Crickets' Serenade

by Blythe, Carolita

  I did as he requested. Sitting helped steady my shaking legs.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I was in Poughkeepsie living with a kind woman called Mrs. Bailey. I still remember the static on the radio station. Was it WLIB? I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t really matter. But, I remember it played reggae and calypso all the time. They broke into the broadcast to update the listeners about the ‘situation’—that’s what they called it, developing on the island. The reporter’s voice was deep. He sounded like an American. I don’t remember his name though. He said that Jamaica House had been taken over, and he said something about storefronts being broken into and looted, shops being burnt down and the sound of gunshots replacing the sound of music. They weren’t really getting a lot of news out of the island, so they kept this running commentary going. The reporter called you a despot. He talked about murder and intimidation. He reported that after the businessmen with money were forced to leave the island, the government took control of many of the businesses that had once been in the hands of the private sector.”

  There was a picture of Agnes on the side table near the bed. There was also the picture of Lewis, his brother, mother and father underneath the almond tree. It was the same picture he had been holding when I discovered him sitting in the darkened dining room that night during the elections. The photo saddened me. His mother had died recently, and I had read about his brother dying in a car accident not long after I had left the island. And now, here was Lewis, just laying in his sad bed in his dark room waiting for his own death.

  “I kept that radio on for what seemed like days without turning it off. They signed off early, but I kept it on anyhow, in case they had to break in for a special report. A few days later, the uprising was put down, but they said Jamaica had no leader. And I remember when both parties met to push through a quick election. At first, there was no news of you.

  “Mrs. Bailey’s favorite thing to eat in all the world was Arthur Treacher’s Fish and Chips. She had gone out to get some when I heard the news. I had just started to warm up a bottle of milk for Charlotte when I heard that Lewis Montrose, the former prime minister of Jamaica, had died of a gunshot wound received when rebels stormed Jamaica House two weeks before.”

  “Did you cry?” he asked.

  I thought it a strange question, and I was caught completely off-guard. I tugged at a bunched up section of the sheet.

  “It was as if the person I had known and the person they were talking about on that radio were two different people.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I fed my daughter and put her to sleep. Lewis, they had a memorial for you after everything calmed down. I saw it on the news in New York. They have a grave and a tombstone up near the military graveyard in Newcastle with your name on it. Where have you been for almost fifteen years?” Though I asked the question, my curiosity was almost outweighed by my apprehension.

  “I was at Jamaica House the day the fighting broke out,” he began. “The thought that there were people out there, not just to overthrow what I had established, what I had believed in, but also to cause me injury and to silence me, was a strange one. Even worse, some of these people were members of my own party. Some of these people, I had known for years. Everything I did with the businesses and the economy was to better our nation. There were other things that came along that I’m not proud of, things I had to do in order to guarantee that what had been started would continue, and in a smooth manner.” He looked up and smiled.

  “I know that some of this is like gibberish, but it is what’s true. There was the uprising, and some of the rebels made their way into Jamaica House. Shots were fired and a few people were injured. One of my ministers, Bennington Dixon was killed, which will always remain on my conscience because he was killed trying to get me out of there safely. I took a bullet in the upper chest. There was so much blood trailed along the floor from that wound, even the strongest skeptic would have sworn to my demise. At some point I passed out. Some time later, I ended up at a small hospital. Actually, hospital might be a stretch. Let’s call it a clinic.” He stopped speaking and took a few slow, deep breaths.

  “A wonderful doctor, Doctor Michaels, removed the bullet and patched me up. I remained there for a few days and during that time, I experienced somewhat of an epiphany. It took a little while though, because at first I thought I could just march back into Jamaica House and everything would fall back into place. Problem was, things had not been in place for a long time. I realized that maybe I had been a little bullheaded. Maybe the ideas I had were commendable, but their execution was not. Maybe I was trying to build a pyramid in one day. I decided that I needed time away from here, that perhaps my reappearance would sprinkle more kerosene on the flames. I thought that maybe this was a natural progression of things. Perhaps we did need new blood in government, someone less jaded and less hardened. I had planted the seeds, and I guess I realized that I just had to trust the people to grow the flowers, so to speak; to see what blossomed.”

  Lewis reached for a glass of water that stood on the edge of his night table. It was only several inches beyond the reach of his fingers, but the effort it took for him to secure it made it seem as if it were several yards away. I started out of my chair to help him.

  “No. I can still do things for myself.’ He managed to roll his body onto his left side and to pull the glass to him. But he was so winded afterwards, he didn’t drink from it right away. Once he was able to catch his breath, he took a couple of sips. I flinched at the effort it took for him to accomplish such a simple task.

  “So I decided to do something I had never done in my forty-seven years of life. I decided to go wherever and to do whatever I wanted, with no obligations to anyone but myself. I decided that I did not want to be known as that dictator or that communist or that overthrown prime minister. I’ve been to some of the least traveled corners of the world, and it has been wonderful. The last several years I spent off the coast of Naples, on a little island named Ischia.”

  “You never used to like even a minute of free time in your schedule.”

  “That didn’t change any. I wrote a few books, several of which have already been published under a pseudonym. The others will be published posthumously. I taught children. I walked beaches and sailed seas. Souci, I lived.”

  “But why didn’t you tell anyone?”

  “I couldn’t. If you’re supposed to be dead, the less people who know you’re alive, the better.”

  “And now?”

  “It’s the hand that I’ve been dealt. Reach is my home, and despite all the bad, if I’m going to die, I want to do it here.”

  There was something so strange in hearing Lewis speak of his own death. The fact that his impending death would have such an effect on me was even stranger, considering that two days before, I believed that he had long passed.

  “Aren’t you afraid of dying?” I asked.

  “I’ve had fourteen years to think about death, to thank God I wasn’t dead. The way I look at it, I’ve lived fourteen years longer than I should have.” We were both silent for some time. It was not an uncomfortable silence, but a deeply thoughtful one.

  “Souci Alexander …” Lewis said softly, but his mind seemed to be drifting. “You know, we entertained the idea that you and Charlotte might have been kidnapped at first. That some person opposed to my policies may have gotten to you. There was a brief search. But when Mrs. Moore saw that the trap door in the pantry was unlatched, it became clear that you had left on your own accord. Eventually, we did think we would hear from you. I didn’t necessarily think it would be to ask for a divorce, but so be it.”

  It had seemed so final, that midnight departure from Reach so many years before. I wandered along the lonely mountain roads leading from Skyward in the dead of night with a storm bullying me around. I tried my best to keep Charlotte dry as the rain pummeled us. I remember hair washing up into my mouth and me trying to spit it out. An
d for each step I took forward, the wind pushed me back three. I must have continued this way for forty minutes—and there was no sign of civilization anywhere.

  It didn’t look like the same road I had taken to get to Guava Ridge the year before. I kept climbing higher and higher into the mountains, and began to wonder if I had not chosen the wrong road. But it was a road, so I knew people had to drive or bike or walk along it at some point. I remember sighing with relief when I noticed a couple of bamboo stands being shifted this way and that by the wind. This proved that the road usually saw some level of traffic.

  I soon realized that even if there were homes around, if they were far from the road, I would never have been able to see them. They were probably hidden in the midst of vegetation, and if they had electricity, that had been cut by the rains. But as horrible as the storm was, in a way, I think it saved my life. Not far from the road, there was a small house. A coconut palm had fallen, and though it was barely touching the house, this had been enough for a couple of the inhabitants to come out. They couldn’t figure out what I was doing out in such a torrent and at such a time of night, and they invited me into their small three-room house.

  The woman was older, maybe sixty-five, and was kind enough to change Charlotte. She gave me a mug of rum mixed with lime and honey to stave off the cold she was sure would take hold of me and chill me to the bone. They didn’t ask any questions, and I didn’t volunteer any answers. I’m sure they made up their own stories about what had led me out on such a night, with a small child no less. I just told them I needed to get off the island—that both my life and my daughter’s depended on it. A week later, I was sitting in the woman’s sister’s house at the eastern tip of the island near Buff Bay.

  “I met some people who helped me off the island,” I said. “I had one hundred dollars to my name, and I gave it to a local crop grower who allowed me and Charlotte to stow away on one of his nighttime flights into Miami. He put in a good word for us with someone he knew there, and I was put up in the tiny back room at a Miami house that I was able to rent for no cash up-front. The owner of that house helped me land a typing job, and my life in America began from there. She also had a sister who lived in Poughkeepsie, so after I had saved a little money, I moved on to New York.”

  “You’re lucky to have left when you did. Things got ugly very quickly afterwards. So, New York. Where you met your husband-to-be.”

  “Yes, where I met Wilton and … oh my God.”

  “What is it?” Lewis asked.

  “Well, if you’re still alive, my marriage to Wilton isn’t legal.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it like that. Our marriage has been over for years. And in some ways, we never really had a marriage. We had a strange, fascinating experience. Only because of formalities and legalese are you tied to me in any way.”

  “For such a long time, I thought somebody from Jamaica House would find me and would snatch me up and take me away. I was sure you had figured out where I was. I was always looking behind my back.”

  “You always believed I was capable of harming you.”

  “I left because I never knew what was going to happen in my life from day to day. I didn’t think I owned my life anymore, and it frightened me. My life belonged to you, and I just didn’t trust you with it. And when I told you I wasn’t happy and I asked to leave, you wouldn’t let me.”

  “If I had a thousand years, that probably wouldn’t be enough time for me to explain my actions. I can only say I meant you no harm. It’s up to you to decide whether to accept that or not.”

  There was a picture of Skyward on the opposite nightstand. Lewis noticed me looking at it.

  “Skyward,” he said. “It’s always been my place of solace.”

  “I remember seeing you going across the yard some nights, and then you’d run into the orange grove and disappear. I always used to think you were into obeah magic or something.”

  He let out a small laugh.

  “Nothing as mysterious as that, believe me.”

  “But one night I followed you. I followed you to Skyward. I figured you must have been doing something big and bad there, but all you were doing was sitting in the darkness looking out at that old house. In the middle of the night. I never understood why.”

  “I suppose I could have used the underground tunnel, the same one you used, but it scared the hell out of me. It made me think of being buried alive. I never was comfortable in that tunnel. But I didn’t mind being outside, having to go through the woods to get there. Nights when my soul was in turmoil, that is where I’d find myself. I would just see things so much clearer up there, especially when the moon was out and shining on that old, forgotten place. I used to ask questions and often times get my answers. That is where I used to go with the first person to ever capture my entire heart. That was our place. It has always been so safe for me. All those times when I couldn’t sleep during the elections, I’d just go there and let my thoughts go free. It was as if something would just come over me and strip away the poisons. Afterwards, I was always able to find peace again. And so that’s why I keep it here. That’s why I had it with me when I was gone from the island for all those years.”

  We sat in silence for a few more moments.

  “And how is your daughter?” he asked.

  “She is such a romantic. She reads these articles now that portray you as this champion of Caribbean rights, and she’s so proud. I never told her. She thinks you’re her father. Now that you’re alive, maybe she should meet you before … she and Wilton are supposed to be here in two days, but they could probably be here by tomorrow morning if …”

  “It might not be such a bad thing for her not to see me like this. I saw your face when you first came in.”

  “She’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever known; stronger than me. It’s one thing if you don’t want to see her, but if you’re worried about how she might take this, don’t be.”

  Lewis touched my hand gently and shook his head.

  “I died in 1980. That’s how I want things to remain. Charlotte has a certain image of me. She’s fine with that. She doesn’t need to see this. But I would like to see her. Maybe we can work something out,” he said.

  -35-

  I had dinner with the former Marcia Jobson, her husband Orville and their three children, then returned to the Courtleigh Manor Hotel in New Kingston. Charlotte and Wilton arrived two mornings later. I felt so anxious, so hesitant as we drove out of Norman Manley International and along the Palisadoes. The safe, careful life I had carved out for myself was about to brush up against my past. My stomach became unsettled. Were it not for Charlotte’s constant chatter, I might have burst into hysterics.

  “Do they have theatres down here?” she asked.

  “Yes. Kingston probably has the best theatres in the Caribbean. Why?”

  “Well, I’ve decided I’m going to be an actress. I’ll hang out in Jamaica for a few years, then I can move back to New York and become a big Broadway actress. After that, who knows. Maybe move to Hollywood and star in a couple of movies. That way, more people can see just how good I am.”

  “What about medicine? I thought you wanted to be a pediatrician.”

  “That was last month. I don’t know. I’ll probably still take sciences and mathematics, just so I have something to fall back on. But my heart’s in the arts.”

  “Well, if you’re really interested, I guess you should at least try it,” I said.

  “Sure, sign up for a drama troupe. Might do a couple of plays and find that it’s not for you,” Wilton said.

  “That won’t happen. Besides, Charlie probably would like to go out with an actress.”

  I glanced over at Wilton.

  “That’s the newest crush,” he said.

  “He’s not a crush,” Charlotte corrected. “I love him. I love him so bad.”

  “She just met him on the plane. Charlie was flying back after spending a week with family in the States. Anyway, she came to
this conclusion after saying all of three words to him. She accidentally hit him in the head as she was walking down the aisle, and she said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ ”

  “But then he said, ‘No, problem at all, mon.’ And you know you can tell whether you and somebody would be good together just by the way they say something. And the way he say he was sorry, it was like he was really, really sorry. And after that we talked a little. I know he lives in Spanish Town and that he likes cricket. And he liked my accent.”

  “So he’s cute.”

  “Oh my God. He’s gorgeous. He looks like, like …” She looked out the window as if she expected the words that would properly describe this Charlie to just fall onto her tongue.

  “Oh, I don’t know. He’s so cute. He doesn’t even look like anybody else. He’s a coolie, you know.”

  “East Indian,” I corrected.

  “He’s an East Indian. He’s so cute. He looks a little like my father, at least the way he looks in pictures, only darker … and shorter … and younger. Charlotte Singh. Charlotte Montrose Singh. That sounds perfect, don’t you think?… So, why are we going up to your old house anyway?”

  We got to the end of Norman Manley Highway, which signaled the end of the Palisadoes. I turned left onto Windward Road.

  “There’s a woman there now, Agnes Gooding.”

  “Oh, Daddy’s last wife.”

  “Yes. And after she leaves, she probably won’t return to Reach, so I thought it would be a good idea for you to see where Lewis was born and raised, to see where I spent my time in Kingston. And after today, you probably won’t ever get the chance to see Reach again.”

  “That’s cool,” Charlotte said quietly. “Boy, the water here sure is blue.”

  When we arrived at Reach, I almost expected Agnes to tell me we were too late, but she greeted Charlotte and Wilton with the same calm she had greeted me with two days before. Agnes proceeded with a tour of the home. When she arrived at Lewis’ room door, she pushed it open a crack and allowed Charlotte and Wilton to peek in. I was hesitant and looked at Agnes in confusion, but she only shook her head slightly. When I looked inside the room, I noticed that Lewis wasn’t there. Later, as Wilton and Charlotte walked about the grounds, Agnes suggested I go up to the vestibule. There I found Lewis seated in one of the rockers, looking out at Charlotte.