colors vivid against their darkness, the men rusty black suits that encased them like strait-jackets. Da-duh, holding fast to my hand, became my anchor as they circled round us like a nervous sea, exclaiming, touching us with their calloused hands, embracing us shyly. They laughed in awed bursts: “But look Adry got big-big children!”/ “And see the nice things they wearing, wrist watch and all!”/ “I tell you, Adry has done all right for sheself in New York. . .”

Da-duh, ashamed at their wonder, embarrassed for them. admonished them the while. “But oh Christ,” she said, “why you all got to get on like you never saw people from ‘Away’ before? You would think New York is the only place in the world to hear wunna. That’s why I don’t like to go anyplace with you St. Andrews people, you know. You all ain’t been colonized.”

We were in the back of the lorry finally, packed in among the barrels of ham, flour, cornmeal and rice and the trunks of clothes that my mother had brought as gifts. We made our way slowly through Bridgetown’s clogged streets, part of a funereal procession of cars and open-sided buses, bicycles and donkey carts. The dim little limestone shops and offices along the way marched with us, at the same moumful pace, toward the same grave ceremony—as did the people, the women balancing huge baskets on top their heads as if they were no more than hats they wore to shade them from the sun. Looking over the edge of the lorry I watched as their feet slurred the dust. I listened, and their voices, raw and loud and dissonant in the heat, seemed to be grappling with each other high overhead.

Da-duh sat on a trunk in our midst, a monarch amid her court. She still held my hand, but it was different now. I had suddenly become her anchor, for I felt her fear of the lorry with its asthmatic motor (a fear and distrust, I later learned, she held of all machines) beating like a pulse in her rough palm.

As soon as we left Bridgetown behind though, she relaxed, and while the others around us talked she gazed at the canes standing tall on either side of the winding marl road. “C’dear,” she said softly to herself after a time. “The canes this side are pretty enough.”

They were too much for me. I thought of them as giant weeds that had overrun the island, leaving scarcely any room for the small tottering houses of sunbleached pine we passed or the people, dark streaks as our lorry hurtled by. I suddenly feared that we were journeying, unaware that we were, toward some dangerous place where the canes, grown as high and thick as a forest, would close in on us and run us through with their stiletto blades. I longed then for the familiar: for the street in Brooklyn where I lived, for my father who had refused to accompany us (“Blowing out good money on foolishness,” he had said of the trip), for a game of tag with my friends under the chestnut tree outside our aging brownstone house.

“Yes, but wait till you see St. Thomas canes,” Da-duh was saying to me. “They’s canes father, bo,” she gave a proud arrogant nod. “Tomorrow, God willing, I goin’ take you out in the ground and show them to you.”

True to her word Da-duh took me with her the following day out into the ground. It was a fairly large plot adjoining her weathered board and shingle house and consisting of a small orchard, a good-sized canepiece and behind the canes, where the land sloped abruptly down, a gully. She had purchased it with Panama money sent her by her eldest son, my uncle Joseph, who had died working on the canal. We entered the ground along a trail no wider than her body and as devious and complex as her reasons for showing me her land. Da-duh strode briskly ahead, her slight form filled out this morning by the layers of sacking petticoats she wore under her working dress to protect her against the damp. A fresh white cloth, elaborately arranged around her head, added to her height, and lent her a vain, almost roguish air.

Her pace slowed once we reached the orchard, and glancing back at me occasionally over her shoulder, she pointed out the various trees.

“This here is a breadfruit,” she said. “That one yonder is a papaw. Here’s a guava. This is a mango. I know you don’t have anything like these in New York. Here’s a sugar apple.” (The fruit looked more like artichokes than apples to me.) “This one bears limes. . . .” She went on for some time, intoning the names of the trees as though they were those of her gods. Finally, turning to me, she said, “I know you don’t have anything this nice where you come from.” Then, as I hesitated: “I said I know you don’t have anything this nice where you come from. . . .”

“No,” I said and my world did seem suddenly lacking.

Da-duh nodded and passed on. The orchard ended and we were on the narrow cart road that led through the canepiece, the canes clashing like swords above my cowering head. Again she turned and her thin muscular arms spread wide, her dim gaze embracing the small field of canes, she said—and her voice almost broke under the weight of her pride, “Tell me, have you got anything like these in that place where you were born?”

“No.”

“I din’ think so. I bet you don’t even know that these canes here and the sugar you eat is one and the same thing. That they does throw the canes into some damn machine at the factory and squeeze out all the little life in them to make sugar for you all so in New York to eat. I bet you don’t know that.”

“I’ve got two cavities and I’m not allowed to eat a lot of sugar.”

But Da-duh didn’t hear me. She had turned with an inexplicably angry motion and was making her way rapidly out of the canes and down the slope at the edge of the field which led to the gully below. Following her apprehensively down the incline amid a stand of banana plants whose leaves flapped like elephants ears in the wind, I found myself in the middle of a small tropical wood—a place dense and damp and gloomy and tremulous with the fitful play of light and shadow as the leaves high above moved against the sun that was almost hidden from view. It was a violent place, the tangled foliage fighting each other for a chance at the sunlight, the branches of the trees locked in what seemed an immemorial struggle, one both necessary and inevitable. But despite the violence, it was pleasant, almost peaceful in the gully, and beneath the thick undergrowth the earth smelled like spring.

This time Da-duh didn’t even bother to ask her usual question, but simply turned and waited for me to speak.

“No.” I said, my head bowed. “We don’t have anything like this in New York.”

“Ah,” she cried, her triumph complete. “I din’ think so. Why, I’ve heard that’s a place where you can walk till you near drop and never see a tree.”

“We’ve got a chestnut tree in front of our house,” I said.

“Does it bear?” She waited. “I ask you, does it bear?”

“Not anymore,” I muttered. “It used to, but not anymore.”

She gave the nod that was like a nervous twitch. “You see,” she said. “Nothing can bear there.” Then, secure behind her scorn, she added, “But tell me, what’s this snow like that you hear so much about?”

Looking up, I studied her closely, sensing my chance, and then I told her, describing at length and with as much drama as I could summon not only what snow in the city was like, but what it would be like here, in her perennial summer kingdom.

“. . . And you see all these trees you got here.” I said. “Well, they’d be bare. No leaves, no fruit, nothing. They’d be covered in snow. You see your canes. They’d be buried under tons of snow. The snow would be higher than your head, higher than your house, and you wouldn’t be able to come down into this here gully because it would be snowed under. . . .”

She searched my face for the lie, still scornful but intrigued. “What a thing, huh?” she said finally, whispering it softly to herself.

“And when it snows you couldn’t dress like you are now,” I said. “Oh no, you’d freeze to death. You’d have to wear a hat and gloves and galoshes and ear muffs so your ears wouldn’t freeze and drop off, and a heavy coat. I’ve got a Shirley Temple coat with fur on the collar. I can dance. You wanna see?”

Before she could answer I began, with a dance called the Truck which was popular back then in the 1930’s. My right forefinger waving, I trucked around the nearby trees and around Da-duh’s awed and rigid form. After the Truck I did the Suzy-Q, my lean hips swishing, my sneakers sidling zigzag over the ground. “I can sing,” I said and did so, starting with “I’m Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter,” then without pausing, “Tea For Two,” and ending with “I Found a Million Dollar Baby in a Five and Ten Cent Store.”

For long moments afterwards Da-duh stared at me as if I were a creature from Mars, an emissary from some world she did not know but which intrigued her and whose power she both felt and feared. Yet something about my performance must have pleased her, because bending down she slowly lifted her long skirt and then, one by one, the layers of petticoats until she came to a drawstring purse dangling at the end of a long strip of cloth tied round her waist. Opening the purse she handed me a penny. “Here,” she said half-smiling against her will. “Take this to buy yourself a sweet at the shop up the road. There’s nothing to be done with you, soul.”

From then on, whenever I wasn’t taken to visit relatives, I accompanied Da-duh out into the ground, and alone with her amid the canes or down in the gully I told her about New York. It always began with some slighting remark on her part: “I know they don’t have anything this nice where you come from,” or “Tell me, I hear those foolish people in New York does do such and such. . . But as I answered, recreating my towering world of steel and concrete and machines for her, building the city out of words, I would feel her give way. I came to know the signs of her surrender: the total stillness that would come over her little hard dry form, the probing gaze that like a surgeon’s knife sought to cut through my skull to get at the images there, to see if I were lying; above all, her fear, a fear nameless and profound, the same one I had felt beating in the palm of her hand that day in the lorry.

Over the weeks I told her about refrigerators, radios, gas stoves, elevators, trolley cars, wringer washing machines, movies, airplanes, the cyclone at Coney Island, subways, toasters, electric lights: “At night, see, all you have to do is flip this little switch on the wall and all the lights in the house go on. Just like that. Like magic. It’s like turning on the sun at night.”

“But tell me,” she said to me once with a faint mocking smile, “do the white people have all these things too or it’s only the people looking like us?”

I laughed. “What d’ya mean,” I said. “The white people have even better.” Then: “I beat up a white girl in my class last term.”

“Beating up white people!” Her tone was incredulous.

“How you mean!” I said, using an expression of hers. “She called me a name.”

For some reason Da-duh could not quite get over this and repeated in the same hushed, shocked voice, “Beating up white people now! Oh, the lord, the world’s changing up so I can scarce recognize it anymore.”

One morning toward the end of our stay. Da-duh led me into a part of the gully that we had never visited before, an area darker and more thickly overgrown than the rest, almost impenetrable. There in a small clearing amid the dense bush, she stopped before an incredibly tall royal palm which rose cleanly out of the ground, and drawing the eye up with it, soared high above the trees around it into the sky. It appeared to be touching the blue dome of sky, to be flaunting its dark crown of fronds right in the blinding white face of the late morning sun.

Da-duh watched me a long time before she spoke, and then she said very quietly, “All right, now, tell me if you’ve got anything this tall in that place you’re from.”

I almost wished, seeing her face, that I could have said no. “Yes,” I said. “We’ve got buildings hundreds of times this tall in New York. There’s one called the Empire State building that’s the tallest in the world. My class visited it last year and I went all the way to the top. It’s got over a hundred floors. I can’t describe how tall it is. Wait a minute. What’s the name of that hill I went to visit the other day, where they have the police station?

“You mean Bissex?”

“Yes, Bissex. Well, the Empire State Building is way taller than that.”

“You’re lying now!” she shouted, trembling with rage. Her hand lifted to strike me.

“No, I’m not,” I said. “It really is, if you don’t believe me I’ll send you a picture postcard of it soon as I get back home so you can see for yourself. But it’s way taller than Bissex.”

All the fight went out of her at that. The hand poised to strike me fell limp to her side, and as she stared at me, seeing not me but the building that was taller than the highest hill she knew, the small stubborn light in her eyes (it was the same amber as the flame in the kerosene lamp she lit at dusk) began to fail. Finally, with a vague gesture that even in the midst of her defeat still tried to dismiss me and my world, she turned and started back through the gully, walking slowly, her steps groping and uncertain, as if she were suddenly no longer sure of the way, while I followed triumphant yet strangely saddened behind.

The next morning I found her dressed for our morning walk but stretched out on the Berbice chair in the tiny drawing room where she sometimes napped during the afternoon heat, her face turned to the window beside her. She appeared thinner and suddenly indescribably old.

“My Da-duh,” I said.

“Yes, nuh,” she said. Her voice was listless and the face she slowly turned my way was, now that I think back on it, like a Benin mask, the features drawn and almost distorted by an ancient abstract sorrow.

“Don’t you feel well?” I asked.

“Girl, I don’t know.”

“My Da-duh, I goin’ boil you some bush tea,” my aunt, Da-duh’s youngest child, who lived with her, called from the shed roof kitchen.

“Who tell you I need bush tea?” she cried, her voice assuming for a moment its old authority. “You can’t even rest nowadays without some malicious person looking for you to be dead. Come girl,” she motioned me to a place beside her on the old-fashioned lounge chair, “give us a tune.”

I sang for her until breakfast at eleven, all my brash irreverent Tin Pan Alley songs, and then just before noon we went out into the ground. But it was a short, dispirited walk. Da-duh didn’t even notice that the mangoes were beginning to ripen and would have to be picked before the village boys got to them. And when she paused occasionally and looked out across the canes or up at her trees it wasn’t as if she were seeing them but something else. Some huge, monolithic shape had imposed itself, it seemed, between her and the land, obstructing her vision. Returning to the house she slept the entire afternoon on the Berbice chair.

She remained like this until we left, languishing away the mornings on the chair at the window gazing out at the land as if it were already doomed; then, at noon, taking the brief stroll with me through the ground during which she seldom spoke, and afterwards returning home to sleep till almost dusk sometimes.

On the day of our departure she put on the austere, ankle length white dress, the black shoes and brown felt hat (her town clothes she called them), but she did not go with us to town. She saw us off on the road outside her house and in the midst of my mother’s tearful protracted farewell, she leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Girl, you’re not to forget now to send me the picture of that building, you hear.”

By the time I mailed her the large colored picture postcard of the Empire State building she was dead. She died during the famous ’37 strike which began shortly after we left. On the day of her death England sent planes flying low over the island in a show of force—so low, according to my aunt’s letter, that the downdraft from them shook the ripened mangoes from the trees in Da-duh’s orchard. Frightened, everyone in the village fled into the canes. Except Da-duh. She remained in the house at the window so my aunt said, watching as the planes came swooping and screaming like monstrous birds down over the village, over her house, rattling her trees and flattening the young canes in her field. It must have seemed to her lying there that they did not intend pulling out of their dive, but like the hard-back beetles which hurled themselves with suicidal force against the walls of the house at night, those menacing silver shapes would hurl themselves in an ecstasy of self-immolation onto the land, destroying it utterly.

When the planes finally left and the villagers returned they found her dead on the Berbice chair at the window.

She died and I lived, but always, to this day even, within the shadow of her death. For a brief period after I was grown I went to live alone, like one doing penance, in a loft above a noisy factory in downtown New York and there painted seas of sugar-cane and huge swirling Van Gogh suns and palm trees striding like brightly-plumed Tutsi warriors across a tropical landscape, while the thunderous tread of the machines downstairs jarred the floor beneath my easel, mocking my efforts.