Serpents in the Sun

by Cave, Hugh

  Ralph had not answered his question, Manny realized. "Well? Does you just walk away from such a place?"

  "You has to give back the key. If you don't have nothing there to go back for, it don't matter, but me have some clothes and things." They had reached the blacktop, and Ralph stopped. "Manny, how we supposed to get to Mango Gut from here?"

  "We walking."

  "Walking? All that way?"

  "Unless someone come along and give we a lift. Ask you friend Haile Selassie to toughen you legs." With the blacktop road stretching away before them, bright and clean in the sunlight, Manny was beginning to lose some of the fear that what he was doing today might be a foolish thing. "But mek I tell you something, little brother. Before me take you to Mr. Bennett and ask that man to give you work, you must have to cut you hair and shave off that beard."

  "But other men besides Rastas have beards, Manny."

  "Not that look like a John Crow nest. So you mek it look nice, you hear? And the dreadlocks—nobody but Rastas wear them hair like that, so it must have to be cut. And one more thing."

  His brother scowled at him, and for the first time Manny noticed the pupils of the younger man's eyes. Was he squinting because the sun's glitter was so bright here on the road, or had those pupils been small all along?

  "Ganja," Manny said. "From now on you is not to use no ganja. Does you understand that?"

  His brother appeared to be more interested in the progress of two ants that were pulling a leaf along the blacktop.

  "Does you?" Manny repeated sharply. "Does you hear what me saying? No ganja!"

  "Yes, me hear you, Manny. You not to worry."

  "All right, then. Mek we walk."

  5

  Lyle and Roddy had put the tree up the day before. In the evening, Alison and the three girls had hung the decorations, bought weeks ago at the Times Store in Kingston. By far the most numerous of those were iridescent plastic balls, bright green, a little smaller than table-tennis balls.

  Yum-Yum, ever since, had been slylyknocking the green balls off and playing with them.

  "We got rid of one kind of hockey game, thanks to Roddy and his tank," mock-complained Cliff with a grin, "and now look, we've got ourselves another!"

  Clack, thud, clunk went the balls as they bounced off chair legs, table legs, people's shoes, and the baseboards. In hot pursuit Yum-Yum, now four years old and full grown but still at heart a kitten, accomplished 180-degree turns and dead stops at seemingly top speed. "Like a stunt pilot at an air show," Lyle remarked in admiration.

  But by the afternoon of Christmas Day, when the workers' children arrived, the new-style hockey game had come to an end. So many presents were stacked around the tree then that Yum-Yum could no longer get at the decorations to swat them off.

  The callers were greeted in the yard; having them all in the house at one time would hardly have been practical. On a long, cloth-covered table in front of the garage were platters of cookies, cakes, and sandwiches, soft drinks for the children, rum for some of the adults who might accompany them.

  At gatherings of this sort you were expected to provide rum, Lyle had learned from experience. And, yes, one or two guests might overindulge. But when in Rome . . .

  The party lasted two hours. On the Great House veranda Ginny's new tape machine played carols. Two at a time the children were led up the steps and into the drawing room, to be handed their inexpensive but gaily-wrapped gifts while admiring the tree. Then while the young people romped in the yard, stuffing themselves at the table and showing one another what they had been given—some of them slyly swapping presents, Lee reported later—the adults, too, were asked into the drawing room to see the tree.

  "Busha, that was the nicest party yet," said one man when the time came for goodbyes. "Me have to say me glad to be working for you.”

  From the veranda rail Lyle watched them go back down the path to Mango Gut and wondered what kind of Christmas they were having at home. Those who worked at Glencoe or Osburn Hall could count on some money every week, but what about those who couldn't? Some owned or leased farmland, to be sure, but it was likely to be high in the bush, far from their homes, and they had to spend an excessive amount of time getting to it before they could even begin a day's work. At times when on his way to Kingston or Morant Bay before daylight, he had seen whole families trudging along the roadside in the dark, and Desmond Reid had explained that they were probably going to their fields. "And when they get there, they'll work all day with mattocks and hoes so heavy that you and I would probably have trouble lifting them—those fellows make their own handles out of saplings, you know—and then, dead tired, they'll have to walk all that way home again in the evening. Don't let anyone tell you our country people are lazy, man. They'd perish if they were."

  This Christmas day it was good to know that Glencoe was putting food on a few tables, at least. And soon, perhaps, the plantation would be in a position to pay more for the work that was done.

  The party over, the girls helped Ima with the cleaning up, then Alison joined them in preparing Christmas dinner. The piece de resistance was to be turkey this year; Alison had found some of the birds in a Kingston market, flown in frozen from the States. With the turkey would be yams—true yams, not sweet potatoes—and other vegetables from the Glencoe garden.

  Roddy and his car, Lyle noticed, had disappeared. Strange, he thought, at a time like this. Stranger still that his son had not said something before leaving. But the boy knew dinner was to be at seven and would be back by then, of course.

  But Roddy was not.

  "Everything's been ready for an hour," Alison said at eight o'clock. "We can't keep the dinner hot any longer without ruining it." The moisture in those anxious hazel eyes seemed about to overflow, and the hand that touched Lyle's was trembling. "Lyle, this isn't like him. Do you suppose he's had an accident?"

  Lyle had told her of his conversation with Roddy in the garage, and now was more angry than apprehensive. "No, Al, I don't. He's probably off somewhere feeling sorry for himself."

  "But where would he go? Nothing's open. At least, not around here."

  She was wrong about that, Lyle knew. Some of the shops would be open, and almost all country shops sold rum and beer. He had never talked to Roddy about drinking—didn't know whether the boy drank much or not, actually—but a 21-year-old college student would hardly be a virgin in that department.

  "Lyle," Alison was saying, "the whole dinner's going to be a disaster. What are we to do?"

  "Eat without him, I guess. What else can we do?"

  "But—"

  "Al, I distinctly told him we'd be having dinner at seven. I know I did."

  "I did, too," Alison said. "Just before he disappeared." "Then he knows, and it's not our fault he isn't back here. And we've the rest of the gang here to think about, so let's get on with it."

  "Lyle—" She touched his hand again. "Don't be angry with him. Please."

  "All right. I'll try not to be."

  "If he has had an accident—"

  Yes, Lyle thought. If he has had an accident. What if we're all sitting there at the table, angry with him for not being with us and the police Land Rover comes down the driveway . . .

  The picture continued to take shape in his mind. As though it were actually happening, he saw young Corporal Webley, the man in charge of the Rainy Ridge police station, getting out of the Land Rover and climbing the Great House steps. Saw him knocking on the door jamb even though both doors were wide open. Heard him say in a heavy voice that he was terribly sorry to bring bad news at such a time, but there had been an accident.

  Lyle put a comforting arm around Alison's waist. "Don't worry, Al. He'll come. Meanwhile, the best thing we can do is carry on as if he were here."

  It was a good dinner but a strange one. With seven at the table the room should have rocked with talk but, instead, wasalmost eerily quiet. There were long interludes when the only sounds were those of silverware clicking against chin
a. Or of food being chewed. Or of Yum-Yum suddenly scampering across the hardwood floor.

  Suddenly Leora slapped down her knife and fork, gripped the edge of the table with both hands, and said sharply, "Now come on! This is stupid, so let's cut it out, please!"

  "She's right," Cliff said. "If my brother wants to be a jerk, let him. It's his problem, not ours."

  Kim Tulloch looked at them both and voiced a nervous giggle. "Oh, you children. I can't remember what it was like to be so young and brash!"

  "But they're right," Lyle said. "It is Roddy's problem, so let's enjoy our dinner. Tell you what, Cliff. There's probably some Christmas music on the radio. Why don't you turn it on? Softly, of course."

  And if there has been an accident, he thought, maybe we'll hear about it. When, oh when, would it be possible to have a telephone here at Glencoe? Perhaps he should inquire about the cost of extending the line. The coffee works would benefit, too, and might be willing to foot some of the expense.

  An hour or so later, when he heard a car coming down the driveway, he hurried out to the veranda. Relief and anger fought for command of his emotions. But the car was not Roddy's. Desmond and Milly Reid had come with some presents.

  "And I'll have a drink if you don't mind," Desmond said. "I'm trying to cut it out but this is Christmas, after all. At least I'm not shooting off fireworks."

  Lyle had to laugh. In Kingston, he knew, a good part of the population would be doing just that. Many Jamaicans seemed to feel that Christ had been born in a bombardment and they ought to recreate the sound effects. There would be things exploding everywhere—the Chinese shopkeepers would rub their hands over the flood of money taken in—and a large part of the city's dog population would by now be hiding under beds, poor creatures.

  He sat with Desmond on the veranda, the two of them sipping rum-and-ginger while their wives and Kim Tulloch chatted in the drawing room and the children amused themselves elsewhere. One thing the young people were doing was playing Luari's folksong tape again. When her voice floated out to the veranda, Desmond Reid stopped talking in mid-sentence to listen.

  "She has a talent, that girl. Of course, her father had quite a voice, too."

  "When he was young, he sang in the Coventry Cathedral choir."

  "It's rubbed off, all right. And she loves our old-time songs. You can tell."

  Lyle reached to the tray Ima had placed between them and refilled the two glasses with rum, ginger ale, and ice. Her father, he thought. It came so naturally now, and, of course, there was no longer any doubt that Freeland Elliot was the child's father. Time and again, in telling about Free's visits to the house at Wilson Gap, Luari had filled her accounts with specifics and trivia that could never have been inventions. Yes, she was truly one of the family, and no one would have it otherwise.

  The Reids departed just before eleven without having noticed Roddy's absence, or at least without having commented on it. Perhaps they had taken it for granted the boy was again spending Christmas Day at Heather McKenzie's. By then Lyle had had three drinks—two more than he usually allowed himself—and was just a bit unsteady on his feet. To Alison he said, "What do you think? Should I run down to the police station and ask if they've had any word of an accident?"

  "I wish you would, Lyle. Please?"

  He did so, driving with extra care down the rocky slope past the coffee works, where a light above the cooper's-shed doorway showed the place to be deserted. At the station in Rainy Ridge, a constable answered his questions with a frown and a headshake. "We would have sent someone up to Glencoe to tell you, Mr. Bennett. Of course"—the frown deepened—"there won't be much traffic tonight. If your son went off the road somewhere and no one saw it happen . . .”

  "Suppose he went to Morant Bay or Kingston."

  "We would have heard if he had an accident, sir. Especially if he was alone and hurt. His name and address would be on his driver's license."

  "Well . . . thank you, constable."

  Still eyeing him, the Blue Stripe said, "Mr. Bennett, are you all right?" They were trained to be observant, these fellows. In fact, by the time they finished their rigorous schooling at Port Royal, they were well trained in many ways and most of them were remarkably lean and fit. "Can you drive yourself home all right?"

  The third drink is showing, Lyle thought. "Thanks. I'm just worried." But guessing he would be watched, he was careful not to stagger as he walked back to his car.

  A little more than an hour later, a car came down the Glencoe driveway.

  Lyle and Alison were the only ones still up. The children had abandoned their vigil soon after Lyle's return from the station. Kim Tulloch, annoyed with herself for dozing off, had reluctantly allowed Alison to lead her to her room. When the sound of the car disturbed the stillness, Alison was seated in one of the easy chairs by the fireplace, gazing into space. Lyle sat on an arm of the same chair, holding and gently rubbing her hand. When he rose and strode out to the veranda, she remained seated with her head turned toward the doorway.

  Halting at the top of the steps, Lyle hooked his thumbs in his belt and took in a deep breath. The car in the yard was Roddy's. He watched his son get out of it and was relieved to see that the boy appeared to be sober. At the foot of the steps Roddy paused and looked up, then put a hand on the rail and, with his head down, began climbing.

  It was not Lyle's intention to block his way, but in effect, by continuing to stand there, he did so. On reaching the step below the veranda, Roddy had to halt. By then he was close enough for Lyle to have noted that his face bore no signs of an accident.

  Lyle's relief and anger were as incompatible as oil and water. From the turmoil within him, his voice emerged as a kind of snarl. "Do you mind telling me where the hell you've been?"

  "Kingston,Dad. I was in Kingston. I'm sorry."

  "Kingston. At Heather's house, I suppose. Without a word to your mother or me."

  "I didn't mean to go there." Roddy's voice was unnaturally slow and heavy, as though speaking at all required an effort that caused pain. "I just wanted to get away from here for a while. But—yes—I ended up at her house." His hand crept a little higher on the railing. "Can I—is it all right if I come in?"

  Lyle stepped aside. Roddy went past him into the house, saw Alison sitting there, and went to her. "Mom." He stopped just short of touching her. "I'm sorry."

  Lyle had followed him in. "Sit down," Lyle said. "We need to talk." Some of the anger was gone, but there was still no softness in his voice. He himself remained standing even after Roddy slumped into a chair.

  "You went to Heather McKenzie's house," Lyle said then. "What for? To see if you could patch things up with her?"

  Not looking at either of them, Roddy moved his head up and down. "And I had a present for her. This." Reaching into his shirt pocket—he wore no sweater or jacket, though the December mountain chill had certainly called for one when he left Glencoe—he produced a small, gift-wrapped box. "It's a pin, a gold butterfly I made in art class. But she wouldn't take it."

  He leaned sideways to put the box on a table. Neither Lyle nor Alison had spoken.

  "She was the one who came to the door, but she wouldn't let me in. She saidshe couldn't. When her father called out and asked who it was, she shut the door on me."

  Alison said very quietly, "What happened between you and Heather, Roddy?"

  He stared at the floor.

  "Roddy?"

  He briefly looked up but lowered his gaze again before answering her. "Her father—we were alone in the house and he came back and caught us."

  "Caught you making love?"

  After a hesitation, the boy nodded. "Look," he said then, lifting his head and speaking now in a voice full of pleading. "I didn't mean to go there tonight. I swear it. All I meant to do was ride around awhile, maybe stop at a shop somewhere and have a beer. But I ended up there on her street, just sitting there in the car hoping she would come out for something and I'd get a chance to talk to her. And when she di
dn't come out, I—well, I finally went to the door and rang the bell. Mom, Dad, I love her! Don't you see?"

  Lyle and Alison looked at each other in silence.

  "I love her and I'm going crazy!" Their son's outcry was a plea for help. "We didn't do anything that bad. Heather had already said she'd marry me. But her father's acting like—like I'm some kind of creep."

  Lyle was seated now. Hands on his knees, he leaned forward and said, "You understand, don't you, that if I found some man in bed with Lee, I might feel exactly the same way?"

  "But it happens all the time!"

  Alison shook her head. "No, Roddy. It doesn't."

  "It does! Most of the country people here never get married."

  "The country people. But the McKenzies are an old, old family. The kind who'd be in the social register if there were such a thing here—and maybe there is, for all we know. Don't blame Judge McKenzie, Roddy."

  "Anyway," Lyle said, "you've made your mistake and can't turn the clock back. About all you can do now is wait, it seems to me. Her parents can't stop Heather from talking to you at school. If she loves you, she won't slam any doors in your face there. Then the two of you will just have to wait for the judge to come around."

  Roddy shook his head. "She hasn't been coming to school, Dad."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Not since it happened. I asked one of her profs why, and he said he didn't know, she must be sick. But she isn't sick. She answered the doorbell tonight." Shaking his head, he looked at the floor again. "It looks like they're not going to let her go back to school while I'm there."

  Again Lyle and Alison looked at each other.