Serpents in the Sun

by Cave, Hugh

  "It's settled, then?" Kirk said. "You'll go to MoBay with me, Roddy?"

  "I'd love to."

  "Uncle Roddy, we're going to miss you," Glenda said solemnly. "I hope you know that. All of us—we're going to miss you a lot."

  "I'll miss you, too."

  Cliff said, "We'll always be here, old buddy, anytime you get tired of all that ice and snow in Florida and feel like a change of scene."

  A ripple of laughter ran round the table, but, with a frown, Andrea's Englishman said, "Ice and snow, Cliff?"

  "Just kidding, Russ. Actually, though, no part of Florida can match our Blue Mountains. We may have other problems from time to time, like what will happen if Michael gets elected again, but you can't beat Glencoe for beauty and climate. How about that, Roddy? You're going to miss Jamaica, you know. Admit it."

  Luari was passing Roddy the platter of curried chicken at the moment. As though unaware of what he was doing, Roddy transferred a drumstick to his plate and passed the dish back.

  "Roddy?" Cliff said.

  "What? I'm sorry, I—"

  "I said you'll miss Jamaica. We were just kids when we came here, you and Lee and I. We grew up here, went to school here, watched Mom and Dad transform this place from a rundown disaster into the best coffee plantation in the island—maybe one of the best in the whole West Indies. With, of course, a lot of advice and help from Des." Cliff turned his head to aim a smile at the Reids, and then looked at Roddy again. "Uh-huh. You're going to miss it all. You know damned well you are."

  Roddy bent over his plate without answering. Alison, frowning across the table at Cliff, shook her head in warning.

  Later, when the guests had departed and Roddy was alone in the drawing room, he went to the record-player and put one of Luari's recordings on the turntable. Then he sank into a chair by the fireplace and sat with his eyes closed while the room filled with her lovely interpretation of the plaintive Jamaica Farewell.

  11

  "Only one suitcase?" At six o'clock the following morning, in the driveway of his home on the outskirts of Morant Bay, Tom Kirk seemed surprised. "But I suppose the folks will be sending over the rest of your things after you're settled in, eh?"

  "I don't have anything else," Roddy explained. "Everything I had went up in smoke when the Tontons trashed my hotel in Haiti." After watching Kirk put the lone piece of luggage into the car's boot, he turned to Andrea, who had driven him down from Glencoe. "Well, young lady, this seems to be it."

  She put her arms around him. "Good luck, Uncle Roddy. Good luck!"

  Roddy said, "Good luck to you, too. And to Russ. I'll be back for the wedding when the times comes. You can count on it."

  Tom Kirk was already at the wheel of his car. Roddy got in beside him. A moment later, when Roddy looked back, Andrea was still standing there beside the Glencoe car, watching them.

  From Morant Bay the road to Montego Bay curved around the eastern end of the island, then ran west along the north coast. As they passed through a small village surrounded by a sea of sugarcane only a few miles from the Bay, Tom Kirk said, "This is Stokes Hall. Know about it, do you?"

  "Know what?"

  "When the English were trying to colonize Jamaica, some sixteen hundred people came over from Nevis, led by old Luke Stokes, the Nevis governor. They settled around here and most of them were dead before they realized their mistake. Mosquitoes were more than just a nuisance in those days, and over there on your right, beyond the sugar, the land this side of Morant Point Light is still called the Great Morass." He shook his head. "Guess I sound like Kim Tulloch, God rest her soul. But anyway, it sort of puts our present-day problems in perspective, doesn't it? I mean when you think of that many men, women, and kids dying because they didn't know that mosquitoes carried yellow fever."

  Present-day problems, Roddy thought. Including mine.

  "You know, this must be one of the prettiest drives in creation," his companion said an hour later. "At any rate I think it is, and I've seen enough of the world to have something to compare it with. You couldn't ask for a prettier day to be doing this, either."

  It was indeed, Roddy thought, a beautiful morning for what they were doing. There was little traffic on the mostly two-lane highway. The sky was a brilliant blue, with only enough white wisps of cloud to accentuate its color. The sea either foamed on long stretches of beach or whispered mysteriously in secret little coves. So with a good friend beside him and a new career awaiting him in Florida, why did he feel so depressed?

  He knew why, but was not prepared to think about it. Instead, he filled the time with idle chatter and Tom Kirk was seemingly willing to answer in kind.

  With some sixty-five miles of the journey and the attractive north-coast town of Port Antonio behind them, they passed a coconut plantation, the trees standing like giant feather-dusters in long, straight rows. "Now there," Tom Kirk observed, "is one of the most underrated treasures of the tropics. If we had a bottle of rum along, and a small boy to shinny up a tree and get us a couple of those nuts, we could make like philosophers.”

  Struggling in the quicksand of his thoughts again, Roddy grasped at the remark as though it were a lifeline. "Rum in coconut water?" He made the word water rhyme with Carter. "Not for me, thanks. It always gives me the trots."

  "Cholesterol, too, no doubt. But in moderation it's good for the soul, lad. Our friends in northern climes don't know what they're missing. The only coconut they know is the supermarket kind with its inner shell of hard white meat."

  "Well—"

  "Not without reason has the coconut palm been called God's greatest gift to man, sir. Consider. When the nut is young, the soft white jelly inside it is fed to babies. Later, that jelly becomes the copra of commerce or, when grated and squeezed, produces coconut cream which in turn becomes coconut oil when boiled. The leaves of the tree are used for baskets, fish traps, sleeping mats and thatch, even for sandals and hats. The fiber at the base of the leaves becomes a kind of burlap. The flower spathe, when punctured, drips a drinkable liquid which if allowed to ferment becomes a potent toddy. The new growth in the heart of the leaves is 'millionaire's salad.' The empty nuts make handy household utensils. End of lecture. But such heaven-sent gifts deserve a better fate, dammit, than being pictured in travel folders with professional models in skimpy swimsuits leaning against their majestic trunks, wouldn't you say?"

  "Amen," Roddy said, and began thinking again. It seemed the closer they came to their destination, the more difficult it was to concentrate on his companion's chatter.

  Having sensed what was wrong, Tom Kirk continued to fill the silence with talk of no importance. It was the proper way to handle the situation, he had decided. Roddy had a decision to make. To make it, he needed to put his mind to it. His whole mind.

  Because, look. This man's life had twice been shattered—once when as a young man he'd lost a girl he was heart and soul in love with, again when a woman he had learned to care for deeply as a stand-in, so to speak, was brutally murdered. At fifty-one he could be forgiven, couldn't he, for hesitating to let himself be vulnerable to a third shabby blow from the Fates?

  How long since he had learned about the death of Heather McKenzie's husband? Perhaps not long enough. Yet with every mile they put behind them this morning, the time left for decision-making grew shorter. Roddy could go on to Florida to a reasonably certain life of security . . . or he could tempt the Fates and dare to try living again.

  Dare to try living. Dare to live. It was what the Bennetts had done from the start, wasn't it? Lyle and Alison, knowing nothing about Jamaica or the growing of coffee, had dared to come here with three kids and risk everything on a new life in a strange land. Lee had dared to become the wife of a doctor who was committed to helping the poor in the Caribbean's most explosive country. Roddy, himself, had dared to try breathing new life into a failed resort hotel in an almost fatally remote part of that troubled country. Cliff had dared to marry an illegitimate girl of mixed race; then the two
of them, wholly in love with each other, had taken over Glencoe when they had to and made the plantation even more productive.

  By God, yes, these people had dared to live!

  But perhaps Roddy, after twice being knocked out, was a bit old to climb into the ring for a third contest with the Fates. Perhaps it was time to retire. In any case, he had to decide. He alone. So the talk at the moment should stay clear of the problem—at least until he reached the decision he was so obviously agonizing over. When and if he did reach it, perhaps he would want to talk about it.

  But Roddy did not. Through Oracabessa and Ocho Rios, through Runaway Bay and Falmouth, the talk in the car continued to lack substance. We're acting like a couple of strangers, Kirk thought glumly as he took the turn into the Montego Bay airport. But if I try to advise him and it goes sour, we'll end up being strangers in fact. And I love this man. I can't risk it.

  He pulled into the parking area and shut off the engine. He and Roddy got out and walked around to the rear, where Kirk opened the boot. Lifting the single suitcase out, Roddy stood there holding it in his left hand.

  "Well, Tom—"

  They shook hands. "You'll be back if there's a wedding," Tom Kirk said.

  "I'm sure I will."

  "Good luck in Florida."

  "Thanks."

  For a few seconds they looked at each other in silence. Then Roddy put the suitcase down and the two embraced. Afterward, Tom Kirk remained standing by the car watching, as Andrea had done, until Roddy disappeared.

  Inside the terminal, Roddy started toward the ticket counters but shortened his stride when only halfway there. Turning on one foot, he looked for a telephone, saw one, and suddenly sprinted to it. Putting his bag down, he first almost frantically flipped the pages of a phone book, then fed the machine a coin and began to make the call.

  His hand shook so much, he had trouble finding the numbers. Standing there with the phone at his ear, struggling to concentrate on what he was doing, Roddy could not possibly have seen the woman who, walking past, suddenly stopped in her tracks and looked at him. About his own age or a little younger, she was slim and pretty with brown eyes that suddenly opened wide, and soft lips that parted as she took in a quick, deep breath.

  But even before she spoke his name, Roddy had sensed her presence and turned to face her.

  "Roddy!" she cried.

  He dropped the phone and took a step forward, both hands reaching. "I was just phoning you!"

  Without hesitation, Heather stepped into his waiting arms.

  It was a little like Le Refuge, Roddy thought. Twice during dinner in the Canterbury's charming dining room, he and Heather had been interrupted because this was her guest house, she was the one who made the decisions, and her presence was required for the solution of some minor problem.

  Still, in the hours since their meeting at the airport—where she had gone to pick up an arriving guest— they had filled in most of the gaps. He knew what her life had been since the breakup; she knew about his in Haiti. Her parents were both dead. There was no man in the picture.

  Reaching across the table now, Heather found his hand and held it. "It could be fun, you know, running this place together," she said. "I don't suppose it will ever be more than it is now—nothing to make us rich, that is—but we'd have each other and you would have your people at Glencoe. Better than starting a whole new life in Florida—perhaps?"

  "I forgot about Florida the minute I saw you." How lovely she was, Roddy thought. How exactly like the girl he had been soin love with when they were students together—and when she had been famous as the caving-club girl who wrote and recited naughty limericks. "Are you still a poet?"

  "You mean—? No, but I'll bet I could be, now that I'm with you again." Smiling, she shut the large brown eyes that had been gazing at him all through dinner. "Let's see, now. We almost always usedthe names of towns or villages, so how about . . . how about something like this? A lass . . . at an inn in Montego, once said to her man, "Why don't we go to . . . some place with no phone, Where'll we be all alone, and won't be disturbed while we . . . while we . . ."

  She opened her eyes and laughed. "I'm a little rusty, aren't I?

  It's so long since I've even thought about such things. But I'll get it back now that you're here. I know I will."

  So will I, Roddy thought, squeezing her hand. Oh, my darling, so will I!

  EPILOGUE

  Alone in the schoolroom, Alison shut off the tape recorder into which she had been talking and, with a shake of her head, turned to her old, familiar typewriter. On it she began her letter again.

  Glencoe

  15 March 1990

  Dear Lee and Carey,

  Before I begin the monthly update, let me try to explain why I am not using the lovely tape recorder you sent me. It's wonderful for music, but I just can't seem to dictate anything like a decent letter on it; twice now I've tried and have had to give up. I'm sad, too, because after taping a letter to you two, I would have made copies of the tape for Andrea and Ross in England, and for Heather and Roddy and Carita and Vern to listen to here when they drop in. But as an old teacher of English, I need to see the words taking shape in front of my eyes, I guess. Glenda says I just need more practice, but I tell her I'm too old to learn new tricks. Incidentally, she has used the machine to put all her mother's records on tape. And do you know she has Luari's voice? In church last Sunday she sang a solo and it was lovely. If she ever decides to go after our Scottish minister, he won't have a prayer. But I don't quite believe she will. She's nineteen now and a beauty, and there's a great big wonderful world out there.

  Well! I suppose you already know that things have been rough in Haiti, as Carita predicted in her book. How many leaders has that poor country had since Duvalier was forced out? It's hard to keep count. Anyway, the latest to go was that fellow Avril, who used to be Jean-Claude's aide-de-camp or something. I understand he had some freedom-fighters in prison and there was a petition circulated in the States demanding their release. But just letting them go wasn't enough; in the end he had to step down, and now they have still another "interim" government. Heaven knows what will happen there next. At least, as Carita pointed out last weekend when she and Vern were here, the Haitian people seem determined to continue their fight for a true democracy. Evidently Virgilie keeps Carita up to date on all the "wars and rumors of wars."

  Here in Jamaica the sky didn't fall when Michael Manley came into power again, as some of us thought it might. With Communism crumbling like the walls of Jericho all over the world now, perhaps Michael has had second thoughts about traveling that road. Of course, he never was a Communist, actually, was he? —though some in his party probably were. He called himself a Democratic Socialist if I remember correctly. But he has publicly stated that he won't repeat the mistakes he made before. Meanwhile, as you know, parts of the island are still cleaning up after the devastation of Hurricane Gilbert, and that isn't making his task any easier.

  Cliff says we'll have an acceptable crop this year in spite of the hurricane, but, as I told you before, the damage to Glencoe was substantial. We've had to replant a number of fields, using the new dwarf coffee that Cliff is so keen on, and we thought it best to re-roof part of the house as well. Did I tell you that while the dogs were under a bed, Glenda's one-eyed cat sat on the dining table all through the worst of the storm, batting away at the roar of it as though she were a caged tiger being teased by some naughty little boy with a stick? I wonder what my Yum-Yum would have done. I’ll never forget the day Kim Tulloch gave her to me. Roddy at that time was using a toy tank to stop the nightly hockey games in the attic. What a life we've had here!

  Speaking of Roddy, he looks ten years younger and I've never seen him so happy. They were meant for each other, he and Heather. I hope her father, wherever he is, realizes what a terrible thing he did when he broke them up. Their guest house is doing very well in a modest way—just the way they want it, they say, and I believe them. I mean, th
ere is so much more to life than making money, isn't there? With Lyle's drive, he might have made a lot more in real estate than we've ever had here at Glencoe. He probably would have become a developer, doing shopping malls and that sort of thing. But life for us wouldn't have been half so exciting and fulfilling.

  Tom Kirk said it best, I think, the day Roddy and Heather were married. You were all here, but he said it to me privately. Des and Mildred Reid were leaving. Tom and I had gone out to their car with them to say goodbye. As the car went up the driveway, he and I stood there together, watching it, and then he turned and took hold of my hands.

  "Remember when you and Lyle lost those two as friends and were devastated?" he said. "Life's been rough on you at times, hasn't it, Al? On those you love, as well. But you've lived it to the hilt, all of you, and since we get to go round only once, I think I envy you."

  That's a good note on which to end this letter, don't you think?

  All my love, as always,

  Alison