But the dinner table’s candlelight drew me in like Summer’s greedy and mocking eyes. They’d been so different from Mama’s proud ones, vicariously living through my sweepstakes trip with the nice young man who came around. Summer’s eyes had disturbed me when I set out that morning for the getaway she pushed me to accept in her place. For the favor, she didn’t even help me to the taxi with my bags. She just crossed her arms at the top of our hallway staircase, her dramatic “Bon voyage!” in the tenor of a child who seized the last cookie in the jar, or a victor wearing the cape our grandmother crocheted for both of us, or the icebreaker with a party joke at her sister’s expense. Mama just said, “Go, go, go!” As our mother weakened, she relaxed her hold, encouraged us into adventures, women of a different time she may have caught up with had she been granted more than sixty years on the planet. I was the underdog in a joust I never picked up my sword for, hurt by the eyes of my sister who purposely got rid of me via her boyfriend, just so she could be the only scared little girl our weakened mother was to coddle for a while.
It was February 2014 when Summer dispatched me so Chase’s special guest didn’t become another woman, and I sunk down a notch in my commitment to Mama, which Summer was certainly flaunting now. With one gesture, she’d played us both.
SIX
We left reeling in the news that Philip Seymour Hoffman had overdosed down in West Village. I trusted technology to obstruct total alienation from Mama—in good spirits—and the godsend that was our hospice helper Penny, now on my mother full-time, to assist Summer as I traveled.
We flew business class from JFK to San Juan. Then we transferred to land at Maurice Bishop International Airport in the capital of Grenada, Saint George’s. Door-to-door, it took an entire day of travel to get to the bed-and-breakfast on Gabriel Johns’s nutmeg tree estate. When we touched down, our limo was outside with its driver holding a sign with Chase’s name. Well, our limo was actually a sandy Jeep, very necessary to roll through steep hills and sharp turns on to Saint Andrew Parish. Our driver explained the history I had researched beyond Wikipedia. I took a moment from his spiel to discover the hidden cost of downgrading to a pay-as-you-go smartphone to save money. It had a full battery but no signal.
I took that as a warning not to call Mama every second. I returned to the spiel.
Gabriel Johns was nearly a king in his parts. He spent his days in a coach house back closer to where his trees grew. He was one of the first in on the burst of tourism after the United States’ 1983 invasion to restore order, in our Congress’s mind, to back-to-back violent coups of Grenadian Parliament heads. Maurice Bishop, the beloved former head of state for whom their airport was named, was executed by firing squad once a rebel military regime captured him. While casualties and battle on their soil created animosity between the small island nation and the States, our vindication of Bishop’s death overrode natives’ lingering hostility, to make us welcome allies in no time. We should rest; they love Americans.
“Not bad for where we come from,” Chase laughed at the end of the driver’s stories.
The atmosphere and panorama bewitched its strangers, as a history of mayhem and violence and disasters seemed utterly impossible given my view.
The estate manager greeted our Jeep at the gravel road where the driver pulled up. Chase stayed behind to tip the driver as I fluttered out into the sun. My water bottle drained, I was parched in just the two hours it took to go through customs, find our driver in the tiny airport, and drive there. But the manager, tagged OLIVIA, carried a tray: moist towels and cups of iced tea spiked with gutsy rum, as one sip told me. The laughter of the men behind me was dedicated to my figure, I guessed. It was the first time during the trek anyone saw Chase and me as a couple. Why wouldn’t we be? I had seen the obvious pairs myself. They walked with matching luggage and bags in the same color family, in perfect step or leaning behind one another on the automated airport walkways, their intimacies such that they turned pages of books and magazines as near choreography. They even dozed in time.
In all this time, I did not notice a strange man watching me, or feel like I had to watch myself lest I do anything to encourage a strange man to watch me (though it didn’t have to be much, as bending down or uncrossing my legs would do). Chase was a shield against the constant pressure of men’s flaming tongues, lusty eyes, and foul mouths.
After I quenched my thirst, I introduced myself.
“I’m Autumn Spencer, just here to help the man in charge.”
“And a handsome man he is,” Olivia said. “You’re lucky, my friend.”
“No, we’re friends,” I corrected. “I’m just here for support, and a needed break.”
“Oh,” she smiled. “I beg your pardon.”
“He still has good taste,” I laughed. “He belongs to my sister. She couldn’t make it.”
“Well, tell him to find his brother for you, my friend.” Then, she looked puzzled.
“Something wrong?” I asked
“No,” she said. “It’s just, I thought. I’ll have to . . . well, never mind.”
Chase walked into the warmth of our greeting.
“Chase Armstrong,” he said to Olivia. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
They hugged each other.
“Greetings, Mr. Armstrong,” Olivia said. She put a small towel and slick glass in his free hand. I lugged a Fairway tote, Times Square suitcase, and Nike duffel bag. I felt so oddly American.
“I hear you’re one of ours, yet your speech betrays us,” Olivia said.
“I haven’t lived here since I was a little boy,” he told her. “Yankee talk took over some time ago, but my heart lives in my country. It’s why I’m here.”
“Well, we are happy to have you anytime. You may now call this your home, too. Our door is always open to you for your lovely work on Mr. Johns. Shall we?”
I thought she would never ask if we could get out of the sun. Not all Black people love the sun. I was a Midwesterner, child of big oak tree shade and awnings and air conditioning four months out of the year. My overseas travel among the African diaspora was limited to a few Caribbean cruises. I was the color of copper, spared the undue humiliation of being called “black” and warnings to stay out of the sun. My desire to avoid a tan had nothing to do with self-hate or lack of pride, but the spoils of being an American.
Chase inserted the complication of a selfie in front of the estate landscape, an obligation to document every moment for SWAG’s social media feeds.
“If you don’t mind,” he smiled. “I’ll be sure to spell your name and title right.”
“No, I’m used to it,” Olivia said. “How funny your generation is. Everybody wants pictures here and pictures there, and with me—a total stranger except for a time. I’ve never been so popular.”
“But I’m sure you’ve always been so photogenic,” I said, as we squeezed in.
“You’re too kind,” she laughed.
Olivia guided us through a side door, straight to the kitchen. Two dark faces had bright teeth matching starched uniforms. They stood at a butcher’s table and butler’s pantry.
“Please use this entrance if you happen to come in and need a cold drink right away, or a stiff one,” Olivia offered. “Meet Damian and Delbert.”
The men appeared to re-polish surfaces absent of a fingerprint or smudge. They stopped to bow their heads to us with genuine sincerity and dutiful practice.
“They’ve been here with Mr. Johns for quite some time,” Olivia said.
“Forty years,” said the one called Damian. His face and voice seemed barely forty. “Since I was a fisher boy and Mr. Johns gave me coins for my catch.”
“He’s the boss,” the other man laughed.
My guess was the daily morning walks of these communities, as well as the dearth of cigarettes and abundance of good marijuana, protected youthful appearances. I speculated how old Miss Olivia was, her hair tousled into a girl child’s ponytail fastened only by her own hai
r. Her sundress fit for a woman just loosened from an athletic girlhood. She seemed completely comfortable with on-demand versatility.
A Keurig on the counter surprised me. I wondered how many Western products managed to invade the close-knit island. Olivia caught my eyes on it.
“Would you like some coffee or tea, Miss Spencer?” Olivia asked me.
“It should be about that time for her,” Chase chimed in.
“No,” I said. “I was just wondering how much American influence there is on Grenadan consumerism now, after our unfriendly invasions here in the 1980s?”
“More than we would like,” Olivia told me.
Behind her, out the back window, was an orchard of Gabriel Johns’s famed nutmeg trees, the culprit behind my sudden taste for vanilla ice cream. It smelled heavenly all around.
“But I believe our Queen’s head is probably bigger than your Statue of Liberty’s,” she continued. “We look to the British much more over here, but American interests and tourism are certainly not spurned.”
“I’m really grateful Mr. Johns agreed to this. We market to Europe, some parts of South America. We’re hoping to break Asia in a few years. So, this stay is nice of you.”
“Well, your colleague arrived this morning. A White man?”
“Uh, yes,” Chase stammered. “Is that a problem?”
“Oh, no, money has no color,” Olivia said. “I was just making sure you two were together as he said you would be. Since it seems I mixed some things up. I’m unsure if a proper room is prepared for both you and the lady.”
“Oh?” Chase asked. “I said I was bringing someone.”
“Yes, and I forgot this was business for you,” Olivia said. “The lady’s already clarified she’d prefer a private space.”
Chase looked at me oddly. But he kept to his word we would not mention any sadness back in Harlem.
“Well, I understand if she wants her space now. That’s hard to come by in New York City, so we’ll take it how we can get it. Give her what you have prepared. Sleeping in a hammock between nutmeg trees is a long-held fantasy of mine, a beautiful woman with me of course. But, we can’t have everything we want.”
“Oh, no,” Olivia laughed. “I will not have that. We have four rooms here, two on the upper floors, shared bath on each floor. The servants’ quarters are through that door right there. There’s no cellar, on account of the hurricanes and flood potential. I live in what used to be an unforgivable mess of an attic. If anything, I have relatives not far from here and you may have my separate apartment for your stay.”
“I couldn’t kick you out of your home . . .”
“No, no, Mr. Armstrong. I insist. It was unprofessional of me not to have asked for room preferences. Let me show you both to the room I have set and ready, so you can at least shower and freshen up. I’ll look at the register to see when the next guests depart.”
The first-floor open rooms had soft mauve walls with sea foam–green baseboards and entryways, what would be a design disaster in our stainless steel America. Chestnut and mahogany china cabinets lined the walls like exposed safes, for we were all friends there, it felt; nothing must be put away, hidden, unmentioned, or untouchable. It was like going down South for a funeral, as I did on a few occasions when young. The camaraderie between strangers was relaxing after my daily urban trances, spent constricted and braced in scarce, unmarked personal space. I saw our room was the size of half my apartment back in Harlem, and our view of the tops of trees stretched for what seemed like blocks. The room’s lone rectangular table was decorated with a spray of overwhelming, gorgeous magenta and red flowers. They called me to them as Olivia fluffed the pillows of the king-size bed.
“Those are my gift,” she said. “It’s our national flower, the bougainvillea.”
“I’ve never seen these before,” I told her. “The fragrance is so powerful.”
“It’s expensive to export,” she said. “But we get many orders for sure. I should leave you two to get settled. And Mr. Armstrong, I’ll have a solution for you soon.”
“Take your time,” Chase said.
It took me two minutes after Olivia walked out to shift the mood.
“I wonder how Mama’s doing?”
“I’m sure she’s happy you’re happy,” Chase said. “We’ll be back there in just five days. I’d take a lot of notes, do some interviews with locals if I were you. This could be part of a travel-writing package down the road. Those are trending now.”
“You’re right,” I nodded. “I came this far. I’m not gonna turn around and mope about home. Who knows when I’ll have another vacation again in life?”
I lay back on the bed, careful not to let my sundress come up high.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Chase told me. “You sound like frozen-over winter and not a colorful autumn. If you think like that, then things won’t be good.”
“I’ll try to do better, sir.”
I felt a pang of more closeness to Chase for this peek into his background. I could contextualize him deeper than the prep-wear pretense and coffee-date banter of men like him in New York. I was eager to meet his family, as I imagined them in the simplicity of the life I had assessed in less than thirty miles of the country. The contrast to largely Black regions of America was inexplicable. Back home, the city spaces of color bound me into feeling trapped in what I should not want to escape. Even Chase’s patience with Summer and gracious concern for Mama seemed rooted in a less harrowing cultural memory and much easier pride for it.
“Why don’t you shower first?” he asked me. “I need to find the photographer and see what he’s up to. He’s probably out chasing tail.”
I was sure he felt the need to be respectful, leave me privacy, create a clear line.
“You know how men are when they get to the Caribbean. I’m watching you . . .”
“Not necessary,” Chase said. “Watch yourself, babe.”
And we stared too long. I wondered what he was thinking, or what I thought for that matter. He broke our gaze first.
“Lemme get on to Johns,” Chase said. “I should change clothes at least.”
I noticed he held blue boxers in his hands along with his pants, fresh shirt, and Clarks sandals. I don’t know why I noticed his apparel. I just did.
People laughed and talked in the hallway on the way to their room. I wondered if I would meet them, what they would ask, and what I would tell them. I tried to cut it off: “My mom has stage IV lung cancer and we didn’t even find out until stage III. Imagine that. How can anything but a thief in the night be so sneaky?”
I’ll try to do better, I thought.
My mere appearance at the group dinner would be an intrusion. People don’t spend whole paychecks to go overseas to be forced to console strangers. It’s awkward to scoot back from tragic reveals just because you’re full at the dinner table or the wine bottles are empty or the closing lights signal you out of the club.
I heard streaming water and imagined what awaited. Real country hard water that scrubbed like no city water pressure could? A pedestal sink? A claw-foot tub?
I allowed Chase to text confirmation we arrived safely, to count for my promise to keep in touch, as I told Summer I would. I knew what she was up to. My grumpy distance served her right. I was in another part of the world, but my own world with all its cloggy dread and confusion and bittersweet snuck into my suitcase. I kept it shut. I was asleep by the time Chase finished in the bathroom. He left a note atop my suitcase, to tell me he wouldn’t be back with me until much later that night.
I ate my first Grenadian dinner alone with strangers I would ordinarily remember in detail: where specifically their version of English originated from, what brought them to Grenada, what hobbies I could make small talk about later. But the meal was a blur.
After dinner, the other tourists hung out in the gazebo with cigarettes, rum, and a radio I heard from down below. I was alone on the floor, so I soaked in complimentary lavender bath wash an
d a few drops of clary sage oil. I figured the downstairs was too dark to burrow in the office to peck at a keyboard, like just another day in America, fretting over what opportunity would bring my next check. I went to bed alone as well. Only travel exhaustion made my mind slow down to sleep.
In middle of the night, Chase came into bed with me. Whatever we did gave me orgasms to awake to just as I reached over to see he was not really there.
SEVEN
“You, my child, are a lovely girl with too much going for you to trouble yourself so. So young. Smart. Far too pretty to be so sad. In all this life, God has a plan. All our days numbered from the moment we come out of the womb. Hell, I smoke a pipe all my life. I do still. Look at me: be ninety-two years old come this July. And I eat. Boy oh boy, do I eat. The womenfolk detach the pig and chicken head for the menfolk to split them down the middle, take all the guts out. The Whites don’t eat the innards. Well, why not? I do. Once the chitterlings clean it make the best broth. That is what you must do, child. Eat. I want Damian to cook for you, hear me? You, just you. Tell him what I say. Or bring him to me. I tell him myself. You like pineapple cake? He make a good one for you.”
My privilege to have Chase introduce me to Mr. Johns in his study, at what was supposed to be a professional interview, went badly. I took one look at Mr. Johns and wanted my mother to be so ancient too: swathed in a soft gown and cottony slippers. I knew she wouldn’t be. The bluish stardust in Mr. Johns’s eyes, his coiled gray hair, his real natural teeth the color of light brown eggs, his trail of pinhead-size moles on his cheeks, his throaty deep laugh. He reminded me of Grandma in her last days. He showed me what my father could have looked like if he had made it past his young days. Olivia, Damian, and Charles . . . all felt like surrogate relatives I missed.
Speaking of Summer Page 6