Some market women passed by with their baskets sitting high atop their heads. They were humming and laughing and whispering secrets to one another.
The road stretched across a small bridge that spanned a river. I crossed it and rounded a curve. I would have probably kept walking past Guava Ridge if the market woman I had asked about the village a mile before hadn’t yelled out to me as she was branching off into a different direction. There were a couple of shops right off the main highway. I walked into the first, which sold everything from spiced buns to coconut water to D&G sodas in longneck bottles. The owner popped up from behind the counter.
“How cyan I help,” he asked.
“Sorry fe boddah you, sah. I was just looking fe some people … a family here in Guava Ridge.”
“Yes, go on.”
“Dey are called Smalls,” I said.
He shook his head slowly and looked down at his callused hands. “I don’t know any Smalls,” he said. “But couple of de families have moved on. Best to ask one of de older folks … like de pastor. He live down de way. Round about de mountain and on de slope. Nice gray house wit’ wooden birds to greet you at de front door. Name’s Pastor Malvers. Tell him Scuddy send you.”
I thanked him and moved on. I had to share the path he directed me to with a red rooster and several hens. There were also a few children running around, but when they caught sight of me, they just stopped and stared. I waved at them, but they just kept on staring. When I got to the pastor’s house, I knew it right away. There were about ten crow-like looking black birds carved out of wood that had been mounted on strings that hung from the ceiling just outside the door. When I knocked, the pastor answered the door dressed in a dark blue suit and tie. I thought that maybe he was on his way out, but then I looked down at his feet, and there weren’t any shoes.
“Me name is Mattie Alexander,” I said. “Pastor Malvers?”
He nodded.
“Scuddy tell me where to find you.”
“Scuddy tell ya? All right den, what cyan I do for you?” He walked over to one of the two rocking chairs on his small verandah and sat. “Well, ya not going to stand dere de whole time an’ have me strain me neck looking up, are ya?”
“Not at all, Pastor,” I said as I sat in the chair next to him.
“So, what cyan I do for ya?” He began to slowly rock back and forth.
“Well, I was looking fe a family … a moddah, son an’ dawtah. Dey are called Smalls.”
“Well, dat is a name I haven’t heard in a long, long time.”
“So you know dem?”
“Once upon a time.”
“Pastor?”
“I mean, once upon a time I know dem.”
“An’ what happened?”
“Why is it you want to know about dem?” he asked.
It’s really hard to sit on a rocking chair and not rock back and forth. I was sitting pretty still at first, but as I struggled to come up with a lie, I began to move.
“Oh. Well … I … I work fe a family in Kingston. De moddah, Mrs. Smalls, used to be a cook fe dis family many years ago. De mon of de house was wondering what happen to her. Maybe him have gift fe her. I don’t know. But I was up in de mountains visiting someone an’ I just figure maybe I would just stop by an’ see.”
“Well, he’ll just have to give dat gift to you den, Miss. Winsome Smalls, who latah marry again an’ became Winsome Wills, well, she die ovah twenty-five years now.”
“What about her children?”
“The son, I believe, went off to America. I don’t know what become of him. Maybe him is back in Jamaica now. You know, people drift along.”
“What about de dawtah. I t’ink her name is Elsie. She move away too, didn’t she?” We were both rocking in unison now. The pastor ran his hand along his chin before speaking.
“Oh, no, no. I remembah Elsie. She was such a sweet girl. Always a ‘hi Pastor Malvers,’ ‘how you doing Pastor Malvers.’ But dat family nevah have a stretch of luck. Actually, dem wasn’t originally from ’round here. Dem come from Silver Hill or Spring Hill or some such place like dat going up toward Buff Bay. But de faddah was a coffee pickah at Mavis Bank. Him did have a cousin or some relation who live here so dem move here to be in more proximity to his work. Dem used to live all de way up de hill, away from most everybody else. But not long aftah dem move dere, de faddah run out ’pon de family wit’ a teenage girl. Terrible t’ing fe Winsome an’ her chil’ren fe have to go t’rough.”
A little boy ran by shooing a chicken with a stick. The poor chicken made such a commotion clucking and flapping its wings.
“Mind you bus’ you likkle behind, bwoy,” the pastor yelled out. The boy slowed down long enough to clear the pastor’s house, then resumed swinging the stick.
“So, what happened to Elsie?”
“Oh, yes. Elsie. Like I said, de family just plain have bad luck. Winsome work so hard fe raise her kids. One day, she tek ill. It was long and painful. Poor Elsie. All her days an’ nights taking care of Winsome. She was like an angel as sent from heaven. I say to myself. God is going to reward dat girl. God is going to give her gifts. But sometimes de devil sneak in an’ ruin everyt’ing. It wasn’t so long aftah Winsome die, a year or so maybe, dat Elsie herself suddenly tek sick. One day she was here. De next …”
“She died?”
“Just like dat.”
I had never met Elsie, but for some reason, the news saddened me. All I really knew of her was what I had read in one small letter. Now I would never know about the life she had. I would never know anything more of her days with Lewis.
Pastor Malvers pointed. “Dem is buried up at de sight ovah near de Charles house.”
“Can I have a look at it?” I asked. I wanted to see where Elsie was spending all eternity. I wanted to just say hello.
The pastor excused himself and walked back into his house. Within a few seconds he was back, now wearing brown loafers and a brown hat to cover his balding head. He closed his door and walked with me back onto the grass, down the lane and past the house he had pointed in the direction of.
We walked into to a field that was bordered by a black iron gate. I saw about twenty headstones. The grass was overgrown and sometimes obstructed the names on the graves. Pastor Malvers pointed to two gray headstones located near the back of this space. They were almost completely hidden by bushes. I figured they didn’t get many visitors. And their inscriptions were pretty basic. No “In loving memory” tributes or poems. Just a name and a date of birth and death. “Elsie Smalls. Aug. 8th, 1936—June 30, 1957.”
I tried to push some of the bushes away from the face of Elsie’s tombstone, but it didn’t make any difference. The bushes were stubborn. Then I thought, maybe that’s how Elsie wanted it—to be in her own quiet little space away from prying eyes.
I rejoined Pastor Malvers, who was busy swinging a stick up at a lime tree and stuffing his pockets with whatever happened to fall onto the ground. If Elsie’s spirit drove Lewis, now I understood a little more. I could only imagine how guilty he must have felt after she died. Maybe that was why Bumper Smalls’ had such an effect on him—he reminded Lewis of that guilt.
I was helping Pastor Malvers pick up some of the limes when an old woman called out to him. She walked with a cane, and was coming toward us at a very slow pace. I started saying my good-bye’s, but Pastor Malvers patted me on the shoulder and began waving his hand.
“Mrs. Bailey, how are you today?” he called out.
“Art’ritis killing me, but I suppose dere could be worse problems.” Although she was speaking to the pastor, she kept looking at me. “Is likkle Karen dat? Is you dawtah from New York, Pastor?”
“No, missus. Dis right here is … is …”
“Mattie Alexander,” I whispered.
“Dat’ is right. Miss Alexandah. An’ she come here trying fe find out ’bout de Smalls’ family. Remembah. From all dose years back when.”
“Of course I remembah. My husb
and …” She stopped speaking, made the sign of the cross and looked up at the sky. “Mr. Bailey, he was de one who prepare de moddah, an’ den a time latah, de dawtah for burial.”
“Miss Alexandah here t’ought maybe dem was still around.”
“Oh, no. Long time gone by now,” the old woman said. “Long time. Long time. Oh, Pastor, I see Louella’s baby. What a cute likkle t’ing. Oh, de biggest eyes evah. I did see dem yestahday at …” But Pastor Malvers had wandered off down the road while the woman was talking. He seemed more interested in the fruit trees than in what she was saying. He hit several of them with his stick. Once he reached a guava tree about twenty yards away, he started having a go at that one too. Mrs. Bailey just scratched her head and turned to face me.
“Did you know de Smalls’?” I asked.
“Yes, I know de Smalls family fairly well,” she began. She eased right up to me and lowered her voice as if she was letting me in on a big secret. “De t’ing is, dem wasn’t around much. Always working. De bwoy work at de coffee factory, just like him faddah did before dat. De moddah an’ dawtah do work fe rich people. Cook an’ t’ing like dat. I t’ink at one time, dem even work fe de honorable Edward Montrose.”
“Elsie must have been beautiful,” I said.
“Oh yes. She have de sweetest face. Pretty brown skin like honey. An straight white teet’. Oh, an’ what a figure. All de bwoys dem like her.”
“Did she have a bwoyfrien’?”
“She nevah say who. She just used to tell us dat one day she would marry somebody important an’ we all would be surprise. I t’ink it was probably some rich bwoy she meet at one a dem house she an’ her moddah work at. Who knows. Maybe she would have marry him, if t’ings had turn out different fe her.”
“Pastor Malvers say she just get sick one day an’ die just like dat. But she was so young. What did she die of?”
“Who you say you is again,” Mrs. Bailey asked. “You is family?”
“Oh no. I just work at one a de houses Elsie used to. My employah was trying to figure out what happen to de moddah … if she was still alive. Him is an old mon now. I believe maybe him was about fe give her a gift fe all de years of service she give to him.”
“Dat is very nice,” the old woman said.
“So, Mrs. Bailey. You were about to tell me what Elsie die of.”
Mrs. Bailey dug her cane into the dirt and waddled over real close.
“Most people figure she just get sick an’ twisted inside, since her family always have bad, bad luck. Some t’ink she die of broken heart once de moddah die. Me mean, dem was close. Closah dan most. But my husband prepare all de dead fe burial back den. Elsie Smalls was a bright, beautiful, healt’y girl. She nevah die a no sickness, unless sickness capable of putting big gash in her neck. I was dere as my husband prepare her. I know. Den everyt’ing happen so fast. She die one evening. She was buried de next aftahnoon. By de next day, her breddah was also gone.”
A chill came over my entire body, and though we were standing in the bright sunlight, I just couldn’t shake it. A thought suddenly sprang into my mind—a scary, dark and incredible thought. But I refused to give it any fuel, so I took a few deep breaths and forced myself not to think it.
“Didn’t her breddah say what happen?”
“Only dat dere was accident.”
“What about de police?’
“What about dem? Only people who know ’bout it was me, me husban’ an Elsie breddah. An’ it was too late fe do anyt’ing fe Elsie. Dis is a quiet place. A place dat’s nevah known any of de troubles of Kingston. A place people still feel safe. What was calling de police going to do?”
“I just cyan’t help wonder what really happen to her,” I said.
“No need stress you brain, dawtah. Dat’s somet’ing probably only Elsie, her breddah an’ God will evah know.”
-30-
I had a terrible feeling that when Elsie Smalls died that evening up at Guava Ridge, she, her brother and God were not the only witnesses. I had a terrible feeling that Lewis was there too. I couldn’t figure out any other way to explain why he and Bumper Smalls still kept in touch after so many years. I couldn’t figure out any other way to explain why Lewis always looked as if all the life had been sucked out of him whenever Bumper Smalls showed up. But if Lewis was there, then what role did he play in what had happened? I tried not to think the worse, but it had been almost five years since he stumbled upon the main road in Stepney, and I didn’t really know much more about him now than I had that hot lazy day.
In late summer of 1979, the atmosphere in Kingston became unsettling. There was this uneasiness in the air. Not a day went by in which there weren’t protestors lined up outside the hospital on Windward Road yelling things about Lewis being a disciple of Castro’s or asking for him to set an election date. I started hearing more and more stories about gun violence and gunmen. Lewis was always locked away at Jamaica House. And whenever he was around, his mind was in a different place than his body.
This man I had chosen to entrust my life to was on friendly terms with Beenie Moorer, the most famous gunman of them all. Lewis seemed willing to do anything for political reasons. He had cut off all ties with his own mother. So, was it that incredible to believe he may have been involved in the death of a woman he once loved? Half of me believed it wasn’t. But the other half realized that not getting along with your mother and being politically ambitious was completely different from harming someone with your own hands. Still, finding out about Elsie made me wonder about my own safety. It was almost that time again—time for another election, so I decided to try and stick it out at least that long. I began to prepare my mind for a break with Lewis Montrose. I would stay out of his way, do what was expected of me, then at the first possible moment, insist on an end to our agreement.
During the second week in September of seventy-nine, Lewis requested I attend a conference he was giving at the Pegasus Hotel in New Kingston. It is a day I will never forget, at first because I was sure it would publicize an election date—a potential date for me to get out of our arrangement. But life always has a few surprises waiting.
Lewis was to give his speech in one of the hotel’s banquet rooms. There was a dais at the front with a podium in the center. I sat on the row of chairs directly behind and to the right of Lewis. James Alvarez sat to his left. Todd Dean and some of Lewis’ advisors occupied the other chairs. There were maybe two hundred people seated in ten rows of seats, divided into two sections. It was a strange mix, as if someone had carefully selected them. There were several schoolchildren looking as if they were out on a school outing. A few of the women looked as if they had just finished selling spices down at Coronation Market. They had on bright print frocks and the half-aprons with the large pockets they used to keep their money in. I even saw a couple of church ministers. There weren’t many people who looked like Lewis or like Agnes Gooding.
Lewis approached the podium and began speaking. Twenty-five minutes into his speech, he had still not set a date for the next election. But he seemed to touch on every other topic.
“You have to sacrifice in order to gain.” he said. “You have to struggle in order to overcome. You must have pain before there can be any pleasure.” There were no notecards. Lewis just stood there as straight as a rail, his hands grasping the sides of the podium. “Years ago, I said it was us against them. It hasn’t changed. We are showing the world that small in area does not mean small in mind. We have done a good job taking control of our resources, despite the grumbling by other nations. They’ve said my economic policies alienate some people. They do: the foreign business interests operating out of Jamaica. Because of heavy tax levies, some of these companies have moved off the island and have taken some of their managerial talent with them, but Jamaica’s top talent is still where it’s always been, in Jamaica. We have many bright, eager people here who haven’t been given the chance because the positions have been filled with foreign management people. You see, w
hat has been happening here is a purging; a purging of all things not Jamaican that can not exist symbiotically with all things Jamaican.” He paused and looked out into the conference room. I followed his gaze. To me, the two hundred or so people seated there looked hopeful, as if they were ready for him to say something, anything that would make them feel at ease about what was taking place on the island.
“I apologize for the increase in price in such things as soap and leather goods and foreign clothing. You should not become dejected, but should take it as a challenge; a challenge to make our own clothes, open up our own shoe stores, manufacture our own leather goods. Bear with me through this period of stagnancy, because in time, it will lead to enormous growth. Remember, the Lord did not create the world in one day.” He paused long enough to accept the small amount of applause that followed.
“Now, I’ve been made aware of a certain little red leaflet that has been making its way around the island called ‘The Communist Actions.’ Many of you have seen it. My sources have not been able to figure out the leaflet’s point of origin, whether it be the opposition party or a foreign interest. I know the foreign press has obtained a copy, because there was an interesting article printed in an English paper a few weeks ago. But allow me a rebuttal. I am going to address a few issues found within this doctrine; issues that may have put doubts in your mind. Lewis moved from behind the podium. He began walking slowly across the dais, from side to side. He made it a point to look directly at various people as he spoke. .
“Communism is a scary word to many in this day and age. It is thrust about indiscriminately. If someone feels they need to tarnish your image, what better word to throw out there than communist. Let me begin by telling you, good friends, that I am not, never was, and will never be a communist. I believe in private industry. I believe in free enterprise. I believe in religion. I believe in debate. It pushes us to reach our potential and to create a varied crop, a sound soul and a highly developed mind. I wouldn’t be standing before you now if this was not the case. However, I also believe there are certain utilities and other businesses that must be made available to all, which means they must be put under a government trust. That way, we can control the prices and enable the common man to have as easy an access to it as does the gentry.”
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