Black Coral
An imprint of Genesis Press, Inc.
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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.
Copyright© 2006 by Carolita Blythe
ISBN-13: 978-1-58571-522-0
ISBN-10: 1-58571-522-0
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First Edition
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Acknowledgments
I am blessed to have a life filled with so many good, honest friends and funny, supportive family members. Whether I talk to you daily, once a week or every now and then, you all impact my life deeply. Very special thanks to Audrey and Orville for feeding me, loving me and guiding me, Stan Lathan for keeping me employed for so many years and being like a surrogate dad, PJ Johnson for saying, “I really love your book,” every time I felt like giving in, Samantha Mbozi—I haven’t gone over my cell phone minutes since you’ve moved to Guyana. Come back!, Angelique Justin for your enthusiasm and belief, Deatri King-Bey for helping me streamline the content, Ray Reyes, Courtney Byrd, Juanesta Holmes, Frances Hale, Victor Williams, and Nat Johnson. Those not mentioned by name are no less appreciated.
-1-
I had spent the first twenty-five years of my life in the countryside of Jamaica—in a village that disappeared behind a shroud of complete blackness once the sun went down. The wailing of the wind and the crying of the night owls made it seem as if there was something other-worldly laying in wait around every corner. Yet, in all that time, I never once crossed paths with a ghost. That might not seem like much of an admission, but of the one hundred or so people who called Stepney home, only two ever laid claim to such a statement. One was Matilda Alexander, my aunt. The other was me. You see, seeing ghosts in Stepney was about as commonplace as thunderstorms during the rainy season.
Mavis Parker had seen her neighbor, Farmer Warren, drinking water outside her front gate one night. That would have been alright, had the man not passed on twenty years before. Effie Blackshire came upon her dead brother nestled between the branches of an old cotton tree, whistling the melody to Jimmy Cliff’s “Wonderful World, Beautiful People.” Even preacher man, as great a believer in the word of the bible as ever there was, once admitted to observing “some funny business of the other worldly kind.”
As far as I could tell, these duppy sightings only seemed to take place after a night of too much white rum and Red Stripe or a long day out in the fields under the glare of the sun. Duppies did not exist in the past. Duppies do not exist in the present—or so I thought. I had managed to hold on to this belief the entire twenty-five years I spent in Stepney and the eighteen years I’d been away. I had managed to hold on until today.
* * *
There was this old woman who lived in the village who could sense life-changing events before they took place. She had these strange eyes. They looked as if they were made of glass. I was always afraid that if I looked into them too deeply, I would have been able to see how I was going to die or when, so I always passed her by with my head down. The old woman believed that everyone had these powers of prophecy. It was just that most people didn’t know how to read the signs. I never quite believed her, but when my phone rang last night, a strange feeling came over me. The ring wasn’t louder or more shrill than usual. The person wasn’t calling at a strange time. It was maybe six in the evening, just before sunset. I can’t really explain it, but for some reason, I felt a little apprehensive in picking up the receiver.
“Is this Souci, the former Souci Alexander?” the voice on the other end asked.
“Yes,” I said. I didn’t have that many callers, so it wasn’t usually very difficult to place a voice.
“This is Agnes. Agnes Gooding.”
I guess I didn’t say anything because the next thing I remember was her repeating my name over and over and over again. I wasn’t trying to be rude. I didn’t mean to not answer her, but Agnes Gooding was a name that lived only in my past. Even then, no one would have mistaken us for friends. In fact, if I had been asked to describe my feelings for her in one word, I would have said dislike. In two words, I would have said strong dislike. Truth is, I once thought I hated her, but being older and wiser now, I realized it was probably more jealousy than anything else.
Jamaicans have always been so consumed with race and class, and I suppose I’m no different. Agnes was lighter skinned, like so many of those who had all the money on the island, and she could even trace her ancestry back beyond the days of slavery. She could trace it back to her great-great-great grandfather’s family in northern England. I was a simple country girl, just an insignificant member of the masses. There were no British officers or landowners I could trace my roots back to. There were only mountain people and former slaves. I can’t even say with any certainty what date I was born. My birth certificate states November eleventh, but I recall Aunt Mattie once telling me that the eleventh was actually the date someone from our village happened to be going into the town, which is where the registry office was located. I had actually come into the word several weeks before. I didn’t discount this, considering I had also been mistakenly listed as a male child on that same birth certificate and had to go through many pains to get that changed. The particular “someone” who registered me was known to have a weakness for Wincarnes Wine and there’s no telling how sober he might or might not have been on that trip into town. But in the country, being a day or a week or even a month off on dates isn’t that big a deal—unlike in Agnes’ world where everything has to be so precise. I hadn’t seen or spoken to her in a very long time, so I really couldn’t think of any reason why she would be on the other end of the telephone line.
“I’m in St. Ann,” she said, “and I have to see you. What I have to say shouldn’t be said over the phone.”
I quickly added up the years. It had been fourteen. What could someone possibly have to say after fourteen years? Agnes guessed it would take her about a half-hour to get to me, and my heart started beating just a little bit faster. There was only one thing Agnes Gooding and I had in common, and that thing … that person, was part of the reason I had left Jamaica fourteen years before and had not returned until three weeks ago.
After I hung up the phone, I moved out onto the verandah where I could look off at the quiet street that curved down the hill. Mango and orange trees grew on both sides. From where I was standing, I could see some of the activity taking place in the outdoor marketplace at the bottom of the hill. The busiest market day in Brown’s Town was drawing to a close, and people who had come from various surrounding areas were trying to make their final purchases. They could get fresh honey loaded into empty rum bottles, ripe scotch bonnet peppers for their Sunday rice and peas, pig’s tail to add a little flavor to stew peas or crates of Craven A’s for their after dinner smoke.
I had gotten lost in thought about returning to Jamaica and Agnes’ strange call when I noticed a white Camry slowly windin
g its way up the hill. I took a long, deep breath and held it for a while. The car continued along the incline, then slowed a bit as it reached my gate. It stopped, but nothing further happened for several moments. I waited with anticipation as the driver’s side window eased down. A small, white hand appeared and waved.
“Drive up,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t come to regret my hospitality. Aunt Mattie used to always warn against unannounced visitors arriving with the fall of night. “Dem is here only to destroy de peace of de soul,” she would say. Aunt Mattie had a different saying for every occasion. After she died, I would always try to remember them, but I never could. This evening, her words seemed to just come alive in my mind.
The car made its way up the dirt drive and came to a stop just in front of my house. I held my breath as I waited for Agnes to step from the driver’s seat. To be honest, a part of me was hoping to see someone that time had not been kind to. I was hoping for someone ten dress sizes larger with a head full of grays and a couple of warts to round out the package. That would prove that everything eventually evened out in life.
As Agnes got out of the car, I was disappointed to see how little she had changed. She was still so tall and thin and graceful—like a ballet dancer. Her hair was still as black as a country night, and she even wore it in the same style—pulled back in a loose bun just above her neck. She even dressed in the same style, wearing a pretty blue linen sleeveless dress with strappy matching sandals. The only thing different was her jewelry. The gemstone bracelets and earrings were gone—replaced by a large silver cross that dangled from a silver necklace.
I showed her to the set of stairs that led up to the verandah. When she reached the second level, she stood still for a few seconds, as if someone had fastened her ankles to the tiles. Her eyes were fixed on my face. Those wide, all seeing eyes now seemed a little smaller, a little worn down. I’m not sure how long we stood there without saying a word. I was trying to feel her out. The Agnes Gooding I remembered had not been the sweetest person. What did she have in store for me now? Finally, she began moving toward me, but was very hesitant, which made it seem as if she was moving in slow motion. She settled about a foot away from me, then brought her hands forward and latched onto mine. Every muscle in my body tensed up. I swallowed hard, blinked slowly and waited for those sharp Agnes Gooding-like words to come hurtling at me like a dagger.
“It’s been so long. God has obviously kept you in his hands.”
Kindness from Agnes Gooding? Now I was really sure she was up to no good.
“You look the same, Agnes. But then, you have always looked good,” I had to admit. “I heard you were off the island, living in London or some such far away place.’
“It was time to come back. I’ve just been here eight weeks now. And then I found out you had returned to the island yourself.”
“Three weeks. I don’t think it was in the paper …”
“Oh, it doesn’t have to be. You know how upper Kingston is. We have our own gossip news corps that circulates the happenings around town faster than JBC or CNN.” She proceeded to stare at me as a strange, sad smile formed on her face.
“Oh, Souci, I’m so sorry. I’m sure you thought the devil had long prepared a spot for me in his house.”
I had to pause for a few moments, try to figure out her strategy. What was all this talk of God and the devil? Agnes had never been religious.
“It was a long time ago, I guess.”
“Says Cinderella to the wicked step-sister. But, time does not excuse my behavior. I wish I could say I was only a child then, that I could blame it on immaturity, but I was a full grown woman getting over my second husband. This is probably little consolation, but I had my reasons.” She bit her bottom lip and shifted her eyes over to a nearby guava tree. “Souci, why did you come back to Jamaica? It’s been so long.”
“I guess when Lewis died and all that business went down … so much of what I knew of Jamaica outside of Stepney was based on Lewis, so I just had to get away from it. But this island is my island. It’s my home. I needed to deal with everything that happened move on. Besides, my daughter wanted to know the place where her mom was born, where she was born.”
Neither of us said anything for a while. I was waiting for Agnes to tell me what prompted her visit.
“Souci, if I could trouble you …” she began. I leaned in. “For some tea.”
“Tea?”
“Yes. But if it’s too much trouble …”
“No, no, no,” I said. I don’t know if she sensed the puzzlement in my voice. “I have mint. It was picked today.”
“Fresh mint? Oh, that would be a nice change.”
After showing Agnes to a seat at the patio table in the corner of the verandah, I left for the kitchen. I was completely confused.
“Maybe I’m dreaming this,” I said to myself. “I always used to dream things as a child and swear they really happened when they really didn’t. What does my husband say? You live amongst the what-ifs and the why-nots. Maybe this is a what-if.”
“Did you say something?” Agnes called out.
“No, just singing.”
I tried to tell myself not to anticipate anything. I thought of the words to “Michael Row the Boat Ashore” as I boiled the tea, sliced up the rum cake I had made the day before and arranged everything neatly on a serving tray.
When I returned to the verandah, Agnes was sitting quietly, wringing her hands together.
“Thank you,” she said softly as I put the tea on the table. I tried not to stare as she took a small bite of the cake. I had always been fascinated by her lips. They were the deepest cherry red—naturally. She never needed to use lipstick or gloss. I just couldn’t believe how good time had been to her. When I was a little girl, my aunt used to tell me that mean people grew old and shriveled long before their time. Looking at Agnes, I decided this wasn’t true.
Agnes looked over at me, and I quickly looked away. I looked off into the heavens. The sun had turned in for the night, and blackbirds flew off into the small trace of light remaining. I tried to take in all the air my lungs would allow, but it was just so warm. The air was so thick, I had to put a little extra effort into breathing. The usual evening breezes were nowhere to be found. The leaves of the giant palms stood still. Agnes took a few sips of tea and let out a small sigh. She then eased back into her chair and looked straight ahead. As the sunset cast a rusty glow against her face, she seemed locked in a long forgotten memory.
“You’ve done so well for yourself, Souci. A line of books.”
“Nothing important. Just fluffy romance stories you can read on the beach.”
“Sometimes it’s the fluff that makes life bearable. You’ve been married for a while now. Did your husband not return to the island with you?”
“I wanted to come down and try and get things together before he got here. Plus, we planned to have Charlotte spend the summer with relatives in Atlanta anyway, so things worked out well.”
“When I first met you, you were this young country girl who could hardly get through a sentence without stumbling.”
Here we go, I thought. Welcome back Agnes Gooding of old.
“Now you’re so accomplished.”
I was caught off guard. Agnes shook her head slowly, then parted her lips as if she were about to say something else, but suddenly stopped. I just couldn’t take it anymore.
“I’m not surprised you knew how or where to find me, but I don’t understand why you would even want to.”
“I had some business to take care of in Ocho Rios, and since it’s not that far …”
“It’s not really that close either.”
She sighed deeply. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
“No, I guess it’s not. The truth is, I was going to do this through a phone call, but it just didn’t seem right.…”
“But what’s so important that you would need to talk to me about.”
“You have to come to Kingston.”
“Why?”
Silence came in the way of an answer.
“The way I see it, I’ll get to Kingston in my own time. Brown’s Town’s been a big step for me. Kingston, I’ll have to ease into.”
“The time is right for you to come now …”
“Agnes, you’re not the one who can determine that. I’m not ready …”
“Souci, Lewis is in Kingston.”
“Lewis who?” was all I could muster, because up until this point, I still held no belief in ghosts.
“Lewis Montrose …”
“… is dead,” I finished.
Agnes shook her head. “Not all together.”
“How can you be not all together dead? You’re either dead or you’re not.”
“It means he’s not dead … yet.”
“Lewis not dead yet is almost as hard to understand as Lewis not altogether dead, Agnes. It’s hard to understand because he is dead.”
“That’s just it, Souci. He’s not dead at all. He’s alive.”
How do you respond to being told that someone who you knew for a fact had died years before wasn’t really dead? You don’t. I didn’t. I just looked at Agnes for some time, trying to figure out exactly what she was up to. I was waiting for her to say, “gotcha.” But her eyes were still and her face was calm. Just then, I realized she wasn’t half-mad or on prescription drugs. She was telling the truth. My head started whizzing around, but I couldn’t speak. I remember the articles in the Caribbean papers in New York detailing Lewis’ life. I remember the sinking feeling in my stomach when I heard the news. In history books, there was a date of death following his date of birth. And now this person sitting before me was saying that all I had known to be true was not true after all.
“How can he not be …”
“Think about it, Souci. How many things in Lewis’ life were not as they seemed? Well, the same can be said of his death.”
“But why are you telling me this?”
“We’ve been gone for so long. That’s how we were able to keep this thing going. But now Lewis is really coming close to his end, and he needs to see you.”
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