Don’t be mad at me Souci. This is not a letter for you to try and talk me out of things. I haven’t made up my mind yet but by the time you get this letter I will have talk to Red already. Pray for me,Souci. Don’t think bad of me. I have to do what I have to do and I just wanted to let you know because I just feel like talking to you.
Your very best friend in the whole wide world.
Michele
* * *
I slid Michele’s letter back into the envelope and stared up at the ceiling.
I’m sure it made Michele feel better—writing that letter. But in its own strange way, that letter also made me feel a little better. It reminded me that the torture I was feeling was not exclusive. A year before, I would have been quick to rattle off a letter to Michele telling her not to leave Winston—telling her there was a reason they were together. I always thought her love for Red to be a weakness, but I was quickly realizing that feelings creep in on you as quick and as easy as a morning breeze. Sometimes you just don’t see them coming, and by the time you do, there’s little you can do to protect yourself from them.
The first few weeks after our time at Skyward were some of the strangest weeks I had ever lived through. At first, Lewis seemed to be going out of his way to avoid me. If he was comfortably seated in the dining room and I walked in, he suddenly had somewhere to go. He left the house earlier than ever before and came home later. I tried telling myself that the man was head of the government, so his being busy and distracted was only normal. But I knew it wasn’t as simple as that. This behavior continued for a couple of months, then just as suddenly, he seemed all right with the situation and all right with me. Now if I walked into the dining room, he greeted me with open arms. It was during this period that I tried apologizing for being so forward with him, but this was met with a few curt words. “That had long been forgotten by me,” he said. “And I would have hoped that you would have had more in which to occupy your time than with rehashing a meaningless matter from the past.”
-24-
In June of 1977, Lewis approved the construction or renovation of ten clinics across the island. There was a list of twenty villages that were being considered as possible sites. It was a pretty exciting time because I was able to visit each site and to talk to the people and give my input into things. The first stop on the list was the town of Accompong near the District of Look Behind in the western interior of the island.
To get to Accompong, we had to travel north on impossibly narrow mountain roads that gave way to many hairpin turns—much like I had done on my trip from Stepney to Kingston. There were no guardrails on the sides of these roads. The only barriers were shrubs and bushes. In the District of Look Behind, the unpaved roads were often filled with sinkhole-sized potholes. The vegetation grew high, in some places blocking out the sun, which made the morning seem almost like early evening. It reminded me of the lane leading from the main road down to my house in Stepney.
There was a great similarity between the Accompong and Stepney lifestyle. The only real difference was, Accompong actually got some of the tourist trade. Most of the townspeople were descendents of the Maroons, and throughout the village, tables were set-up with leather goods and calabashes and various other trinkets that had “Accompong” and “Maroon Village” carved somewhere onto them. I found out that many people relied on the selling of these souvenirs to make their living. If anyone in Stepney relied on souvenirs to make their living, they would have been in a very sorry state.
Probably the biggest similarity between Stepney and Accompong was the sorrowful state of their clinics. At the Accompong clinic, a large bucket was strategically placed under a gaping hole in the roof. While I was there, it began to rain, and there was a high-pitched ping every time raindrops hit the bucket. The rain continued to fall, and the floor became wet anyway because the hole with the bucket beneath it wasn’t the only hole in the roof—it was only the largest.
I had visited other villages while accompanying Lewis on some of his campaign trips, but I suppose I was so caught up in the moment, I never really thought much of them in relation to Stepney. Maybe I was starting to miss Stepney a little bit. Maybe I was missing the simpleness of a small town existence. I wondered if Stepney had changed much—especially since they began mining bauxite just outside of it after I had left. I wondered if it was still as simple as Accompong. Two months after visiting Accompong, I made my final small town stop—in Stepney. As I drove along the familiar mountainside, my heartbeat came fast and my stomach became unsettled. What would everyone think of me? What would they say?
Three young boys stopped and waved as the van passed them by. They were heading toward Stepney, but I didn’t recognize them. I figured they were probably just visiting from Prickle Pole or from one of the other neighboring villages.
Though only about three years had passed since I had last seen Stepney, it seemed like an eternity. More time had passed since Farmer Bygrave’s son left for the United Kingdom—fourteen years, and he had never been back. Mrs. Blackshire’s sister only lived in Montego Bay, but she had never been back. Still, I felt somewhat guilty about not returning, not that anyone expected me to. Stepney was one of those places where, if you left and didn’t have family to return to, there wasn’t really any need to return at all. And the two people I had been closest to in all the world, Michele and my Aunt Mattie, no longer called it home.
I suddenly felt a little uncomfortable. I felt as if my nails were too manicured and my hair too perfectly styled. I felt as if I now resembled one of those “uptown” women Michele and I used to talk about. I was wearing jeans, but I still felt overdressed. While I lived in Stepney, I never even owned a pair. Jeans were a luxury; something only rich people and Americans owned. My white button down shirt and white tennis shoes were so stark, they appeared to be glowing. I wanted to just throw myself on that mountain road and coat myself in the red dirt.
When the van reached a peak and began its descent along the main road, I knew I was home. We parked on the small lane beside the clinic. I got out of the van slowly, taking the time to study the little box of a building where I used to spend almost all my daytime hours. I walked onto the wooden verandah, savoring every step, noting the exact spot in which I would sit to read my paperbacks and watch time crawl by. I walked through the front door, which remained opened, courtesy of a thick slab of wood that had been wedged beneath it. I didn’t remember the floor creaking as much as it did now. I didn’t remember the clinic being as small or as empty either. I walked in first, followed by Mrs. Eldermeyer and two Jamaica House representatives. There was Satchmo sitting groggily on a cot and Dr. Bennedict bandaging a laceration on his hand. I suppose not that much had changed.
“Lawd have mercy. If it ain’t likkle Souci Alexander. Me Lawd. Look at you, gyal pickney. You gone an’ turn you’self into one a dem city ooman. Who would have known. Souci Alexander from Stepney. All famous. Lawd. You moddah an faddah an’ auntie must be smiling down on you now.” It was the most words I had ever Satchmo, who was usually dead drunk, say at one time.
“But what is it you husband doing wit’ dem Cubans? Somebody need fe talk to him an’ tell him an’ show him de right way fe do t’ings.” He suddenly began singing. “Teach him de right way fe do t’ings. No more friendly frien’ wit’ Fidel.”
“Satchmo,” Doctor Bennedict interjected, “Souci and these other people are here about the clinic. Remember, they’re trying to build a bigger, better one. We just have a little talking to do so I can make it to Alva by one.”
There wasn’t much talking necessary since the clinic had changed little in the three years I had been gone. I walked out of the clinic about twenty minutes later, and the entire village was camped out on the main road. I recalled the similar scene the day Lewis Montrose first stumbled onto Stepney. There was Farmer Bygrave and Tommy and Larice Blackshire and Mavis Parker and Lucille and Jimmy Mason and Greenie and all the little children. I was so overwhelmed, I couldn’t think
of any words to say. There was this strange silence at first, but Mavis Parker made sure it didn’t last. She rushed right over to me, her bosom heaving, her hips swinging from side to side, and locked her arms tightly around my waist. I had to fight to suck in some air.
“So, what is it we’re supposed to call de prime ministah wife? Mrs. Montrose? Or maybe it’s Mrs. Prime Ministah? Or Mrs. Big Lady in Charge?”
“You cyan call de prime ministah wife what you always call de prime ministah wife,” I said. “Souci. Just Souci.”
Soon, Tommy Blackshire was coming forward with cold beers. The children were asking me to sign pictures they had collected from Jimmy Mason’s two-day-old newspapers, and that nervousness I had felt floated out on one of those mountain breezes.
I noticed Greenie in the background, so I walked over to him.“Hi, Greenie,” I said.
He hesitated a bit, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not I had spoken to him. Farmer Bygrave slapped him on the back and pushed him forward. Greenie stumbled a bit, but once he regained his balance, he stuck his hands in his pocket and lowered his head.
“I still have de wedding dress you mek me,” I said. “Sometimes I look at it an’ I wondah how you doing. I look at it an’ I t’ink what a good person you are an’ how good of you it was to let me go wit’out making a big t’ing out of it.” Mavis Parker did not try to hide the fact that she was eavesdropping, so I tugged on the sleeve of Greenie’s shirt and led him over to the side of the clinic.
“Ain’t really my nature to mek a big t’ing out of t’ings,” he said.
“Well, Michele tells me you seeing somebody—a girl from Prickle Pole.”
Greenie shrugged his shoulders. “She name Gloria. She’s a good person. You know, Souci, when me first find out you was coming today, me t’ink about going away. Me nevah know if me want fe see you or if you want was to see me. But me happy me stay.”
“Same here, Greenie. But look, now you have a new girl. You have somebody you really love and who love you.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “But …”
“But what, Greenie?”
He moved in a little closer to me and put his lips near my ear. “Well, I loved you too Souci. I did.” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other.
“You nevah say dat before.”
“Don’t know so much if it would have mattah,” he said. “Besides, is not really my way … saying t’ings like dat. But I guess … I suppose I always t’ink maybe you would come back fe me. Even when me read in de paper dat you an’ Mr. Montrose was close. Me t’ink maybe you just in adventure, but den de adventure would go, and you would be back home. I just hope Mr. Montrose give you all de love you should have.”
I kissed Greenie on the cheek. “All right. Well, okay den, maybe I will go get some watah now,” he said. He smiled shyly and turned away from me. As he walked away, I noticed Mavis Parker still looking in our direction. I looked around at all the familiar faces laughing and talking. Some sat on the stairs of the clinic, others in front of the bar. Tommy Blackshire was walking around with a bottle of rum filling and refilling glasses. Farmer Bygrave was smiling from ear to ear. The time that had passed since I had last seen everyone seemed to just melt away. Very little in Stepney had changed, with the exception of a couple of the old timers like Ma’am Greene, who had passed the year before, and of course, Michele, who now lived in Nine Mile.
Mrs. Blackshire invited everyone over for lunch. Although we were on a schedule and Mrs. Eldermeyer didn’t seem that excited about hanging around Stepney, I couldn’t refuse an extra couple of hours in the country, or Mrs. Blackshire’s stew peas. Everyone walked over to the Blackshire’s and claimed a place on their front lawn. And then the questions came:
When did you an’ Mr. Montrose get togeddah? When you plan on having few chil’ren? You hang out wit’ Bob Marley all de time? How big is de house? Mr. Montrose is a millionaire? You meet Edward Montrose? Him really as sick as dem say? What you eat in de morning? You must have lobster an’ champagne everyday. What’s America like? How many people fit into New York anyway? Why dem cyan’t live togeddah in peace in Kingston? Why you husband visiting Cuba? You meet Castro yet? How come a tin of Milo cost almost twice as much now as it did a year ago? How dem people in Kingston afford t’ings, ’cause if we didn’t farm we own food, we would have starve long, long time ago. Why all de rich people fleeing de island? You been a England? Is de Queen tall or short? Fat or skinny?
I was trying to figure out which was more grand, Vale Royal or Jamaica House, when I noticed a few heads turn toward the very front of the yard. Michele walked through the gate with a great, big grin on her face. I left all of Mrs. Eldermeyer’s teachings of etiquette behind and ran screaming across the grass toward my friend. Her embrace was so warm, so familiar.
“Oh, is so good to see you,” Michele whispered. “Me cyan’t tell de last time me smile like dis.”
I pulled back from Michele in order to get a good look at her, but the Michele I saw was different from the Michele I remembered. Her wonderful, curvy figure was now slender and wiry. Her hands were hard. There were dark circles under her eyes.
“Michele, why you look so tired, gyal pickney?”
“You been down to de old house yet?” she asked.
“I don’t want to go. It would be too sad.”
“Let’s go walk ’round to de bar,” she said. Michele waved to her parents, then rolled her eyes at everyone else. She then placed her arm in mine and we walked across the grassy yard, onto the red dirt of the main road, then to the front porch of the bar, where we sat. Michele looked over at the two men in Nehru jackets that had followed me out of the yard.
“Dem go everywhere I go,” I said. “Used to be just one, but in de last few months, is become two. Me nuh even notice it anymore.”
“You don’t notice it ’cause you royalty, an’ you finally get used to being royalty,” Michele said.
I looked directly ahead. From where we sat, I could see part way down the small lane that led to my old house. More trees and bushes had grown in, and the fern plants formed an arch overhead, which caused the road to seem dim despite the bright sunlight.
“Farmah Bygrave been planting new trees an’ ferns an’ bushes all ovah de place. Him claim him just cyan’t tek de heat in de middle a de day anymore. Him say dat every step him walk should be shaded. Personally, me t’ink de mon believe him is Jesus.”
“Is probably because wit’ all de ‘tonic’ him drink in de aftahnoon, de sun mek him light-headed,” I said. Michele laughed.
“So, Souci. How’s you sexy mon doing? Me faddah visit some friends in Brown’s Town de oddah week, an’ him say him see a minute a de news on JBC , an’ dat it was just terrible. Him say Mr. Carlysle was dere wit’ a very old German woman from Seaford Town. She must have been ninety. Look oldah dan me gran’-moddah when she pass on in sixty-eight. Him say de poor t’ing didn’t even have her teet’ in. She was talking ’bout not being able fe afford milk fe her t’ree great-gran’ chil’ren.” Michele shook her head.
“Me faddah t’ink Mr. Carlysle is somet’ing, a real scoundrel. Him want fe know how Mr. Carlylse find dis woman? Him cyan’t believe how Carlysle was all lovey dovey wit’ her. Him say dat after she tell her story, Carlysle hug her up, den dig deep in him pocket fe some money. Him pull out dis big roll, peel off a ten dollar bill an’ start giving it to her, den him stop an’ put de whole roll in de woman hand. Me faddah say it was just terrible … like one a dem traveling road shows. Him say dat anybody who know anyt’ing ’bout anyt’ing should be able fe see dat it was all rehearsed. De way de woman just kept t’anking him an’ calling him, ’an angel as sent by de Lawd God himself in heaven.’ Den Carlysle look at de camera an’ say, ‘If I was prime ministah, I wouldn’t be worried about being friends with Cuba. I would be worried about what needs to be worked on in my own backyard.’ An’ I hear t’ings not too good in Kingston, Souci.”
“You see in de papah dat Lewis goin
g to Cuba? De people ain’t too happy ’bout dat. Dem finally finish dat hospital de Cubans donate, an’ last week, all dese people was ovah dere protesting. An’ him raise de taxes so high on de foreign businesses, dem all leaving de island.”
“Him know de people not happy?”
“I suppose so. But him believe him is doing de right t’ing.”
“Well, forget de politics,” Michele said. “How t’ings between you two?”
“All right, I guess.”
Michele looked me square in the eye. “You know I’m not going to believe dat one. What’s really going on, gyal pickney?”
“I don’t know, Michele. I guess I wonder sometimes if me mek de right decision?”
“Dere was no decision fe mek. Look at dis. You come back near t’ree years aftah an’ not one t’ing change. If you was here, you would still be sitting on de steps a dat clinic staring off up de road. Only person do somet’ing a likkle different ’round here is me, an’ everybody t’ink me is some kind a awful person fe it. What is dere fe you here?”
“You.”
Michele sucked her teeth. “An’ me not even here no more. Most days, me busy working Red’s farm. No time fe gossip gossip. It ain’t like I don’t wish you was here, ’cause God knows sometimes I wish it was like it was in de old days when I could just leave de chil’ren wit’ me moddah, run down to you house, jump in you bed an’ start running me mout’. When me sad, me wish you was here fe mek me laugh, but me would nevah change t’ings. You belong in Kingston. You cyan’t depend on oddah people fe mek you smile. What if you nevah tek Mr. Montrose up on him offah an’ you stay here an’ one day me was to die? What you would t’ink den? No, mon. Don’t second guess you’self. Anyway, I don’t t’ink Kingston is what de problem is. I t’ink de problem is dat you gone an’ lose you heart ovah dat sexy mon.”
Crickets' Serenade Page 23