A week and a half after Mr. Montrose’s proposal, Mavis Parker came running up the main road, clutching her heaving bosom and waving a small white envelope. Mrs. Parker, who would be hard pressed to count patience and tact among her virtues, yelled out that she had a letter from an “L. Montrose.” On her way back to Stepney from the post office in Calderwood, she had stumbled upon a messenger. His smoking motorbike had been propped up against a large rock and its deflated front tire lay to the side. The messenger was fretful, as he had only one charge—delivering that letter to one “Sowkey Alexander,” and he was afraid he would not be able to fulfill his duty. So Mrs. Parker, ever the busybody, convinced the young man to entrust the letter to her. She labored somewhat as she heaved her ample frame up the steps of the clinic. When she reached the verandah, she placed her right arm against her hip and drew in a few deep breaths. That’s when she handed the letter over, crossed her arms in front of her chest, and waited for me to begin reading … aloud.
“Well, it says, ‘Dear Ms. Alexander, t’ank you for taking de time out to talk to me ’bout t’ings in your small town, ’bout healt’ care an’ schooling. It was very helpful to me, an’ if I am elected, I will do what I cyan to try an’ mek t’ings a likkle easier.’ It’s signed, Lewis Montrose.”
“Dat’s all?” Mavis Parker asked, her arms falling limply to her side.
“Dat’s all. But Mavis, don’t say not’ing to Greenie. Me mean, even if it’s not’ing, him liable to be put off by it just de same.”
“Sweetie, dat letter not even wort’ me wasting me breat’.”
I looked off at Mrs. Parker as she made her way back down the main road, her hefty hips swinging from side to side. It took all the strength within me to keep from screaming at the top of my lungs. Lewis Montrose had not changed his mind. But then I thought of the finished wedding dress hanging on the back of my bedroom door and my excitement waned. Was I really willing to trade in my safe little world, the place I had known my entire life, for one in which I had no idea of what awaited me?
I bolted from the clinic, made my way around to the back of Tommy Blackshire’s bar, and ran across the Blackshire’s yard. After wading through the dewy grass and climbing the six steps leading to their verandah, I tapped against the front door. Michele appeared. Without saying a word, I handed the letter over and watched as her eyes grew larger with each word.
“Mommy, Mary lick me again,” Paul yelled from inside the house.
“Well, lick her back,” Michele yelled back. She calmly refolded the letter, handed it back, jumped up and down and let out an ear-piercing squeal. Mary and Paul flocked to the door.
“Sorry, me dears. Go back inside. Mommy’s all right, even if you Auntie Souci is just plain evil to her.”
The kids slowly walked away.
“Souci, a wha dis mean? What dis mon mean by if you answer to him question still stands, him will send a cyar fe you next Tuesday morning? You going on a date wit’ dis mon?”
“Oh, no, Michele. Is much more serious dan a date. Lewis Montrose say him want fe marry me.”
Michele hopped across the verandah. When she reached one end, she turned around and hopped to the other side.
“But when him tell you such a t’ing, mon?”
“Dat day him was here, when we come from Brown’s Town.”
“Souci Alexander, you tell me de mon was just trying fe find out ’bout de way we live here. You mean fe tell me all dis time you been lying to me, gyal?” Michele’s hands made their way up to her hips, and she rolled her eyes.
“Dat’s cause him mek me promise nuh fe say somet’ing, Michele.”
“Souci, not telling somebody you giving dem a surprise party is somet’ing. Not telling somebody you broke dem favorite plate is somet’ing. Lewis Montrose asking you fe marry him, dat’s not somet’ing. Dat’s amazing, an’ me cyan’t believe you nevah tell me ’bout it. Mon, me know you even before me know how fe talk. Me cyan’t believe you would keep such a t’ing from me.” Michele sucked her teeth and shook her head.
“If me nevah want fe know what was going on so bad, me wouldn’t talk to you evah again. So, what you tell him?”
“First, me tell him me was already getting married to somebody else.”
“Lawd have mercy.”
“Well I am, or I was, or I am. Oh Michele, me no know. But den me tell him yes, an’ me mean it. At least, me mean it at de time. But now I been really t’inking ’bout it. Me heart is beating an’ me head is pounding. Now I’m t’inking, maybe me shouldn’t have said yes.”
“You shouldn’t have said yes to a mon who look ten times bettah dan any mon who evah step out a Stepney; to a mon who have more money dan all a we times a million?”
“Well, me nuh know him. At least me know Greenie. Me know Stepney. What me know ’bout Kingston? Besides, what happen when him get tired a me? Me nuh know nobody dere.”
“What you mean get tired a you?” Michele had her hands on her hips, and she was staring at me as if I had three heads.
“Me mean, de mon talk all fancy, an’ you know him probably go to all dem fancy school an’ him know fancy people. Maybe it would tek a few mont’s, but den … for all me know, him probably crazy anyway. How you a go ask somebody you don’t know fe marry you, no mattah what de reason, unless somet’ing rattling ’round a bit up dere?”
“From wha me remember, you an’ Greenie wasn’t best friend. An’ as far as loving Lewis Montrose, you cyan learn. An’ why should dat stop you? You know you don’t love Greenie, an’ de way him stay, you will probably nevah love him. Me mean, him so weird. At you auntie funeral, him stand in dat aisle fe God only know how long. First him move toward where you was sitting, den him back up. Him move toward you again, den him back up again. You was sitting dere crying, so you nevah see a t’ing, but everybody else was watching him. We couldn’t help it. Him was blocking de preachah. Me was shock Farmah Bygrave nevah tell him fe sit him rass down. Anyhow, lawd only know how many times him do dis. Finally, him sit down. Den him raise him arm like him was about fe put it ’round you shoulder, but den you start cry. You lean forward some, an’ Greenie just keep dat arm up in de air. Me nuh know how him manage nuh fe get charley ’orse. It was like him was waiting fe you fe sit back into de hug. You nevah sit up again, an’ aftah him arm start fe get tired an’ tremble, him finally move it away. Dat’s wha you want fe give up Lewis Montrose for?”
“Greenie’s all right, mon.”
“Souci, no young man dat like fe work wit’ dead people is all right. Is okay if him have fe work wit’ dem, but when him like it … an’ all him ever talk ’bout is shoes an’ ole musty suits an’ de corns ’pon dead people foot. Who care? An’ de way me see it, you over here talking ’bout it ’cause you mind already made up an’ you just need fe hear somebody say is de right decision.” Michele brought her right hand up to her cheek and stuck her bottom lip out.
“But I have a question, an’ I don’t mean not’ing bad by it.”
“What?”
“Why in dis world Lewis Montrose want fe marry you?”
I shrugged my shoulders and burst out laughing.
“Say him a go run fe prime minister, dat him need a wife, an’ not one a dem rich, stooche ooman. You see why me nevah say not’ing ’bout dis, Michele? Me nevah believe it meself.”
Michele looked at the letter once more. “But Souci, whatevah de reason, no mattah how crazy, dat mon is serious, an’ if you don’t do it, you understand what you passing up? Greenie might be all right to you, but de t’ing is, you don’t love him. You two will get marry an’ live here fe evah. Dat’s just how t’ings go.” Michele was looking out into the yard.
“You born in Stepney, you grow, you marry, you die in Stepney. You know dat. You moddah teach at Stepney Primary fe twenty years. Me faddah say she was so smart, she could probably get a job at one a dem big, fancy school in Kingston. But den she marry you faddah an’ she nevah leave here. You de one who used to say you had to get out a Stepn
ey, an’ me believe you would. Now you become like everybody else. Maybe you scared a what’s outside Stepney.” Michele looked steadily into my eyes.
“Is too late fe me. But you, you could be a prime ministah’s wife. You could have powah an’ be famous an’ rich an’ travel all over de world. Everybody will know you name. Everybody will be talking ’bout you like dem talk ’bout Ms. Jamaica, only bettah. Who cares what reasons Mr. Montrose have fe asking you. Dis is your chance, girl. You could live in a prettier house dan de ones in Brown’s Town. Now, you want to pass all dat up?”
“Ain’t not’ing wrong wit’ Stepney.”
“No. If you nuh want fe do not’ing or fe get nowhere, is fine. Den you cyan just farm all day an’ drink all night. You mek you’self believe you like it, even if it ain’t so.” There was such sadness in Michele’s eyes. “Ain’t no place fe a girl chile to go in Stepney but down.”
A burrow wandered into the Blackshire’s front yard and no amount of shooing or hand clapping by Michele could cajole him back out. He looked up at her, brayed, then returned his attention to the grass filled field. I looked out beyond the yard and beyond the burrow. I looked off at the rolling hills that stretched out in the distance and formed a blanket of green for as far as the eye could see. Everything Michele had said was true, and I knew it, but why had I become so afraid? I suppose twenty-five years in the docile environment of Stepney had tempered most of the adventure in me.
“Well …” Michele said.
I took a deep breath.
“Well … de mon cyan’t possibly send cyar fe pick me up at me house. Dese nosey people would have de news to Nine Mile by noon. Tuesday’s only wink an’ a sniffle away, so me bettah go a de post office in Brown’s Town an’ call him an’ tell him.”
-7-
Night moved in, and with it, a tiny slice of moonlight crept into my bedroom. Greenie had sewn the blue lace curtain draped above the window, but the material was so thin and porous, it did little to keep the light out. I sat in my small room staring off into nothingness. I didn’t tremble at the shadows that grew out from the walls. I didn’t shiver when the cool winds blew. My wedding dress hung on the back of the door. When Greenie finally finished it, he sent Michele over with it, believing that for the few days remaining until the wedding, it would be unlucky for him to have any contact with his bride to be. It was a pretty funny notion I thought, since the village was only as big as a matchbox, and I had to walk by his shop every day in order to get to the clinic. Still, Greenie was trying to hold on to at least one small bit of tradition. Whenever he saw me coming up the main road, he would duck down until I was out of his view.
The wedding gown was a simple cotton dress with short sleeves, a fitted top and a long A-lined skirt trimmed with lace. The veil was a long piece of fancy white lace. But the dress was now a memento of what had once been a simple, uncomplicated country life—and that life was about to give way to something completely unpredictable
It felt as if I had fallen asleep to Wednesday night and awakened to Tuesday morning. The days just raced by as I made my final preparations to leave Stepney. I kept wondering what Kingston would be like. Would I be swallowed up in a sea of people? Would they be able to tell I had never traveled more than twenty miles from Stepney my whole life? As the sun peeked above the clouds, I focused in on the tiny hard-shelled grip that rested in the corner of the bedroom. It had been my aunt’s. The blue and white striped frock Lewis Montrose’s driver would be expecting me in at the bus depot hung above the suitcase.
I scooted out of bed and walked out of the room, closing the door behind me. I didn’t want to wake Michele, who had left Mary and Paul in her mother’s care for the night. I walked into the main room and looked around the house, studying every piece of furniture, every cobweb, every speck of dirt. When I opened the backdoor, sunlight flooded in. I pulled the oval looking glass from the cabinet, parted my hair down the middle, and combed it into two plaits. Afterwards, I walked to the back of the yard and looked up into the hills. The mist was heavy this morning. A red-breasted solitaire swooped down from one of the trees, then disappeared into the clouds, leaving behind its sweet, haunting song. It was then that I realized this was potentially the last time I would be seeing the only house I had ever known, the yard I had played in every day as a young girl, the hills I had spent so many hours looking off into as a dreamy teenager.
Washing up, dressing and eating were all done in a blur. Soon, I was walking along the incline of the main road. I looked slowly around at everything: the unopened bar and clinic, the tamarind tree at the top of the hill, the low-lying bushes. I had seen these things everyday for twenty-five years. The thought of not seeing them again made me a little sad inside.
Michele and I made the walk to Alexandria in relative silence. We passed a couple of market women from other villages. They glanced curiously at the grip in my hand. But an early morning traveler suddenly appeared, and they were quick to turn the attention away from me and toward making a sale.
“A bag of ackee fe a dollar an’ twenty-five cents. You cyan’t beat dat price,” one woman called out to the car.
“You cyan beat it right here. A bag of ackee fe a dollar flat, sweet’eart,” another woman said.
My stomach was unsettled from a mixture of excitement and fear. I tuned out the higgling and the haggling in the background. I wanted so badly to turn around and look at the familiar country that lay behind me, but forced myself not to. It was too late for any second thoughts.
“I wish you could come wit’ me,” I said to Michele as we stood in front of the large soursop tree that signified the bus stop.
“Not more dan I wish. But me have me kids an’ Winston. Dis place will be so empty wit’out you, but gyal pickney, you a go be somebody famous an’ great. I just hope you nevah forget me.”
“You will come up an’ visit me, right?”
“You just get you’self settled in. You a go have lots to do. Me will come up. You know, fe check de place out. See what dem rich people got on me.”
“I will write, Michele. Me a go write as soon as me get dere.”
“Don’t feel no way if you don’t. You a go be so busy.”
“No mon, me will write, an’ you will come up an’ visit me in de big city every chance you get.”
The saddest smile flashed across Michele’s face, and her eyes began to tear up. I became aware of a familiar gurgling noise. The bus was approaching, and my stomach twisted into knots. I thought one last time about changing my mind, but before I could do so, there was an ear-piercing screech of brakes, and the dilapidated red and green vehicle shuddered to a halt. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a photograph and handed it to Michele.
“Is a picture, de picture Mr. Montrose say him would send.”
“Mon, look how long me forget ’bout dat … but dis isn’t mine. It belong to you,” she said as she tried handing the picture back.
“I get de feeling dere will be oddah photos for me,” I said. “It belong to you.” I grabbed hold of my best friend and breathed in deeply to prevent the tears from falling. When I let go of her, Michele brushed a tear from my cheek.
“When you get to Kingston, dere won’t to be any time fe dis. All you will be doing is laughing, laughing. Walk good, Souci Alexander. Walk good.”
“An’ you too, Michele Blackshire. Walk good.”
I forced a smile, climbed into the bus and found the corner most seat in the back row. After my grip had been secured under the seat, I turned and waved at Michele. The bus lurched forward, and within a few seconds, Michele became a lonely speck in the distance. I kept squinting, hoping to make my very best friend appear just as she had when she was standing right there next to me. When the bus rounded a mountain curve, I lost sight of Michele completely. I turned to face front, closed my eyes and took in the sweet scent of pimento and ripening fruit.
As we lay giggling in bed the night before, Michele decided, based on Lewis Montrose’s confident walk
, that he would make a most exciting lover. I spent half the night gossiping with Michele, trying to hold on to every little precious moment of familiarity, and the other half trying to press my eyelids together, trying to force them to stick, only to have anxiety force them back open. Although I didn’t sleep more than two hours, I still couldn’t close my eyes during the bus ride. Instead, I spent most of the time staring out into the green valleys, wondering how some of the houses balanced so precariously on the steep mountainsides managed not to plummet into the valleys hundreds of feet below.
I spotted Mr. Montrose’s driver the moment the bus arrived at the depot in Ocho Rios. He was a grim-faced older man who had been leaning against the front of a silver Mercedes. He hardly flinched as I approached. Instead, he lowered his eyes and inspected my clothing before introducing himself as “De drivah as sent by Mr. Lewis.” Save for a slight tip of his cap, he made no other attempts at communicating. I walked around to the front passenger side of the car, but he rushed over and wedged his body between me and the vehicle, mumbled something that didn’t seem to come from any language in particular, and pointed to the back seat.
I was bursting with so many questions, but I vowed to respect the driver’s silence since he didn’t seem like the social type. I had always kept on top of the news in The Gleaner. I would sometimes read about the politicians and their big egos and their bad tempers, so I couldn’t help wondering whether Lewis Montrose was any different from all the others. We must have gone forty minutes in complete silence before I said anything to “de drivah as sent by Mr. Lewis.”
“So, you work fe Mr. Montrose?”
“Hmm,” the driver said. I took that to mean yes.
“Fe a long time?”
“Hmm!”
“You like him?”
“Hmm!”
The most response I got out of my anti-social road companion came about when I asked him to turn up the passenger side window to prevent the wind from lashing against my face. This request seemed to cause him great physical and mental strain.
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