Natalee Grant, Contributor

Bone connected with bone. He kicked her again and again before finally slamming his fists down on the table.

'Yuh hear mi, gal?!' He said, reaching for his shirt. He leaned over menacingly until she whimpered her reply; then he threw his shirt on and left.

She sat there shaken by his onslaught, her face numb where he had hit her, stinging tears staining her cheeks.

The cry of her three-year-old sank into her consciousness and she rose to comfort him, wondering how much he had seen and heard. As he touched her face with his small hands, she rocked him gently and the tears came. She held him that way, his crying mixing with her sobs, until they were both cried out. Then she watched him drift into a fitful sleep. She cooed and rocked him in spite of the pain, then laid him gently in his crib and went to the bathroom and splashed some water on her face, looking at her reflection in the mirror. Her right eye was swollen and a dark bruise had started to spread across her cheek. She wiped fresh tears from her eyes and went purposefully to the kitchen.

The dishes were piled high in the sink and empty baby food tins were scattered along the counter. They had both contributed to this mess, but it was her duty to clean up messes in the house; if she didn't, she would pay. Her common-law husband spoke with his fists; with them he said everything. Sometimes he muttered, sometimes he screamed, but, whenever he spoke, her body bore the evidence of their conversation.

She began to wash the dishes, doing so in order to keep her unruly thoughts at bay, but they came forcefully nonetheless. Her mind went back to the first time they met.

It was the summer after her graduation; he was the selector at a dance she had gone to with her friends. It was her first time at a real street dance. She remembered dressing excitedly in clothes that in her world were positively indecent, as her mother called them: styling her long hair like the girls in the videos, baring her midriff and donning daisy dukes (or, as Buju called them, batty riders) and knee-high booties. It was the most thrilling experience she had ever had. Watching the scenery change, from the manicured gardens of her community to the zinc-lined lanes of theirs, exhilarated her, it was like stepping into another dimension, a whole new world, and she was its Marco Polo.

She heard the booming bass of the sound system before she saw it. Her friends giggled excitedly as the speakers beckoned to them from two avenues over. Then, as if the graffiti'd walls were a portal, she was in another place - a place where she was not Danielle Perch, barrister Perch's daughter, but a young woman on the verge of self-discovery.

It was nothing like the 'gatherings' in her world: the garden tea parties and brunches, the christenings and sweet sixteen parties in Cherry Gardens. It was flamboyant, the women skimpily clad, the troops of men armed with spliffs and beer, outdoing each other with their latest moves, the heavy smoke from chillum pipes, the blasting of the sound boxes.

The sheer extravagance of it all overwhelmed her. As they eased themselves into the crowd she realised she was holding her breath. She waited for some kind of alarm, some announcement that intruders were among them, but it never came, and soon they were dancing, just like everybody else, twisting their hips like the girls in the video. She looked around her and tried to play the mimic as best she could.

And then she saw him. Microphone in hand, a chocolate god commanding the attention of the people, he stood at the turntables, armedwith a 100-watt smile and a golden voice. He undressed every LP as he laid it on the turntable, inviting the crowd into frenzy, urging them on, igniting them with his smooth voice. His very presence seemed to set the crowd on fire. He seemed to be a rhythm himself, the way he moved, the way he spoke. There were whistles and cheers, forwards and fire, then he dropped the beat and the crowd reacted with gun fingers and lighters. And then she felt it. The baseline.

It started in her feet - she moved them almost involuntarily - and then the rhythm was everywhere. Her body moved of its own volition. She swayed and lost herself in the beat. He selected tune after tune that night, his voice smooth and clear as he presented Barrington Levy hits and some Gregory Isaacs crowd pleasers. Now, standing over the kitchen sink, she could almost hear it again.

'This one is for all the lovely ladies in the house tonight,' he'd said, looking directly at her as he set Gregory Isaacs Night Nurse to spinning.

'Swe-eeet' he shouted, and the crowd went wild; couples gathered on the dance floor in passionate embraces.

She had watched him shyly all that night as he selected hit after hit. Then, her friend introduced them, because he was tight with the sound, and the rhythm seemed to become a living entity when he was near her.

Their first month together was wonderful. She had gone to every dance he selected, sneaking out or giving her parents some excuse, each time going closer and closer to the stage. Their eyes would lock; and they would smile at each other as he spun the tunes. Soon, he made her the centrepiece of his show. Bought her the latest outfits, put her in the video of each production. She was his girl, a groupie exalted to the status of 'wife'.

She had kept her involvement with him secret. She held dual citizenship in his world and in hers, but she could never imagine the two worlds coming together. Her friends knew about her Shakespearian affair. It was a standing joke between them; they called it by acode name, Juliet.

A dish slipped from her hand and shattered on the kitchen floor, breaking her reverie and a fresh flow of tears began for friends she no longer had and family she had not seen in years; for a son who had never met his grandparents. She leaned against the sink and sobbed: huge sobs of pain.

Her mother's words came back to her:

'You're giving up your family and friends for this man!' She had shouted in a burst of rage. 'You're going down there to live!' She had screamed, her eyes wild with incredulity. Her father stood quietly, watching thei sadness in his eyes. She had wanted to talk to him alone. She knew he would understand. She was sure in his own quiet way he would have given her his blessing. Instead, it had all just come out and she could see the shock tightening his throat as her mother yelled her distress and disappointment at her.

'Mummy, I love him!' she had shouted defiantly, the steady rhythm of their love drumming in her head, the memory of their lovemaking still on her skin. And, with her back straight she had walked out of her father's house and into his arms. His kisses soothed the twinges of uncertainty in her heart. She didn't look back.

It all changed once they started to live together. The rhythm somehow shifted; the baseline of their love ceased to beat as heavily as before. Then the beatings started.

The memory of their first violent encounter made her shudder. One evening while cleaning their small apartment, she had stumbled across his old LP collection and rifled through the box. He had startled her and she had brokem his Al Green record. The apology was on her lips when his open palm whacked her across the jaw.

She was so stunned she couldn't move; they both stood there. He looked at her, then at the record; and then he left.

After that, slaps were commonplace in their relationship; she always felt it was her fault. He was a star; he could do no wrong; it was she who was messing up. Then, when his open palm was replaced by his closed fists, she againblamed herself. Each time he hurt her he, would beg her forgiveness. Then the cycle would start again.

She lost all her friends and was virtually confined to the house, unless she was accompanying him somewhere. The baseline of their relationship had long become staccato, the rhythm on again, off again.

Then there were the women calling at all hours, leaving mocking messages. He no longer bothered to hide his affairs, openly displaying the gifts they had given to him, or leaving for days on end to 'work the party circuit', but always coming home with gifts for her and the baby. In those moments, when she met him at the door and he held her against him, the steady, captivating beat of his heart at her ear erased all the drama and she felt again that they were meant for each other. But then she would mess up again and they would hit a sour note.

The shiny surface of the plate revealed a gargoyle-looking figure. 'This is the last time,' she managed to tell herself, between sobs.

Three miscarriages, a son and some broken bones later, this was the Danielle Perch who had graduated with the highest honours (she had a marketing degree she had never used), the common-law wife of a selector.

She heard the door slam, and his raucous laughter. She stared down at the glass in her hand, bubbling with soap suds. Then, she heard his heavy footsteps approaching the kitchen, and through her peripheral vision saw that he was on his phone. He sat down heavily and opened the fast food bag he had brought back with him.

'Yeah, just come back from affa di road,' he informed whoever was on the other end of the conversation. 'Bout fi hit the road again, carry out mi son fi di weekend. Yeah, so inna di morrows.'

'Danielle, Taj ready?'

'He's sleeping,' she murmured, barely audibly.

He wolfed down half his sandwich before addressing her again. 'Mi neva tell yuh fi get him ready?'

She washed the rim of the glass over again, the contact of soapy sponge and glass making a squeaking sound that served as the answer to hisquestion. She wanted to scream, 'Taj is all I have and he's not going anywhere with you and your bitch!' Instead, the discord of glass against sponge answered him.

He sucked the straw of his soda.

'So whappen, yuh nah ansa?' There was a hint of anger in his voice. 'Hear mi, nuh, ready mi son and pack him bag.'

She straightened her back. Her vision was a blue haze, making the dishes little multi-coloured pieces of crystal.

He got up and went to the fridge. 'Danielle, lef that and go sort out Taj.'

She heard the ice falling into the glass, heard the soda fizz as he poured it into the glass, heard his timberlands squelch on the tiled floor as he walked into the living room. She heard the pressure of the tap water on her stainless steel frying pan. But the baseline was gone. She turned the pipe off and walked into their bedroom. Taj was still sound asleep. She closed the door and reached for the phone.

'Hello,' a groggy voice answered.

She closed her eyes and tried to hold back the avalanche of tears that hearing his voice brought.

'Daddy' she said weakly. 'Daddy, can I come home?'

END

- Natalee Grant