“It’s funny, you husband sewing you weddin’ dress,” Michele said as we walked toward an old woman selling fabric from her small station.
“What does it mattah anyway?” I asked. “An’ is not like dere is anyone else who cyan sew as good as Greenie.”
We bought three yards of ivory lace, then wandered off into the hillside. There were these homes that were just so large and stately and grand. We had been told that they were owned by lawyers and doctors and Jamaicans who had made their fortune in England and America, then returned to Brown’s Town to build their personal palaces. Michele stopped in front of one that had been painted pink and white.
“If I could pick any one of dese places,” she said pointing up at it, “it would be dis one. Me wondah what kind a high-life dem live up dere. Must be a big, shiny cyar park in dat garage.”
“Might be two,” I said.
Michele opened her mouth and raised her face to the sky. She looked as if she was trying to take in the sliver of sun that poked through the clouds, before it disappeared for good.
“I t’ink I would have t’ree cyar in de garage, in case two bruk down. Dat way, me would nevah be stuck anywhere, evah.”
Michele always had her head up in the clouds. When we were kids, she decided she would one day marry a prince and fly off to Saudi Arabia aboard his magic carpet. She had been fascinated with that part of the world ever since reading “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves,” Then at fourteen, she announced that within five years she would become Miss Jamaica. And I believed she would. No one in the surrounding countryside was as pretty as Michele. But after she crossed eyes with that red hued boy from Nine Mile, everything changed. A few months after her fifteenth birthday, she gave birth to a tiny baby boy. She named him Paul after her favorite disciple. She only saw the father of her child once more, and that resulted in her second child, a daughter.
We ignored the first few scattered raindrops that landed against our skin, but started down the hill as they began to increase in frequency.
“We bettah pick up de salt fish fe Mavis Parkah and start back home,” I said.
“You lucky you know, marryin’ Greenie,” Michele said.
“How come you say dat?”
“Well, you two a go be de rich people in Stepney. You working at de clinic an’ him having him own likkle tailorin’ an’ funeral business.”
“Don’t know if dat’s so, seeing dat de only patient we seem to get is Satchmo aftah too much rum, an’ seeing dat most people seem fe live quite a long time ’round here. An’ most people don’t even got enough clothes fe mend. Most times I pass by Greenie, him just sitting about looking outside shooing fly, or him ovah you faddah bar drinking Red Stripe.” We continued our conversation as we climbed onto the bus.
“Me jus’ wish Auntie was here fe see it. She t’ink me would nevah get marry. Wish me Mama was here too, so she could talk to me ’bout what to do an’ how fe do it, like is suppose to be.”
“You nervous?” Michele asked.
“No mon. Me see it as any oddah day.”
“Is cause you don’t love him.”
“Me nevah say …”
“You nuh have fe say not’ing. Dat’s why you come up wit’ excuse every time you have fe do it wit’ him. If you was marryin’ dat Lewis Montrose, you would be standing dere naked every time him come home.”
“Shut up, Michele.”
“When I marry Petah, I wasn’t nervous. Not at all. If it was Red me was marryin’, den maybe. But if you don’t love dem, it nuh mattah much to you. But is probably a good t’ing. Dem treat you like shit when dem know you love dem. I guess ’cause dem cyan.”
By the time the bus stopped in Alexandria, a heavy rain had begun to fall and lightning flashed across the sky. The bauxite mining equipment, which had been left idle, resembled rusty chunks of metal in the red, ore filled dirt. The Crossroads were deserted, and the fruit stands, without their produce or their vendors, looked like tiny bamboo skeletons.
We ran half the way from the Crossroads and walked the other half. Sometimes we drifted in and out of bands of children. In the rain, the boys khaki trousers looked like wet paper bags. Michele and I kicked our sandals off so that the soft red dirt could seep up between our toes and spill over onto the tops of our feet. I always loved when the rains came because it made everything smell so clean and so green. Michele hummed and giggled and twirled around like a little schoolgirl.
From just beyond the top of the main road, we could hear the music drifting out from the jukebox in Tommy’s bar. We took off running down the road, making it a point to hit every puddle just right. We yelled out the words to Delroy Wilson’s “Dancing Mood,” though we weren’t always in tune. Michele started to move her hips slowly. Her thin beige arms floated above her head, and she allowed the music to take over her soul. I just stood by and watched because no one danced like Michele. I even forgot about the rain beating down on me.
Tommy’s was little more than a shack with a jukebox in one corner and a small bar in the other. During the rainy season, the men left their fields and gravitated there just after the noon hour and drank until the rains passed at four. On this wet Saturday, the bar was jam-packed and people spilled out the door and onto the covered verandah. But the usual mellowness was replaced by a lot of chatter. No one was playing dominoes or rummy. The cards were out and so were the dice, but people seemed more interested in gossiping than in playing. On more than one occasion, someone walked to the edge of the verandah and looked up and down the road.
When they noticed Michele moving sensually through the raindrops, some of the men diverted their attention to her. But they had to be satisfied with stolen glances because disrespecting Tommy’s daughter was even worse than disrespecting Tommy, and there wasn’t another pub for miles. Michele noticed their eyes and placed her hands against her hips and began to sway them even more. She danced as though she had no children and as though she really was Miss Jamaica. Some of the market women who had been on our bus were now making their way back to the village. They looked at Michele and rolled their eyes, too focused on making it home and out of the rain to do much else.
Michele’s yellow dress had become soaked, and it sucked the cloth to her skin. Her small brown nipples peeped through that thin material, but she just kept dancing. Jimmy Mason had slithered out to the doorway of his store and was doing what he did best. With his mouth opened wide, he ran his tongue lustfully across his lips as he took in what was taking place before him. Just then, Greenie rushed out from his store with his large feet sloshing through the mud. It was an awkward sight—Tilford Greene running, jumping, dancing, or doing anything that took any coordination. His long body hunched over, which made it almost impossible for him to do anything with either grace or ease.
“Souci, you all wet, mon,” he said as he took off his sweater and placed it across my shoulders. His left hand brushed against my breast. He drew it back quickly, looked around to see if anyone had noticed, then cast his eyes toward the ground.
“Dere is somebody here to see you,” he said nervously. “Been asking all kind a question. Dem was in de clinic first, den de bar. Den dem tek to walking ’bout de place … an’ in dis here rain.”
“Somebody to see me? But I don’t know nobody, Greenie.”
“You know dat politician mon an’ him friends. De van park round de cornah, near de church. Dem been here close to two hours now.”
I would be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of Lewis Montrose since his brief time in Stepney. I never admitted it to Michele, but sometimes as I sat around the clinic reading my paperback romances, I would substitute myself for the heroine and Lewis Montrose for the hero. But I never thought I would ever see the man again.
“Wha dem a do here? Dem get loss again?”
“Is just wha me ask him, but him say is not’ing like dat. Him say him just need fe talk to you.”
“’Bout what?”
Greenie shrugged his shoulders and shook
his head.
“All right.” I turned to find all the patrons in the bar focused in on us. “We bettah get out from dis rain. Me sure dem will come back soon.”
“Well, to tell de truth, one nevah lef’. Him inna de clinic.”
Michele, who had stopped dancing, followed us up the steps of the clinic. We had gotten as far as the door when Lewis Montrose and his companion from before, James Alvarez, appeared on the main road and began walking toward us. As I stepped inside the clinic, I noticed a third man stretched out on a cot.
“Mr. Montrose, him is sick?” I asked, somehow managing to keep calm.
“No. Just a bit bored, I’m afraid. This is Robert Morris, our driver.”
“Are you sick?” I asked.
“No. I’m also fine … You remember James Alvarez?”
“Yeah mon. So, Greenie here tell me you want fe talk to me ’bout somet’ing.”
“That’s true,” Lewis Montrose said. His eyes shifted between Greenie and Michele. “But, I was wondering if we could do it in private.”
Greenie appeared to be about two seconds away from passing out. He raised his left hand and placed it over his eyes, then sighed deeply. He seemed to be in such discomfort that I had to excuse myself and lead him out onto the verandah where the rain could camouflage my words. Michele followed closely behind, grinning widely.
“Jeeeesusss, Souci. A wha a gwone?” she asked. “What on de good lawd’s eart’ is going on here? How come dem come back here? An’ dem want fe see you. Gyal pickney!”
Lewis Montrose wanted to talk to me—Souci Alexander, a plain old country girl who meant less than nothing in the whole scheme of things. I figured he just wanted to talk to one of the “little people,” the way politicians always did during election years. But this didn’t stop my stomach from churning and my heart from thumping. I looked up and down the main road for the newspaperman who would be doing the story and the photographer who would be snapping my picture for The Daily Gleaner. But there seemed to be no other visitors besides Lewis Montrose and his two companions.
“Michele, him just a go ask me few questions ’bout de clinic an’ Stepney an’ t’ing.”
“Me nuh know,” Greenie said nervously. “You know, de mon ask Tommy Blackshire if you was marry. Besides, why him have fe talk to you? Why not somebody else?”
“Him ask ’bout me being married?” I said more to myself than to Greenie. This was better than I ever could have dreamed up. “Well, um, me t’ink is just a question. You know, since we get to talking de oddah day when him come in fe some aspirin.”
“Oh. You nevah tell me say you get to talking.”
“Cause it was about not’ing. Just about how bad t’ings are an’ how hard it is fe get on here. Besides, Michele was dere.”
“De mon was looking at her funny. I tell you dat much,” Michele said.
“Looking at you funny, how?” Greenie asked. “Funny good or funny bad?”
“Michele just making t’ings up again. Don’t listen to her. Mr. Montrose wasn’t looking at me.”
“Cross me heart,” Michele said. “An’ you know it, Souci Alexander.”
Greenie shook his head and inched in real close to me. His thin lips twisted this way and that. His large, round nostrils flared. He was a soft speaker, and I could see Michele trying to sneak a few steps closer so that she could hear his every word. Greenie’s cheeks puffed out and his mouth opened. I braced myself. Maybe I was finally about to see a great display of emotion from him.
“I don’t like dis.”
I waited for the tantrum that was to come. And I waited.…
“Dat’s it?” I asked finally. “Dat’s all you a go say?”
Greenie paused for some time. “Souci, I know just how you gyals t’ink. I read dem books, you know. I know you all like dem nice looking, pretty bwoy, an’ I know I ain’t dat. I know you talk ’bout love, an’ I know you don’t feel is any a dat ’tween us yet. But just remembah, is more dan love involve in life. Wit’out me, you might nevah get marry, an’ wit’out you, me might have fe wait years fe one a dem likkle young gyal fe grow. Me nuh want fe have fe wait years. Me is all you got now, an you is all me have. Is like God mean us fe each oddah.”
“This is Lewis Montrose we talking ’bout, not just anybody. Me is not de kind a ooman him used to being wit’. Probably not de kind a ooman him used to looking at. Besides, him probably have some rich likkle wife back in Kingston.”
“You suppose? ’Cause me nevah see not’ing ’pon him ring finger. An’ why him have fe to talk to you in private? Why him cyan’t say it in front a we?”
“Me nevah see you jealous before, Greenie.”
“Nevah have not’ing fe be jealous ’bout before,” he said as he pulled a piece of thread from his trouser pocket and began fidgeting with it.
“Well, you still don’t. I don’t t’ink Lewis Montrose would want not’ing from no poor country girl,” I said as I patted him on the hand. I walked back into the clinic and informed Mr. Montrose that I was ready to listen to whatever he had to say.
“But I cyan’t spend long. Me have fe start cooking before it get too late.” I said this loud enough so that Greenie, who would be joining me for dinner, would hear.
“Where do you live?” Mr. Montrose asked.
“Just down de likkle lane.”
“Then there’s no problem. You can make your dinner and not worry about it getting too late.” He looked in Greenie’s direction, then glanced toward James Alvarez, who was leaning against a wall. Before I had a chance to say anything else, Lewis Montrose was walking out of the clinic and onto the main road. Greenie jumped between us.
“You sure you don’t want me fe come down dere wit’ you, maybe stand outside de ’ouse,” he stammered. “Mek sure nobody boddah you or anyt’ing. You know how dese country folk is.”
I tapped Greenie on the shoulder, flashed my best “no problem” grin, and caught up with the famous politician’s son.
-4-
A bad hurricane ripped through the island in the early sixties, and many of the homes in Stepney had to be rebuilt. Originally, most were little more than one-roomed shacks, but they had been replaced by larger two and three roomed structures. Generally, one or two rooms were used for sleeping and one for eating and living. The bathroom and kitchen were in separate buildings located somewhere on the grounds, usually in the back of the yard. I moved several steps ahead of Lewis Montrose. The rain was now coming down in a steady stream. Still, he didn’t seem to be in any real hurry to escape the storm. He seemed to be taking in as much of Stepney as he could. My house was at the end of the lane, built on a small hill. A narrow path was cut into the grass to form a walkway. It was lined with small rocks, which proved a bit treacherous during wet weather, but no one had ever thought to replace them.
After pushing the front door open, I invited Mr. Montrose in. I motioned for him to sit at the old dining table in the center of the room. It was covered with a white lace tablecloth—my aunt’s. The air was sweet and smelled of jasmine, thanks to Mavis Parker, who had picked some the morning before on her way in from the fields.
While Lewis Montrose seated himself, I opened the back door a crack. The storm had caused the sky to darken prematurely, so I gathered the kerosene lamp from the small cabinet in the corner of the room, and brought it over to the table. But each time I tried to light the wick, the wind crept inside and snuffed out the match. I struck match after match, but nothing. To make matters worse, Mr. Montrose just kept staring at me. Finally, he inched further into the table and placed his large hands over mine. The match lit, and he raised his eyebrows and smiled warmly. For a moment, all Christian thoughts left my mind.
Mr. Montrose sat back gingerly, as if his weight might have been too much for the unsteady legs of the chair. He began to look around the room, stopping when his eyes reached the same little cabinet that had housed the lamp. He then squinted out the back door, at the small, open hut that served as a kitchen.
“Probably not what you used to,” I said.
“It’s very quaint.” His eyes drifted along the length of my dress. “You’ll catch your death of cold.”
“Me nevah even remembah,” I said. I walked toward the bedroom located to the right of the living area, then turned to face him. “It won’t tek me long.”
The moment I had closed the door behind me, I took a deep breath. Lewis Montrose was practically royalty and everyone would be expecting a full update the moment he left Stepney. I spent a few moments trying to pick out the nicest outfit I owned, only to realize that none of my clothes were all that nice. I finally settled on a blue skirt and white T-shirt.
After changing, I ducked back into the dining area and quickly walked through the back door and into the hut. I adjusted the kerosene burner, lit a match and watched as a tiny waft of smoke flowed up into the air. Lewis Montrose appeared in the doorway, lingered a bit, then walked outside.
“You don’t have to come out. You a go get wet. If you hungry, me will bring you de food when it ready.”
“I’d rather wait out here,” he said.
On the other side of the yard stood a wooden outhouse and bath stall. Bath water was collected from whatever rainwater happened to trickle down the roof’s gutter and land in the barrel beneath it. Lewis Montrose glanced toward the outhouse, then turned his attention to the green bananas I was peeling
Crickets' Serenade Page 4