Crickets' Serenade

by Blythe, Carolita

  “Too many people, mon. Let’s just wait likkle bit.”

  “Well, gal pickney, me see him. Him is tall an’ handsome wit’ dark hair an’ de prettiest mout’ you evah see. You just want him fe slurp you up. An’ you should see him smile.” Michele was bouncing up and down on the tips of her toes, trying to see over the crowd.

  “Him smile at you?”

  Michele sucked her teeth. “If I could be so lucky, mon. Him smile when Mavis Parkah command Katie fe move an’ Katie just look at her an’ roll over. It was so funny, me almost …” Michele suddenly stopped talking and began flapping her arms and pointing. “Dere him is. Right dere.”

  “Oh my God. What him name ?”

  “Lewis.”

  “It should be Roderick.”

  “It’s not, Souci. Is Lewis.”

  “I know. But it should be Roderick. Royal Roderick. Tall, Royal Roderick. Him is like an army general commanding de attention of him troops. Tall an’ straight like a blade a grass. Wit’ eyes as dark an’ mysterious as de milky way …”

  “Souci, cho, him is not one a dem mon in one a you romance books. Him is real.”

  Royal Roderick suddenly looked off in our direction, and Michele and I quickly shifted our eyes toward the ground as we unsuccessfully tried to suppress nervous giggles. I was practically hyperventilating, and that was just because he was within thirty yards of me. I was certain my heart could not withstand him making any eye contact.

  “Me rass,” Michele gasped, “Edward Montrose son look at you.”

  “Shut up, mon. De mon was just facing in dis direction. Him just as much look at you as him did at me.”

  Deputy Spencer distracted Mr. Lewis Montrose, and I got up enough nerve to look at him again.

  “Him look just like a movie star,” Michele said. “Clint Eastwood, maybe.”

  “De mon look not’ing like Clint Eastwood, mon. Him look bettah.”

  “Well, you need fe close you mout’,” Michele said. “You soon to be husband might get jealous.”

  “Might do Greenie well fe have an emotion or two every now an’ den.”

  Edward Montrose’s son looked in our direction again, and Michele latched onto my hand so tightly, her fingernails almost punctured the skin. We began giggling again, like twelve year olds. Our laughter was short lived. The thirty-yard distance that separated us from our unexpected guest quickly began to diminish.

  “A weh him a go?” I blurted out.

  “Couldn’t tell you, me dear.”

  I looked behind me, thinking perhaps there was someone there he needed to talk to. But there was only the empty road. When I turned back around to face him, it was almost like he was gliding. He was built like one of the cricket players we would see in the sports pages, or like some of the younger men in the village who worked the fields. And he walked like a cat. He didn’t really pick up his feet—he just seemed to float. He could have been walking on a wooden floor and no sound would have been made. There was something so alive about him, so intense. All the women sensed it. I could tell by the way they lowered their eyes and smiled when he looked in their direction, the way they straightened up and dropped their shoulders back. Even Lucille Mason was trying to flaunt what she didn’t have. Edward Montrose’s son continued his advance toward us when Ma Greene suddenly stepped in front of him.

  “Damn, it,” I heard Michele say, disappointed at losing the opportunity of being able to flaunt her wares.

  Ma Greene’s arms were crossed in front of her large bosom as she looked off at the stalled van. “First time me evah see automobile, me was standing on de verandah of me house reading me bible, me husband taking a long sleep,” she began in her reedy voice.

  Greenie ran over to his mother, smiled sheepishly and tried to nudge her away, but she stood her ground.

  “It was a peaceful day, quiet like most,” she continued. “Hardly a sound in de air, ’cept de wind in de trees an’ de birds singing dem likkle song. Suddenly, dere was de loudest pppt, pppt. Nearly scare me half to deat’. Me t’ink de world was coming to an end. My Philip, bless him soul, would have sleep t’rough dynamite if me nevah wake him. So, me wake him an’ me mek him walk out to dat road an’ see what was going on. An’ dere, coming toward him was dis great big, black iron machine wit’ wheels an’ a man behind. An’ all de chickens dem cluck up such a commotion an’ de goats run out de street. Dat was de first time me evah see cyar. Me know from den dat cyar an’ nature would nevah be able fe get along. Sorry ’bout you van, but it wasn’t dat long ago when pig or donkey or drunk mon could lay out inna de street an’ wouldn’t have fe worry.”

  By this point, everyone had moved from the lounging sow, over to Mrs. Greene and Edward Montrose’s son. There was complete silence as the village waited for the younger Mr. Montrose to shed a few words of enlightenment on the situation. Edward and Cecil had been great speakers. Could their descendant possibly carry on that tradition?

  “Unfortunately, technology isn’t as kind as it should be to nature. But, as human beings, we are selfish. We only think about our pleasure, our convenience. I have little to complain about though. I am just as guilty of this as the next man.” He paused and looked out at the crowd. What came from his mouth next took everyone aback.

  “Ma’am, me would nevah be able fe give up me electric razor, what says me cyar.”

  Mr. Montrose spoke with what we country people called “dat educated tongue.” There was only a tiny hint of an island accent. It was hard to believe he was able to understand patois. It was even more difficult to believe he was able to speak it.

  “If we have fe go back de same way we come from, den so be it. We just passers by, strangers. Me t’ink de animal have more of a right to dis road dan we.”

  Ma’am Greene considered this for some time. She clasped her hands together and pursed her lips. “We’ll get de sow fe move. It would tek far too long fe you an’ you friends fe mek it back to Brown’s Town.” She balanced her top-heavy frame on the tips of her toes and placed a kiss against Mr. Montrose’s cheek. There was loud applause.

  “May God bless you, young man,” Ma’am Greene added.

  Greenie escorted his mother away while Deputy Spencer turned his attention to the crowd.

  “Let de mon alone so him cyan get some aspirin fe him headache,” he said. But no one moved an inch. The deputy proceeded to wave his hands in grand, circular motions and to raise his voice.

  “Mek you way back home an’ tek care of you business. De mon don’t feel well an’ him don’t need you all stifling him.”

  People started moving away reluctantly, and Edward Montrose’s son resumed his march toward the clinic. Michele gripped my hand once more.

  “We are about to have de mon to we self,” she whispered. And with that, she thrust her perky little breasts forward and produced a huge smile. When Lewis Montrose reached the front of the clinic, he stopped and looked me square in the eye.

  “I understand that you are the nurse here. My name is Lewis Montrose. I was hoping I might be able to get some aspirin and a little water.”

  There was no immediate response to his request, so Michele poked me in the ribs, which caused the words to rush from my mouth.

  “Oh, yes, of course. Come on inside, please. Right dis way. Into de clinic.” I knew I sounded like a complete idiot, but there was nothing I could do about it. Once inside, I offered Lewis Montrose a chair. He preferred to stand. Michele remained at his side.

  “Me just need fe get it from de back shelves,” I said. Since the supply shelves were nearly empty, I was able to sneak a few peeks at him. I watched as he paced about with his long strides. He walked over to Satchmo’s cot, then back toward the clinic’s front door while dabbing at his brow with a small, white handkerchief. Michele was filling him in on the two people present. I heard her say something about Lucille Mason’s spells and about how stupid and jealous women can be.

  Lewis Montrose wasn’t dressed the way politicians usually dressed, at
least not the way they did in The Gleaner, with their fine, fancy suits. He wore black dungarees and a blue button down cotton shirt, without either jacket or tie.

  “The doctor’s not in today?” he asked.

  “Doctor’s not in any day …’cept Tuesday, and den him only come in de morning,” Michele said before I was able to. “So, you really Edward Montrose son?”

  He nodded and smiled.

  “You married?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. There was some amusement in his voice.

  “Hmm. Me neiddah. Me name is Michele, by de way. Michele Blackshire. Me just live down de road.”

  “It’s good to meet you, Michele Blackshire.”

  “So, you running fe office or somet’ing?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Michele backed into a wall and stood there staring and grinning, grinning and staring.

  “Perhaps? If you not sure, what you doing in dese parts?” I asked.

  “Trying to decide if I can make a difference, make some changes the people need.”

  “Well, you sure sound like a politician,” I said as I walked toward the front of the clinic. “Sorry I tek so long, but we almost all out a de aspirin. Here you go. An’ here’s you watah.”

  “How can a clinic be out of aspirin?”

  “Is de country. We usually out of most everyt’ing.”

  “And if someone gets very sick?”

  “Well, hopefully dem do it on de day de doctor is here. Den him cyan send dem to de big clinic in Brown’s Town or de hospital in Ochi.”

  Mr. Montrose swallowed the tablets and took a sip of water.

  “And if the doctor isn’t here?”

  “Den we put dem in one a de two beds. If dem bad enough, an’ somebody wit’ a cyar visiting somebody here, we ask if dem cyan tek dem to Ochi. Jimmy Mason, who own de grocery store, him have a scootah. We all had to pitch in fe help him get it so him could ride into Brown’s Town an’ get de newspapahs every two days. But we use it couple of times to tek people to de hospital in Ochi. But den dem have fe worry ’bout settling de hospital bill. At least here, dem nuh have fe worry ’bout paying much money. Is a good t’ing fe us most people ’round here don’t get too sick. Me auntie’s de only one really been sick de past couple of years”

  “She’s not somewhere in here, is she?”

  “No. She pass on few days ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  “Is all right. Probably de best t’ing dat could happen to her. She was in a lot a pain…. You know, if you become prime ministah, I hope you remembah ’bout likkle places like dese. I hope you remembah we need aspirin an’ antiseptic an’ such.”

  “If I become prime minister, I will make sure health care is provided by the government. That way, no one will be without. Some things should not be in the hands of the private sector.” He leaned against the tiny desk near the near the front door.

  “You know who Douglas Carlysle is?” he asked. I nodded.

  “Would you vote for him in an election?”

  “Cyan’t say.”

  “He’s a very convincing man.”

  “Plenty people convincing. Dat don’t mean dem know a t’ing. I see a picture of dis Carlysle, an’ him look kinda tricky to me.”

  “And how do I look to you?” Lewis Montrose asked.

  “You really want to know?”

  “Would I ask if I didn’t?” There was the slightest hint of playfulness in Lewis Montrose’s voice.

  “I t’ink you look good,” Michele said. Lewis Montrose smiled, then continued to question me.

  “Would you ever vote for me?”

  “I would,” Michele shouted as she giggled herself crimson.

  “I don’t know. Me nevah really even know who you was ’til today,” I admitted. That answer seemed to please him. He smiled, nodded, then walked as far as the doorway. But then he turned back around suddenly and focused on the small nametag that lay crooked across the left side of my frock.

  “I would think that in a place as small as this, everyone would know you,” he said.

  “Dat’s right.”

  “Then why the name tag?”

  “I don’t know. Is just dere. Me mek it one day when dere wasn’t much else to do.”

  “What does the S stand for?”

  “Soo-cee.”

  His eyes traveled down to my feet, which were in a pair of flip-flops. I never really noticed the red dirt that covered my feet all the way up to the ankles before. I felt a little ashamed.

  “How do you spell it?”

  “S-o-u-c-i.”

  “That’s French for worry, you know, or for care.”

  “Don’t speak much French ’round ’ere. But if I had was to choose, I’d prefer care. Me auntie see it on a sign in Brown’s Town, on a billboard dat advertise somet’ing.”

  “Health care sans souci?”

  “Cyan’t say I really know.”

  “It was a slogan used by an insurance company many years ago. Means worry-free health care.” He looked at my nametag again. “Souci Alexander. So, how long have you been a nurse, Souci Alexander?”

  “Evah since me get out a secondary school.”

  “You’re not certified then?”

  “Certified?”

  “I mean, you didn’t go to school for it?”

  “I know what de word mean,” I said. I studied Lewis Montrose for some time. Maybe I wasn’t a “certified” health care worker, and maybe my job in a small village could be slow and boring, but the way I looked at it, it kept me away from working in the fields or selling produce at the crossroads.

  “Just because I didn’t go to school fe it don’t mean I don’t do a good job at it,” I said softly, feeling a little self-conscious.

  “I in no way meant to offend you. I was just trying to find out a little bit about you, make conversation.” He smiled, then looked off down the road. Mavis Parker’s sow was nowhere to be found. He made eye contact with one of the men in his party, who immediately started toward the clinic.

  “James Alvarez, this is Souci Alexander and her friend, Michele Blackshire,” Mr. Montrose said as his friend approached.

  James stared at me for some time. He had the heaviest eyelids I had ever seen, which made him look as if he were about to fall asleep, even though his eyes were wide open.

  “Good to meet you, Souci, Michele,” he finally said.

  “Souci, I was wondering if I could take a picture of you?” Lewis Montrose asked.

  “A picture? Okay,” I stammered. I had no idea why Lewis Montrose would ever want a picture of anything in Stepney, but was flattered nonetheless. James Alvarez brought a camera up to his face, and I pulled Michele into the frame.

  “How ’bout one wit’ you in it wit’ us?” I asked Lewis Montrose after the first picture was snapped. “Maybe you could send it to me an’ Michele at de Calderwood Post Office after you get it develop … if dat wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  Lewis Montrose moved in and stood between Michele and me. After the photograph was taken, he took my hand in his, said a few words of farewell, smiled at Michele, then walked off with his companion.

  “You t’ink him will remembah fe send de picture, Michele? You t’ink him will remembah us de minute him is out a Stepney?”

  “Me cyan’t say fe certain ’bout de picture, but him a go remembah us. At least, him a go remembah you.”

  “What you chatting ’bout now?”

  “Gyal, don’t act all innocent. Me have two chil’ren, so me know when a mon like a ooman. An’ as much charm as I turn on, dat mon nevah even notice me. You know why? ’Cause all him was looking at was you.”

  “Oh please, Michele.”

  “Me is serious. De mon was looking at you like you was roast pork, an’ him was suffering from starvation. An’ him nevah want no picture of me. Just of you. Him probably a go home an’ post it up on him wall next to him bed, an’ anytime him feel a likkle lonely …”

  “Mi
chele, you chat too much.”

  Michele kept babbling, and I tried my best to ignore her. I took in the waning images of Lewis Montrose as he shook a few hands, answered a few questions, and boarded the once stilled van. Moments later, our visitors were gone. All the villagers, including Michele, dispersed just as quickly, and I was left standing alone in the middle of the road. I was thankful for the brief encounter that had turned an ordinary day into an extraordinary one. It was highly unlikely that Stepney would ever again experience something as fantastic as a famous politician’s son.

  -3-

  When Saturday rolled around, everyone was still buzzing about Lewis Montrose’s visit. Michele and I decided to leave Stepney behind for the day and to travel to Brown’s Town. We had to walk the five miles to Alexandria, the farthest point to which the buses came. It was an overcast morning, with black storm clouds moving in. Thunder rumbled from far off, so we kept our fingers crossed. During bad rain storms, the roads quickly flooded and the buses didn’t run at all. We must have waited for at least an hour.

  Michele kept sucking her teeth and groaning that the bus wasn’t coming, but I convinced her to wait a little while longer. I had always loved Brown’s Town. I usually found any excuse to go—often volunteering to do the shopping for Mavis Parker or Teacher James or whichever other neighbor needed supplies from the market. For once, I actually had a reason for going. Greenie had run short of the lace needed to finish the hem of my wedding dress. But I also wanted to go just because I needed a break from the usual. It was exactly one week to the day that Aunt Mattie had been buried and three weeks before I was to be married to Tilford Greene. I stayed at Aunt Mattie’s side for those last three months, trying to anticipate her every need—changing her bedding, moving her legs from side to side so they wouldn’t cramp up. For a period of time, I never went beyond our front yard. So when I finally heard the gurgling and belching of the old bus, I mouthed a silent thank-you.

  The market in Brown’s Town was spread out and could be a bit overwhelming. Usually, everyone and everything could be found baking under the heat of the sun. There were always overripe mangoes and guavas oozing their juices into the street. Wherever there was discarded fruit, there was also a torrent of flies. There were usually as many people buzzing around as there were flies. The first time I came to the marketplace, I thought I would pass out. Now I thought it absolutely intoxicating. Though it was mostly a haphazard layout of vendor stands, there was a central area, which was shaded by a large green tarp. Market women laid out baskets of plantains, yams, oranges, thyme, and sugar cane, often wandering away from their product in order to try and deflect customers to their small stations. Despite the market being in a wide open space, there was a very strong, pungent odor to it—a mixture of the many different spices being sold there—of detergent, spilled bottles of white rum and the musk of hard working bodies. This Saturday—with the overcast skies—it didn’t smell as pungent and the flies weren’t as numerous.