The Rhythm of the August Rain

by Gillian Royes

  Eric couldn’t hold back a laugh. “You’re kind of bitter, aren’t you?”

  “You raas claat right about that.”

  “Who’s doing the music?”

  “You forget Ford, the trumpet man from New York, is coming back? Before he left last time, he promise me he would play for free at the reception.”

  “That’s right, I forgot.” An image of the tall, quiet trumpeter came back. He’d been staying with Roper Watson, the artist who lived on the eastern end of the village. When Ford had played at the bar one night, he’d blown them all away with “My Mother’s Eyes,” his own mother’s favorite, he’d said.

  Shad rubbed his scalp. “I looking for a guitarist, though. Ford say he need a guitarist and a drummer. I find the drummer already.”

  “What about your cousin? Didn’t he play guitar last time when Ford played?”

  “He gone foreign. He marry an American girl and get a green card, but he left his guitar with me. He say he going to buy a better one in Philadelphia.”

  Eric rubbed his stubbly chin, rubbed it hard. His heart was pumping in his chest already, like the old days. “I tell you what, man. If you can’t find somebody to play guitar, I’ll stand in.”

  “You, boss?” Shad’s eyes bulged as his mouth dropped open. “You can’t play guitar.”

  “All I need is a little practice.”

  “When last you play?”

  “High school, but I was real good. We used to play for proms and weddings.” It had actually been two proms and a rehearsal dinner, almost a wedding, making the young Eric entertain the idea of Hard Nights going professional, until the other band members started talking about marriage or college or office jobs and he hadn’t been able to talk them out of it. “Trust me, I can play.”

  The bartender shook his head and nodded at the same time, mixing it up. “I want to believe you, boss, but—”

  “Just lend me Junior’s guitar so I can practice.”

  “In one week?”

  “In one week.”

  “I tell you what, man—I will give you the guitar and you practice up. Then let me hear you.”

  “Deal—now let’s get that guitar.”

  Giving Shad a ride home, Eric talked nonstop, the old rocker in him coming alive again. He described his band’s gigs at a bar in Shaker Heights (not mentioning it was the Danny Boy, where his father was a regular, or that the band members were underage). When they got to Shad’s house and the black leather case was placed on the passenger seat, Eric opened it, a Pandora’s box, with care. Inside was an old Yamaha, exactly like the one his brother David had played, not an expensive guitar but a solid one. Eric had always yearned for a Yamaha. The Pantheon he’d bought cheap from a guy at school had always sounded tinny to his ears and needed an amp to sound decent, except that he couldn’t afford an amp.

  “You’re coming to work at the usual time?” he asked Shad as he ran his fingers across the strings. “I need to start practicing.”

  “I coming after lunch, around three o’clock. Then I have to go with Shannon to the Nyabinghi thing—”

  “I forgot about that.”

  “We probably going around six. Bongo coming with us, he going to meet me at the bar.”

  “See you later then.” Eric closed the case gently. He slapped the gearshift into reverse and roared backward to the main road.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  * * *

  The dream was so lucid that she’d written it down when she first woke up. She’d seen two pairs of glasses, both metallic, both asymmetrical. Nothing like the readers she bought at the drugstore, these were works of art. The first pair was embellished with flowers and vines that wound around the frame. A straight, thin bar ran horizontally across the middle of the right lens. The second pair was simpler, its lenses clear and the frame geometric, bronze strips above and below the right lens, narrowing to the left lens, almost forming a triangle.

  “What do you think it means?” she asked Jennifer, who was perched on the bed, watching her pack her camera bag. “One pair was floral and the other modern and clean.”

  “Do they always have to mean something? I’ve never been one for dreams.”

  “My feeling is that it means—let’s see, the first one is about nature, perhaps Jamaica. And the right eye was really decorated. Anything on the right side of your body is supposed to represent the masculine, so I think—”

  “Who says?”

  “I can’t remember where I got it from, but I think the right eye is Eric and the past.”

  “But there’s a bar running across the right lens.”

  “Maybe that’s Eric blocking me.”

  “What about the other pair?”

  “Those were more—I don’t know, like Toronto, maybe. Chic, straight lines, like the future.”

  The second pair, she’d realized while eating a banana that morning, was about making a shift, the shift she’d felt when she’d stood up to Eric for the first time. The words that had been turning over in her head for years had finally been released.

  “And you could see clearly out of those second glasses, the modern ones?”

  “I could. They were still asymmetrical, heavy on the right side with thin strips at different angles. I think they were both about the creative part of me.”

  “The first one is creativity in Jamaica, but held back by Eric.”

  “The other is about being creative up north, I think, where I’m freer, more contemporary.”

  Jennifer leaned back on her elbows. “I wish I had dreams like that.”

  “What kind do you have?”

  “They’re always about whatever I’m doing at the time, you know. Like last night I dreamed that I was at a groundbreaking for some big building, but, dammit”—Jennifer snorted—“the shovels hadn’t arrived in time, so everyone was standing around not knowing what to do. I started to panic.”

  “Oh, God, no.” Shannon straightened, laughing. “What happened then?”

  “They all started looking at me and pointing. I know it’s about the hotel groundbreaking.”

  “It’s going to be fine. You’re so good at event planning.”

  “I know, but I still have a million things to do. The member of Parliament hasn’t confirmed that he’s coming yet. The good news is that the champagne has arrived already, and I’ve found a caterer, but he’s in Port Antonio, so I have to arrange transportation.” Jennifer sighed and swept her fingers through her hair. “The shovels and hard hats are fine, though. They’re already in the garage.”

  “If push comes to shove, you can just have them dig the holes, drink champagne, and go home.”

  “No use digging holes if there’s no publicity afterward.”

  “You don’t have a photographer?”

  “He said he had a wedding and they’re paying more, so he ducked out.” Jennifer turned to her, biting her lip. “Feel like taking his place?”

  “I’ve never done a groundbreaking in my life.”

  “All you have to do is point and shoot.”

  Shannon sat down hard on the bed. “I’d love to help you, Jen, but I’m hoping to wrap things up tonight.”

  She’d already told Jennifer about her search for information about Katlyn, since Eve had already told Eric, but she’d played down the importance of the mission, not wanting to worry her or Lambert. “I have a feeling that this old Rasta, Ras Redemption, has the answers I need about Katlyn. When I showed him her photograph, it definitely triggered something. You could see it on his face. Something tells me that I’m going to have everything finished in one or two days and get out of here before the groundbreaking.”

  “To avoid Simone, you mean.” Jennifer circled the bed and put one arm around her friend’s shoulders. With the other, she tucked Shannon’s hair behind her ear. “Sooner or later you’re going to have to face her, hon, or some other woman.”

  “I’d rather not, thank you.” Shannon pulled away and walked to the window, to the view of the b
ay and the hills beyond. She rested her hands on the windowsill. “God, I love this place, this crazy little town, and I might never see it again. It’s so beautiful.”

  “Then stay for a couple more weeks. The wedding is going to be fun, and you’ve got to remind me to bring the shovels the weekend after.”

  “It’s tempting, but I can see it now.” Shannon squared her fingers to frame an imaginary picture. “Simone hanging on Eric’s arm, Eric dying with embarrassment, Eve furious with him for being with another woman, and me looking like Little Miss Left Behind.” She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “So what? You’re smart and beautiful. Maybe you’ll meet someone—”

  “Like who, Beth’s uncle from Port Antonio? Let’s be realistic here.” Shannon picked up her bag, collected another with her purse and tape recorder inside. “I better get started. Professor Ransom is meeting us at the bar in ten minutes.”

  “That’s right,” Jennifer said with a slow smile, “the one with the toffee-colored skin.”

  Shannon headed for the door. “Oh, come on, Jen. I was just joking around.”

  “Many a truth is spoken in jest, my love.” The hostess slipped her arm through Shannon’s as they walked down the corridor. “But maybe Dr. Ransom would like to come to a country wedding—for research purposes, of course.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  * * *

  What was it about the emperor, Haile Selassie, you know, that made them worship him?” Shannon asked in the backseat.

  Shad turned around and laughed. “He little but he tallawah. Small but strong—like me.”

  The professor wasn’t laughing. “Selassie represented the power of the black man, that he could be the leader of a large country in Africa.”

  Ransom took himself too seriously, Shad decided, maybe he was nervous. When he’d appeared in the bar’s parking lot in his nice new Volvo, he’d parked first in one spot and then in another. A neat man in jeans and sneakers, he’d looked uncertain as he approached the counter, and a tourist couple at the end of the counter had turned to stare at him.

  “Am I in the right place?” His voice was like a radio announcer’s, deep and smooth, commanding attention. “I’m supposed to meet a Canadian woman here.”

  “Shannon?” Shad had asked.

  “That’s the name.” He’d shaken Shad’s hand as he introduced himself, something few people did with a bartender. “Richard Ransom.”

  “Shad Myers.”

  “And Shannon—”

  “She coming soon, she never late.”

  Just then the boss came out of his apartment, where he’d been playing chords and bars on the guitar. “A customer?” he’d asked Shad, and got a ginger ale out of the fridge. “Aren’t you going to serve him?”

  “He looking for Shannon.”

  Eric had popped open the soda and looked at the man, now wiping his forehead. “You’re the professor from the university.” Eric had shaken his hand across the counter. “Eric Keller.”

  Shad wondered about all the handshaking taking place and why the boss hadn’t mentioned that he owned the bar.

  With the couple at the end of the bar eavesdropping, not looking but not talking, Eric had started asking about the trip to Gordon Gap, his voice loud as he asked the questions, not like himself at all. Ransom had answered that he didn’t know much about the area or the Rastas there and that’s why he’d come.

  “You want something cool to drink?” Shad had asked.

  “Maybe a—”

  “A Planter’s Punch?” the bartender guessed. You could tell a lot from what people drank, he’d always thought, so it had to work the other way around, guessing their drink from how they looked. Ransom was a Planter’s Punch man, cool, sophisticated, but not too heavy on the liquor.

  “I was going to say a glass of water, but that sounds much better,” Ransom agreed.

  “You sure you don’t want some lunch?” Eric asked. “The chef is in the kitchen, ready when you are.”

  “A Planter’s Punch is fine, thank you. I had lunch on the way.” The professor had sat at the counter and watched Shad take out the ingredients: grenadine, bitters, curaçao, club soda, and juices. “What about the rum?”

  Shad had taken a bottle off the shelf. “I use my family’s rum, Myers rum, man.”

  “Your family?” Ransom said politely, not the kind to say Shad wouldn’t have relatives who owned a rum factory.

  “He’s a comedian,” Eric had chimed in.

  Shad had chuckled. “Them is the rich Myerses. I come from the poor ones.”

  “I don’t think they even make it in Jamaica anymore,” Eric said, elbows on the counter.

  “I heard a Puerto Rican group bought them out,” Ransom said as Shad plopped a maraschino cherry on top of the concoction.

  “Just what the professor ordered, right?” Shad said as the man sipped the drink.

  “I’ve forgotten the long drive already.”

  When Shannon walked into the bar, Eve beside her, Ransom’s face had brightened.

  “Hi, Shad, hi, Dad.” It was the first time Eve was wearing a dress, shapeless, but a dress nonetheless.

  “Hi, honey.” Eric had come around the counter to give her a hug. “You’re coming to help me and Solomon this afternoon, eh?”

  “Yup.”

  “This is Dr. Ransom. He’s a famous authority on Rastafarians.” Eric had turned to the professor, one arm still around Eve’s shoulders. “This is our daughter, Eve.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Ransom had said, shaking her hand. His eyes flicked questioningly from Eve to Shannon.

  “I see you found the place,” Shannon had said crisply.

  “Yes, I passed it and had to double back. I’d never noticed it before. It’s sort of . . .” Ransom had covered the insult with a long sip of his punch.

  “I glad you’re coming with us,” Shad had said. “Carlton, the driver, like to stay in the car. I ask a Rasta guy, Bongo, to come with us because I felt it would be good for three of us to go inside together, you know, but Bongo tell me this afternoon that he can’t come. He say that since he in a different Rasta group, he don’t want to be disrespectful and go to a Nyabinghi without an invitation.”

  “Probably a good thing,” Ransom had agreed, just as Carlton came to a stop outside the restaurant.

  “You can manage things here?” Shad had asked Eric.

  “I’m helping him,” Eve had said, and they’d all laughed.

  “Everything ready for you, boss. I cut up the limes and oranges—and ice in the freezer. The tourist people have four Red Stripes, but they don’t pay yet.”

  Shad had hustled to the taxi after the other two, looking forward to the drive to Gordon Gap, even if it made him a little carsick. There’d been pure stress all day, something Shad hadn’t needed after the flopped party, which still hovered over him. Beth had insisted he go to church with the family, and he’d sat through the dull service dreading telling the boss that he couldn’t pay him for the liquor. Then he’d rushed to the bar with the bad news, driven with Eric back to his house for the guitar, taken the younger children to Miss Bannister after extracting her fee from Beth’s money jar (which she’d complained about the whole time he was eating lunch), and then run back to the bar to set things up for Eric before he left. A Sunday-evening drive through quiet countryside, the sun lowering gently behind the western hills, should settle his soul.

  “Anybody know why they’re having this Nyabinghi?” the professor was asking, tossing it out to the group like a school quiz.

  “Don’t they have them periodically?” Shannon answered.

  “This one is to celebrate the emperor’s birthday tomorrow, July twenty-third. That’s one of the four Rasta holidays.”

  While they chatted, Shad touched his elbow to Carlton’s. “What up with you?”

  “Nutten,” Carlton said, staring straight ahead.

  “When people say nutten, they really mean plenty. Your jaw looking st
iff today, like something running on your nerves. Is either woman or money business.”

  Carlton’s lips quivered.

  “Is a woman then,” Shad acknowledged. “If it was money, you’d be frowning. I never see a man who don’t frown when it come to money.”

  The quiver became a weary smile. “You is the detective.”

  “Is something about your new girl, the one you was telling me about?”

  Carlton looked out his window. “She gone back to Kingston.”

  “I thought you was looking a work for her.”

  “I find one for her in Port Morant, cleaning a woman’s house. Easy job because the woman live alone and gone to work in the days.”

  “She start already?”

  “She start messing around, you mean. I notice every time she get out of Largo and get phone service, she calling and leaving message for somebody. And sometimes she get a call and she tell them she working, but she don’t want to tell me who she talking to. ‘Is a friend,’ she say. Then yesterday I walk into the kitchen to find her. She was using the people phone, but like she was quarreling with somebody, a man it sound like. And I hear her saying, ‘If you love me, you have to trust me,’ is so she was saying.” Carlton sucked his teeth. “When she see me, she look like a duppy frighten her. She slam down the phone.”

  “Her conscience bother her.”

  “I tell she—”

  “Carlton, you’ve gone too far,” Shannon said from the back. “I think you passed the road to Gordon Gap.”

  “Pshaw, man,” the taxi driver muttered as he braked to a stop. “You see how a woman can take your mind off your work?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  * * *

  How’s the drumming going?” Eric asked when Eve returned from serving curry goat to two women.

  “Okay.” She started writing out the invoice and looked up. “Did you know that the drum represents the heartbeat to Rastas?”

  “I didn’t know that.” He was squeezing oranges for fresh orange juice. Someone usually wanted juice on Sundays, and although no call had come for it yet, he wanted to be prepared. He could always drink it later. “And did you know that I play the guitar?”