He reeled off a round of overly dramatic sighs and twisted his mouth to the left side before speaking. “I will shut de winda a bit, but it will get very hot in here, ’specially Kingston. Scorchin’!”
He leaned across the front seat and with much exaggeration, rolled the window almost entirely shut. The window squealed so loudly, I thought it was about to shatter. But despite the theatrics, the man was a good driver. He avoided most of the potholes and bumpy stretches, and made the ride as smooth as possible … under the circumstances. Aside from the stray cows and chickens wandering out of yards, he also had to contend with carefree children darting into the roads and Rastas in ancient Fords trying to pass on the hidden curve of a narrow roadway.
After a couple of hours, there was an amazing change in the scenery. There were no more banana plants or jackfruit trees and lime groves. Concrete and cement replaced the great fields filled with grazing goats and cows. The sounds of chirping birds and croaking frogs turned into screaming children and barking dogs. People were buzzing about, going in very different directions. There were many buildings, some with three, four, five stories. A large ship belched out as it pulled into the harbor. It was the first ship I had ever seen, outside of the pictures in my textbooks, and it brought back childhood memories of Henry Morgan, Blackbeard, spiced rum and treasure chests. The city seemed to go on forever. The Caribbean Sea washed up on its southern harbor, while the Blue Mountains towered over the northern plain.
Without a word of warning, the driver pulled up in front of a small building and turned off the ignition. He said nothing, just hurried out of the car and disappeared behind a large wooden door. I had no idea whether or not we had reached our destination. I considered leaving the car and following him, but then noticed a sign toward the side of the building that read “Harry’s Custom Framing.”
“De driver as sent by Mr. Lewis,” reappeared a few minutes later, hugging a parcel wrapped in brown paper. A young Chinese fellow followed him out and helped to place it into the trunk.
“An’ don’t forget to give Mr. Montrose my apologies again. The framer was sick as a dawg. Sick as a dawg, or else de t’ing would have been framed last Monday,” the man rattled off. “Next time, Mr. Montrose gets a discount. Now don’t forget to apologize to him. Don’t forget now, because I …”
The driver jumped into the car and hit the accelerator before the man could finish his sentence. If his behavior hadn’t been so rude, I might have laughed. He guided the Mercedes up a busy street and into a grand traffic jam. There were no signaling lights at the intersection, something one poor driver realized the hard way. The front of his car resembled an accordion. Steam rose from its engine. The honking of horns came from every direction. I never imagined there could be so many cars in one place. It was an absolute madhouse … and I thought it was wonderful. Reggae blared from a streetside sound system. The heavy bass sent vibrations through the floor of the car. There were all these people yelling, and they continued to do so even after a policeman in his red striped uniform appeared on the scene and got things moving along again.
We passed small homes that didn’t really have yards or much grass in front of them. Some homes were built so close to the street, it seemed possible to step right from the car and onto their front steps. In place of hedges or a fence, some were surrounded by tall sheets of corrugated zinc. I looked out at small, colorful storefronts that advertised Dragon Stout or Grace Jamaican Ketchup. But as our drive continued, the streets became less congested and there weren’t as many people. We turned onto a wide street with big, beautiful houses on either side. The street sign read “Old Hope Road.” The houses here were even bigger than those in Brown’s Town. The most beautiful, white, two-story building sprang up before my eyes. I looked off at the palm trees lining its drive and the water gurgling from the fountain in the front yard.
“What’s dat house?” I blurted out.
The driver hardly even looked over. “Dvvvnnnnoosssss,” he mumbled. “What?”
“DEVON HOUSE! De national art gallery.” His tone of voice was somewhere between boredom and annoyance. Once again, I vowed not to say another word, and maybe I would have succeeded had I not caught sight of a familiar structure surrounded by black iron gates.
“Jamaica House. Dat is Jamaica House,” I said.
“Hmm.”
I had seen pictures of the prime minister’s office complex in textbooks. I had always wondered what it looked like behind its closed doors. Now there was a great chance I would discover this firsthand.
We drove up into the mountains. From the car’s back window, I could see all of Kingston sprawled out behind us. I continued to stare at this vision until it became obscured by trees and shrubs and mountain. These mountain roads contained stores called “Blue Mountain Shop,” or “Blue Mountain Stop.” Everything seemed to have the words “Blue Mountain” in its name. The driver made a sudden left, and we were soon driving along a river. We drove into a misty rain, and the driver turned on windshield wipers that seemed to suffer from a tinge of arthritis. They gasped and wheezed as they struggled to move from side to side.
The city was made up of a spicy odor, like that of goat being roasted and fish being fried. But up in the Blue Mountains, the air seemed lighter and sweeter. There was the smell of orchids, frangipanis and cup-of-gold, just like in the country.
The driver veered onto a fern lined lane and drove along tall hedges until he arrived at a wooden gate. He turned onto the property and drove down a long driveway. Fire red flowers of poinciana trees littered the lawn. And before me stood the grandest home I had ever laid eyes on. I stared off at the lazy verandah that curved itself completely around the salmon colored house.
The driver pulled up to the house, and in my excitement to get out of the car, I tumbled face first onto the grass. Before I could gather myself, an older woman wearing a long gray dress and white apron was helping me to my feet. I thanked her and continued to take in my new surroundings.
“Happy that you’ve finally arrived, ma’am,” the woman said. She led me across the verandah and into an airy foyer. The driver lagged behind to retrieve the package he had picked up from Harry’s Custom Framing, then hobbled up the stairs with it. He placed it gently in the foyer, then removed the rain sprinkled paper surrounding it to reveal a painting of a family.
“Welcome to Reach, ma’am. I am Mrs. Moore, the home’s caretaker. Mr. Montrose is not here as yet, but he’ll be returning shortly. He’s been eagerly anticipating your arrival. If you would follow me out to the back verandah where I’ve put out a little meal for you. You must be hungry and tired.”
As Mrs. Moore led me through the house, I stared at everything behind, in front of, above and below me.
“Mr. Montrose really live here?”
“All his life.”
We walked through a small, open area with doors that opened up to a living room to the left and a larger room to the right. That room was bigger than my house in Stepney, though it only contained a piano and a large crystal chandelier in the center of its ceiling. Its floor was so shiny, I figured it must have just been waxed. A beautiful staircase with a deep brown, carved wooden banister branched off from the hall, but Mrs. Moore guided me away from it and through a set of French doors that led to the back verandah.
“I hope the ride wasn’t too draining,” Mrs. Moore said while showing me to a dining table made of glass and bamboo.
“No, it was fine.”
“Very good. I hope you enjoy the meal, ma’am.”
“It’s Souci,” I corrected. “In de country, you nevah call anybody oldah dan you by dem first name, an’ dem nevah call you ma’am.” I couldn’t tell whether or not she had heard me, because she didn’t respond. Instead, she began speaking of the weather.
“I don’t expect anything more than the drizzle we have now, so you don’t have to worry yourself about getting wet.”
Mrs. Moore excused herself and walked back into the house, leaving m
e alone to take in all that lay before me. I could make out ebony trees and jackfruit in the distance. Birds chirped. Butterflies soared. It was exactly as I had imagined the homes in those paperback romances. It was almost too good to be true.
Mrs. Moore had prepared steak and fried plantains, but I couldn’t touch a thing. Instead, I got up and walked down the short set of stairs leading out onto the never-ending lawn. The backyard was almost as large as all of Stepney. It jutted out, then sloped downwards. A large almond tree spread its branches across the left most corner of the yard, shading the wooden bench beneath it. I walked over to and sat on the bench, running my hands along the arms. An orange grove began just before the yard sloped downwards. I wandered in and stood under one of the trees. By the time I made my way back up to the yard, I saw Lewis Montrose sitting on the verandah.
-8-
“I thought you might have changed your mind,” Lewis Montrose said. He stood up as I approached the table and remained standing until I sat. There was a strange kind of music coming from the house. There were no drums or bass riff or hip swaying beats—the very things that made music worth listening to.
“I wanted to see what de rest look like,” I explained.
“You’ll have plenty of time for that. I do want to apologize for not being here when you arrived. Tuesdays and Thursdays are my lecture days.”
“What’s it you lecture?”
“Economics. At the University of the West Indies. So, how was your trip?”
“All right.”
“Mr. Moore didn’t put you off with his, how shall I put it, lack of season, did he?”
“No, it was all right … Mr. Moore? Is he any relation to Mrs. Moore?”
“They’re husband and wife.”
“Dem don’t seem much like two people who would be togeddah. An’ why you nevah send de drivah you had wit’ you in Stepney?”
“His wife had a baby a few days ago. Besides, this doesn’t really concern him.” Mr. Montrose unfolded his napkin and placed it on his lap. I followed his lead.
“The young women these days eat lightly and watch their figures, when in actuality, what they should be doing is eating mightily and leaving the figure watching up to the young men,” he said as he studied my plate.
“Well, I’d just as well do de first since me nuh really have nobody fe watch mine fe me.”
“I don’t know if I believe that. What about your Mr. Greene?”
I really wanted to skip all the small talk and get to when and where we would be getting married, and what I needed to do to in order to get myself ready. I couldn’t understand how Lewis Montrose could be so at ease with the whole situation.
“What did you tell Mr. Greene?” he asked.
“’Bout what?”
“About your leaving. I’m sure he had a few questions.”
I poked at the steak on my plate. It had cooled, and the gravy now resembled brown gelatin. I thought about Greenie and how little he had said after I walked into his store with the wedding dress he had made folded up and tucked beneath my arm.
“I guess you not giving it back ’cause it don’t fit good,” he had mumbled.
“No, Greenie. T’ing is, I’m leaving Stepney … before it get too late an’ me lose all me nerve. Me want fe see what Kingston is like.”
“Dis have fe do wit’ dat politician mon?” he asked.
“Not really,” I fibbed. “Me guess him just mek me see dat you have fe tek a chance in dis life.”
“Maybe we could still get marry next week, den you cyan go. You cyan see Kingston, den you cyan come back home,” he said softly. But Greenie didn’t have to look at me to gauge my reaction. He just responded to my silence.
“No, you nuh want fe do dat. Who knows, maybe you go to de city an’ meet somebody an’ fall in love all romantic, like de girls do it in dem books you always reading. If you marry me, you would just get hold back from dat. But if you do come back, an’ if you ain’t meet dat somebody, maybe you will still want fe marry me.”
“You nevah know, Greenie. Maybe you will marry somebody else before me come back.”
“Who else is dere fe me fe marry? Besides, me mek dat dress ’specially fe you. Me have you in mind when me sew de lace an’ cut de neckline. If me marry somebody else, me could nevah give dem you special dress. Is yours. Tek it wit’ you. Maybe every now an’ den you will look ’pon it an’ you will remembah me.”
* * *
“Souci, are you okay? Souci …” Lewis Montrose was staring across the table at me.
“Oh, sorry. Me mind just run off to somet’ing else. What you ask me again?”
“I asked you about Mr. Greene.”
“Oh, yeah. Me just say me had was to see what t’ings was like outside Stepney.”
“And he did not protest at all?”
“Not really Greenie nature fe protest. Besides, him know me had me mind set. Everybody else, me just tell de same t’ing. Dem in shock an’ dem will be talking ’bout me fe de next few weeks. But some people understand. Dem would nevah come a Kingston, but dem say dat when dem was young an’ still had some adventure in dem, dem considah it.”
“So you told no one of my proposition?”
“Nobody, mon.”
“Not even your very best friend, Michele Blackshire?” He looked so deeply into my eyes, I was almost convinced he could read my thoughts. I paused for just a moment and looked away.
“Me tell everybody de same t’ing, mon. Everybody dere know me always want fe go a Kingston. Dem was shocked, but it wasn’t like it come out de air or somet’ing.”
“You really should have some,” he said as he motioned toward the food. “It’s a little on the bland side, but Mrs. Moore prefers to cook without those wonderful scotch bonnets we’ve been blessed with on the island.” He took a few moments to chew before continuing. “My father and brother had problems with their stomachs. According to Mrs. Moore, ulcers are not only caused by stress, but also by hereditary and environmental factors; the food we choose to eat, for instance. She’s like a mother to me.”
“Well, she does look like she know how fe keep t’ings in ordah.”
“That she does. Without her, this house would be in ruins, just like the main plantation house. All the credit goes to her and to her husband … and Mr. Harris, the gardener, for keeping this place in the good shape it’s in.”
“Plantation house?”
“This is just a guest house. The main house is a couple of miles up, near where the coffee is grown.”
“It’s still standing?”
“Barely.”
“Mr. Montrose—”
“I really hope you don’t wait until the day we’re married to start calling me Lewis,” he interrupted.
“Sorry. But if you black, like you say, how is it you own a plantation house?”
“My great, great-grandfather was a white man. After he died, he left the main house to his daughter, a white woman. His white wife bore him no sons. His only son, or at least the only one he somewhat acknowledged, was my great-grandfather. After they ended slavery on the island, my great-grandfather was given this guesthouse. It was a big scandal back then, since he was half-black. The house has been passed down to the oldest male ever since—my grandfather, father, then to my brother William.”
“So William live here too?”
“No. He lives near Mandeville.”
“Well if him is de oldest, how come him don’t live here instead a you?”
“I’d just as soon not dredge up that piece of ancient history. Suffice to say, William is an artist, and he didn’t think this house nurtured his creative spirit, so …”
“What about you faddah an’ moddah?”
“They live in Oracabessa, right by the sea. My father’s always loved the water, even when he lived here. He had a pretty massive stroke a few years back and says he’d rather spend his remaining days just watching the tide. As for my mother, it has to be pretty important for her to leave his side.
She’s afraid the one time she does will be the moment he dies. My mother believes her presence is in some way responsible for the earth orbiting the sun.”
His words were bitter. I thought I should say something, but he didn’t seem to be looking for any kind of response.
“Funny, as a boy I never thought my father would die. I didn’t think he could die. And now,…” he stopped suddenly and pressed his lips together.
“Even aftah Dr. Bennedict say me auntie have cancer, me still nevah t’ink she would evah leave me. Den one day, it nevah stop raining an’ she nevah wake up. An’ me faddah, him go a de field one day, just like always, but dis time, him nevah mek it back home. When dem find him, him was still holding onto de hoe.”
Lewis Montrose nodded slowly, but said nothing.
“When me first get here, you housekeepah say somet’ing funny to me. At first, me t’ink she say, ‘welcome, you reach,’ but I don’t t’ink dat was it at all. She say, ‘welcome to Reach.’ ”
“Reach is the name of this house.”
“Babies have names, an’ cats an’ dogs. But me nevah hear of a house having a name.”
“They used to name all estates. This one got its name because it was supposed to have been built further up in the mountains, on one of the highest peak—a spot where it could reach toward heaven. But a rich coffee grower owned that particular piece of land. He didn’t really use it for anything, but he refused to sell. They ended up building the home here, on what is actually a small valley between mountains. It’s warmer down here than it would have been up there, and it’s so serene, so I don’t think we lost much in the trade off. Anyway, my ancestors loved the idea of reaching for the skies, so they kept the name.” Lewis stopped speaking, and his mind seemed to wander to some place far away.
I began playing with the edges of the linen napkin on my lap, but I could sense his eyes roaming across my face again. I looked up and he smiled slightly.
“What’s dat music playing?” I asked.
“Vivaldi.”
“Never hear of it.”
Crickets' Serenade Page 8