She jumped as she heard her name called, as if from far away. It was Poppa’s voice calling her. She looked into the bar section, where he was sitting at the end of the counter, and met his eyes smiling at her. He beckoned her with a toss of his head — like the goat, Pollyread thought.
Once upon a time, up to not so long ago, Pollyread would have gone immediately to him. From she’d been a little girl she’d loved the rumbling sounds of the men’s voices, and the smells of sweat and liquor mingled in the air around her. The men and Mr. Shim had known her from she was born. They’d tease her and pat her head and give her sweets. Tonight — which was probably why Poppa was calling her — they would make much of her accomplishments. But lately, she didn’t know why, the men’s voices seemed to pause when she came in, as though secrets were being passed around with the cigarettes the men offered one another. When she thought about it, as she did, she realized that this change had coincided with her starting to grow taller. Shooting up, as they said, like she was a plant. But it wasn’t being compared to a plant that she minded either. She wasn’t sure what it was. But now she felt uncomfortable inside the bar, as she had started to feel sometimes inside her body.
She shook her head at Poppa, slowly, to let him know that she really didn’t want to go to him. Thankfully, he shrugged, still smiling, and turned back to Mr. Cowan beside him.
“Come, Pen,” she heard Mama say beside her, easing off the stool. “Call your brother and let we go home. Night falling.”
Jackson didn’t mind being pulled out of his game, but he wasn’t pleased that Poppa wasn’t coming home with them. He ran back into Shim’s and Pollyread, waiting with Mama at the start of the path home, watched him in earnest conversation with Poppa for several minutes.
Accompanied by mist, they climbed into the night. Trees, boulders, bush floated around them. They seemed at times, the vapor curling around their legs, to be floating themselves. The widely spaced lampposts on the path wore skirts of gold and silver that faded completely after a few steps. Mama’s flashlight, which she’d remembered this time, did what it could in between. The three Gilmores kept up a steady stream of conversation, less to say anything important than to make their presence known to anyone who might be themselves afloat in the silvery darkness. “Is you that Maisie?” “Yes, Gertie-chile.” “Stand steady where you is, we coming through.” “All right, come.” Familiar shapes and smells would glide by like phantoms and disappear.
By the time the twins and Mama reached up to the house, they were exhausted. Even Cho-cho’s greeting was restrained, as if muted by the mist. He whined happily but didn’t bark. The nose he nuzzled everyone with was cold. The house seemed far away, looming around the single light that had been left on in the shed, which wore a yellow halo. Mama rested on the big stone by the gate, ignoring the wetness of it — something, Jackson noted, that she would not have allowed either of her children to do in their nice school uniforms.
“Lord, me tired,” Mama sighed. Her face shone with perspiration, her voice with relief at reaching home. Pollyread sidled over to her mother and leaned against her, like a fading plant seeking support, Jackson thought. He just wanted to get inside, and turned to look at the house in order to make his point.
And as Jackson stared at the house itself, cradled by the whiteness that edged its familiar outline, the light in the shed seemed to split it into two shapes: the house itself, solid and immovable, and — something that moved. A person. A man. A man with something in his hand that danced in the light. Jackson knew it right away. A cutlass. And after the bubble of fear had subsided and he looked closely, he identified the man: Jammy. Back again. He recognized him from the shape of his bare shoulders and the way he walked, because there was something different about Jammy’s head — ah, no dreadlocks. In fact, a cleanly shaven head. It glowed like another light.
Cho-cho exploded toward the figure, yapping furiously. Jackson felt Mama freeze beside him, Pollyread stand up straight and still. Jammy was strolling toward them, casual as if he were in his own yard, and for a moment Jackson felt as if they were intruders. Anger rose in him, absorbing fear.
“Modda,” Jammy called out. His voice was hoarse, fractured. People of all ages would sometimes address older women, out of respect or affection, as “Mother.” But resentment flared in Jackson at the unwarranted familiarity from this near-stranger who was suddenly trying to destroy their lives and had now — for at least the second time! — invaded their home. He heard a faint growl that he thought was Cho-cho but in fact was coming from his own throat. Mama grabbed his arm just as he was about to rush at Jammy.
Her voice was dry and flat, unafraid. “What you begging, James?”
Her scathing tone stopped Jammy in his tracks. Jackson, still unable to see any but the outline of his face, saw the muscles of Jammy’s shoulders tighten as he shuffled forward a few more steps and stopped.
“Cho man, Miss Maisie. You don’t have to go on so.”
“Go on how?” Mama asked, her voice rising. She rose from the stone. “When you feel free to come into my yard” — she let go of Jackson and slapped her own chest, stepping toward Jammy — “and mash down my things” — another slap, another step — “and threaten my children” — slap, step — “then, boasie as you please, come back into me yard” — step — “to tell me that me don’t have to go on so? Bwoy?” Mama stopped, her children a step behind. “Weed must be boil you brain.”
“I-man coming here in peace, Modda.” Jammy was five or so meters from Mama. His voice was soft, pleading with Mama. Jackson could see now his eyes glowing at them, and a dull shine on his lips.
“Peace?” Mama’s anger was still on the boil. “You come here in ‘peace’ with a cutlass in you hand? What you know ’bout peace, James? Everywhere you go is war. And now you bringing war to my house.”
He slid the cutlass quickly into his belt. “Not true, Miss Maisie.”
“Not true?” Mama stepped closer to Jammy, Jackson and Pollyread, on either side, following. Jammy took a step back. “Is not you come in here one night in thunder and storm to chop down everything decent people plant and have growing by the sweat of honest labor?” Mama’s words were tumbling out in panting breaths.
Jammy turned his head slightly away, as if to avoid the torrent. He found himself looking directly at Cho-cho, who, poised on coiled legs, was directing a steady snarl in his direction.
“Is not you grab after the girl pickney here?” Mama continued. “Minding her own business just going to school.”
“I wasn’t going to hurt her, Miss Maisie. I wanted to talk.”
Mama brushed aside his words with her hand. “And is not you planting poison to kill people up yonder?” She pointed beyond Jammy in the direction of Morgan’s Mount.
“Is not poison, Miss Maisie,” Jammy said.
Each time he spoke, it seemed to Jackson, Jammy drew more into himself and became more compact. Or perhaps it was the air, now churning around them as though stirred by Mama’s wrath, which made him seem less substantial.
“So tell me what you growing up there if is not poison?” Mama’s hands went to her hips, a challenging stance familiar to the twins.
“Cocoa. Is a new kind of cocoa. Sell for plenty money.” Jammy’s chest opened up with pride and Jackson saw the old insolence back in his eyes.
“Plenty money, yes,” Mama mocked. “Blood money.”
“What you mean, blood money? Cocoa can be blood money?” His eyes and lips spread wide with scorn.
Mama looked at him with openmouthed wonder. Jackson and Pollyread looked at each other. Was Jammy playing a game?
And then Mama laughed. She threw back her head and it was as if laughter was being pulled out of her throat on a string up into the night air. The twins watched her in astonishment, glancing nervously at each other. Jammy’s eyes glowed bright as he watched Mama, and then darkened, clouding over with anger. In the uncertain light the mist seemed to divide into ribbons around his shining he
ad. His mouth opened and an animal roared from inside him, matching its sudden rage to Mama’s laughter. Jackson felt a chill in the air — somebody walking over my grave. Growing enormous in the flickering light, Jammy rose up on his tiptoe and his hand went to his belt.
Jackson lunged forward, propelled by fury and fear. Pollyread was even quicker and smashed her book prize into Jammy’s face, spinning him off balance. Jackson jumped on his shoulder and locked his arms around Jammy’s thick neck but realized immediately that he was losing his grip from the sweat on Jammy’s skin. Cho-cho was hysterical, though he didn’t attack Jammy. In fact the little dog was pointing in the opposite direction. Pollyread meantime had both hands fastened onto Jammy’s hand that held the cutlass as he struggled to free it from his waist. He twisted and bucked to throw them both off. Mama’s laughter turned to screams. And then everything — the twins, Jammy, Cho-cho, Mama — was swallowed up in a silent explosion of whiteness that blinded Jackson and threw Jammy and the twins hard onto the ground, knocking everyone’s breath from their bodies. Everything became light.
And then became — silence. Dancing lights and silence. As of the grave.
* * *
Pollyread’s head felt like greasy dishwater was swishing around in it. Her mouth tasted dirty, and her stomach was about to display its contents right there in front of her. Which would cover Jammy’s chest and head, so it might be worth it. She was lying half on top of Jammy, her head on his belly, she realized, her right hand pinned between her own head and the hard wooden handle of Jammy’s cutlass. Everything hurt. Better before you married, she heard Poppa’s voice in her head, teasing as he always did when she hurt herself. She was glad she could think or remember at all; she wasn’t sure she could move.
Then something did. Jackson, sprawled on the ground next to Jammy’s head with one arm tight around his neck. He lifted his head and found her eyes. The air between them seemed to be in motion. As she struggled to get off Jammy and stand up, her eyes and stomach swimming, Pollyread felt as though they were in a spotlight. And the little piece of her brain that still worked knew the reason.
Towering over them all in the swirl of haze, Pollyread saw the goat’s head, unmistakable, looking down at her and at Jackson. He seemed to be grinning at them, lips pulled back over those large yellow teeth.
Pollyread was also aware of something flickering like a candle close by: Jammy’s eyes, wide as windows, blinking in the direction of the goat as he tried to raise himself off the ground, mouth hanging open. Through her own pain and astonishment, she found laughter bubbling up toward her lips.
The goat’s eyes sparkled with amusement, stars in a pillow of mist. It was nodding at her. Well done, it seemed to be saying. Then it looked away — to Mama.
But Mama was staring at the twins and holding her belly. Her maniacal laughter was a distant memory. Wide-eyed and openmouthed, she came toward Pollyread on stiff legs.
“You all right, pickney?” Her voice croaked with concern and confusion. “Jackso?”
Jackson raised himself on his elbows and grunted.
“Yes, Mama,” Pollyread answered.
“What just happen?”
Pollyread looked in the goat’s direction — there you go again, she thought, expecting it to talk. It had moved farther away from them, nearer to the side of the house from which Jammy had emerged. Its eyes, fixed on Mama, still smiled, but there seemed a touch of sadness there too. Was it leaving them? Was it telling them something bad about Mama? And Cho-cho! The dog seemed to be stalking the cloud shape, raised hairs marching down his spine to his rigid little tail. The goat’s eyes flicked down and noticed the canine. Its teeth gleamed for a moment, in a smile or a grimace, and a breath of vapor flew at Cho-cho. Who yelped and scurried behind Jackson’s legs. Pollyread giggled, all fear dissolving.
As did Pollyread looked up from Cho-cho to see a white stream flowing toward one side of the house as if it was being poured through a funnel there. The yard became a clear pool of silence. The surrounding mist had disappeared too. The lightbulb under the shed glared at them, naked and plain.
“What happen?” Mama asked again.
“Jammy —” Jackson began, and then stopped.
Jammy himself was getting to his feet, one hand pressing the place where Pollyread had fallen on top of the cutlass handle, the other rubbing his neck. He looked around him, his eyes focusing.
“What you all doing out here on the ground?”
Poppa’s voice came from the gate. Startled, they all turned.
“You lock yourself out of the house?” Poppa’s tone was light, teasing them. Then, coming closer, he saw Jammy. “What him doing here?”
“Gilbert.” Mama’s voice cautioned her husband, but about what, Pollyread wasn’t sure.
Jammy, still groggy, didn’t seem to even see Poppa.
“What smell like that?” Poppa asked, sniffing, his head turning from side to side.
Everybody sniffed. Pollyread’s nostrils prickled, as though orange rind had been squirted into them.
“Like something dead,” said Mama.
“It not dead.”
* * *
“What you doing up here?” Poppa’s eyes were fixed on Jammy.
“I come … to talk to you … Mass Gillie.” Jammy’s voice was hoarse; he sounded drugged. He was looking around for something.
Poppa’s short laugh was bitter. “Pity you never think to come talk before you start all this.” He stepped briskly past the small group and toward the house, not looking at any of them.
“Mass Gillie.” Jammy’s arm lifted as if to stop Poppa as he passed. “I didn’t know.”
Jackson’s eyes had become accustomed to the semidarkness again. Now he was seeing Jammy clearly. And what he saw amazed him. Jammy’s face had collapsed in on itself, his mouth turned down and trembling. His eyes shone, but not with anger anymore. Jackson saw what looked like a tear on his cheek.
Poppa brushed past Jammy. “Didn’t know what?”
Jammy struggled to speak but only heavy breaths came out.
“What you didn’t know, James?” There was that name again from Mama. Jackson had noticed when Mama had used it the first time tonight, just before the goat came, challenging Jammy’s presence in their yard. Now Mama’s voice was surprisingly gentle, as though speaking to one of the twins. Pollyread’s eyes were full of questions also, but both of them knew not to speak if they wanted answers.
“Me father,” Jammy croaked.
Jackson and Pollyread exchanged quick glances again, minds racing. Miss Mildred’s four children, they knew, didn’t all have the same father, but that wasn’t remarkable. The same was true for many of their friends. The web of paternal relationships stretched across Valley and the district to Town and foreign. Not every child knew his or her father; a few didn’t know their mothers either.
It had never before occurred to Jackson to wonder about Jammy’s father, whoever he was. He had heard people call Jammy “the devil’s own spawn,” but that was just bad-mind because of some of the things he’d done.
And then something caught his eye. Eyes. Poppa’s eyes. And Jammy’s. A few feet apart, looking at each other, and he could see both faces. One eye, the left, slightly smaller than the other. In both faces. In his own too: You favor you father had been a point of pride with Jackson all his life. Now?
“What about you father?” Poppa asked, his voice like Mama’s, suddenly milder. “You hear from him?”
Jackson felt himself and Pollyread suddenly excluded, eavesdroppers on a private conversation. He stood rock-still, aware of the dark cool night surrounding them. His own thoughts were swirling, his eyes bouncing between the two men’s faces.
Jammy, as if not trusting himself to speak, shook his head.
“So what, then?”
“I find him.”
“Where?” asked Mama.
“In church,” Jammy said.
Things were getting really strange, Jackson thought. Jammy
saved! Was that why he’d shaved his head?
Mama laughed, but not unkindly. “If you live long, you see everything.”
“Not that, Miss Maisie.” Jammy sounded like a confused little boy. “In Tower Street.”
“Prison?” Pollyread yelped like someone had stuck her in the side.
“You father in prison?” Mama asked.
Jammy shook his head and shrugged his shoulders at the same time, not looking at either of them.
“So what?” Poppa was impatient. “How you find — you father?” It seemed to Jackson that Poppa had been about to say something else.
“Reverend Spence,” Jammy said, a flash of his old defiance in his voice.
“Who is Reverend Spence?” Pollyread snapped, as impatient as Poppa at Jammy’s apparent stumbling.
“Pen.” Mama’s caution zipped Pollyread’s lips together.
Jammy turned slightly to acknowledge Pollyread, and then turned back to Poppa. “Him is the prison chaplain. Visit every week.”
“Reverend Spence is you father?” Pollyread again.
“Pen.” Poppa this time. “Give the man chance to speak.”
“He say he recognize me,” Jammy pressed on. “Say I favor somebody. Somebody he know. He say this about three time. Each time he say the same thing and then go away, and come back the next week and say the same thing again. Then one week he go away, and next week he bring a paper, show me that is he baptize me. In his church. When me was little baby.” Jammy smiled at the thought of himself as a baby. “Say he remember me. I was sick onto dying, he say. That is why my mother bring me there. She come wake him up in the middle night. She never even belong to his church, he say, he never see her before that. But he baptize me to save my soul.” He beamed at them. Jackson hoped his sister would be silent on the question of Jammy’s soul, saved or otherwise. “My mother name me James. And Reverend name me Bartholomew. ’Cause the day my mother bring me to him to baptize was his day, Reverend say. James Bartholomew. That is what he call me too. In Castle Street, once he find out who I-man is. Bartholomew.” Jammy’s tongue pushed the name out in syllables, with pride. No one else in Valley, or anywhere else that Jackson knew of, was named Bartholomew. He couldn’t remember hearing the name before. And Jammy would be the least likely candidate for such a grand name.
Blue Mountain Trouble Page 19