“Rose Hall has a witch story connected with it. Known as the ‘Witch of Rose Hall’, Annie Palmer gleefully seduced men, slaves as well as husbands, and then murdered them.
“In 1831, she herself was murdered by some of the slaves and her ghost, or duppy, rides on horseback through the night. The 18th Century Georgian mansion was restored some time ago and is now open to the public. I remember walking through the rooms in awe. It is fantastic! Our Peace Corps group took a trip to that place and to the Blue Mountain coffee plantations some 5,000 feet above sea level.”
Driving into Falmouth, halfway between Mo’bay and Discovery Bay, Bashia urged Mark to stop at a Jamaican style drive-in. A crude hand-lettered sign tacked to a small wooden shack advertised “Jerk Pork/Jerk Chicken/Red Stripe Beer”.
Tables were set under a canopy, away from the heat of the outdoor “kitchen”–oil barrels, cut in half, containing the red-hot wood and charcoal embers. Smoldering chicken and large pieces of pork basted with the spicy juices gave off a tantalizing aroma.
“Oh, it hasn’t changed! Great!”
Sitting on rough picnic benches shaded by the canopy, they enjoyed the jerk pork served on paper plates and licked their fingers as they became smeared with the special savory Jamaican seasoning.
“Jerk pork is one of my favorite dishes,” Bashia declared. “But it never tastes the same when I try to make it at home, even with the Jamaican spices. I think the difference is in cooking it over an open fire all day. It ends up being a cross between smoked pork and barbecue.”
She inhaled the smells and smiled at the cook. “Great food,” she exclaimed.
“Hou unu du?” the cook asked. “Di foo gwaan gud, yusi!” he continued, and offered them another serving.
“Huh, what did he say?” Mark asked.
“He asked how we were and said the food is very good. He’s speaking patois, a mix of British, African, Spanish and whatever. Although we think of them as Jamaicans, these islanders came from all over the world, thus the many varieties of skin color.
“Here we are–Sunflower Villa,” she called, shortly after they had left Discovery Bay. “See the large sunflower sign? Just drive down that lane to the office. That is, if it’s still the same. I spent my last weekend in Jamaica here–Jamaicans don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, but we were determined to do so. Five of us rented a villa and brought in our Thanksgiving dinner–Vicky even carried a turkey all the way from Mo’bay. I’ll tell you about it when we get settled.”
They located the office, registered and were shown to their A-frame villa, one of many lining the gravel driveways to resemble a small village. A Jamaican couple lounging on the tiny front porch directly across from theirs waved in greeting.
“Oh, I like this small bedroom,” Mark declared, climbing the ladder to the loft and sprawling out on the queen-sized bed. “Alright if I camp out up here? I feel as if I’m in a tree house. You can have the first floor bedroom, okay?”
Bashia smiled with relief. The villa had three bedrooms. She wanted separate bedrooms and they had discussed it briefly when Bashia had made the reservations. She knew she wasn’t ready for any type of intimacy, but she hadn’t been sure about Mark. She was pleased with his reaction.
She threw her suitcase on one of the beds, checked the kitchen for Blue Mountain coffee, sugar and canned milk, then called, “Let’s go to the beach before it gets dark. I’m exhausted from the flight, but we should check it out.” Her mood had lightened as the sights reminded her of her last visit.
When Mark climbed down the ladder, he wore a loose sport shirt over a pair of shorts, feeling awkward with his hairy white legs showing. “Ready?” he smiled as he opened the screen door.
She took one look, suppressed a laugh and led the way.
They walked the beach and waded in the warm shallow water, ending at an open dining area. A reggae band drummed out a rhythmic beat on the patio under a thatched palm frond roof. Tiki lamps around the bandstand flickered in the evening breeze. The drummers were Rastafarians, their orange, green and yellow knitted caps held down their wild dreadlocks. Bare-chested, their brown skin shone with sweat. A few couples were on the dance floor and a group of people at a nearby table smiled and nodded to Bashia and Mark.
“I can see why you enjoyed this place so much, it’s so peaceful. Away from all the noise and traffic, all the tourists. Other tourists,” Mark laughed as he carried two brown bottles of Red Stripe beer from the bar. “Isn’t that the way it goes–you find an ideal spot and want to keep it for yourself, don’t want anyone else to know about it? But tell me about the last time you were here.”
“Well, Dottie and I started out from Christiana early in the morning. It was a long journey and we carried our food with us. At Brown’s Town, where we had to change busses, people were pushing to get on–as usual–and I fell, flat on my back. My pumpkin pie filling went flying. I picked up the half-empty container and limped onto the bus. When we finally arrived here at Sunflower Villa, Vicky and Tom were waiting for us at the bus stop and Charlie joined us later from Port Antonio.
“The next day I couldn’t move and lay on a lounge chair under the palm trees at the beach, gobbling Tylenol all day. When we returned from the beach, the turkey was burned–the oven temperature control didn’t work properly! We rescued what we could, had the usual vegetables and salad and later ate our thin pumpkin pie.
“But we had a good time, away from our Peace Corps duties and concerns. That trip from Christiana took more than three hours by bus. I’m so glad we will be driving our car tomorrow.”
The thought of going to Christiana brought a frown to Bashia’s face as she stared out into the dark horizon. She almost hoped tomorrow would never come. She felt so comfortable here with Mark, sitting there, listening to the reggae music, Mark’s arm around her.
Mark, too, stared out into the dark sea, wondering what tomorrow would bring and whether Horton had any word from the Michigan police about Arlene or the mummified baby.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Hey, Mark. I hope you’re having a wonderful time down there on island time while we’re still suffering the last chill of winter,” Horton answered, smiling, when he heard his friend’s voice on the telephone. “I didn’t know you’re a beach bum.”
“It’s not all pleasure, Greg. I might tell you more about my trip when I get back–or maybe not. Oh, and thanks again for letting me keep this trip on schedule. It is important. But I’m calling to see if there’s any word on the mummified baby? Anything new?”
Mark hadn’t heard any sound from Bashia downstairs yet this morning, so he decided to give Greg a call. He knew his friend would have jumped in with both feet on the investigation.
“You’re in luck, Mark. I came in early today to write this up,” Horton replied.
Jankowski sat up on the bed in case he needed to take notes on his ever-present pocket notepad.
“Michigan State Police called me back. They’re really on the stick,” said Horton. “Of course, it may help that the headquarters is in East Lansing, only a stone’s throw from where Arlene Goodell Moore lives, so they already sent an investigator to talk to her about this baby you found.
“At first, she refused to let Sergeant McLaren in, but she relented and told him the whole, sad story. He has a flair for the dramatic, I think. He said, ‘She heaved a tremendous sigh, her head and shoulders caved in and she spewed forth with years of hurt she’s kept to herself. But she didn’t cry a single tear–she’s beyond that. She just wanted assurance that we wouldn’t tell her husband or son about our conversation. She’s kept this secret all these years’.”
“Wow, we need more investigators who can get that kind of response,” Mark said. “So spill it, we’ve got a full day ahead of us.”
“Right, you’re on vacation with your lady friend. Okay, Romeo,” Horton laughed. He summarized McLaren’s report of his interview with Arlene and said the Michigan officer had told her that if there were no cause for charges,
he could guarantee her no publicity and her family didn’t need to be informed.
Arlene told him she was an unhappy, overweight teenager when she had sex once on a secret date with a boy her family didn’t like. Her two older sisters treated her like Cinderella, heaping chores and ridicule on her at every opportunity. It was the 1950s, a much different time than today.
Their private school uniforms were loose fitting, so it wasn’t difficult for her to hide her growing abdomen when she learned that she was pregnant, she told McLaren. She didn’t tell a soul, not friends and certainly not her family. She didn’t eat much; told friends she planned to lose some weight that school year. She wondered if that made her baby die.
McLaren commented that she said this, like the entire story, without much emotion, as if it were someone else’s life and loss.
Toward the end of her pregnancy, she pretended to have the flu so she could stay home from school. She delivered the baby herself, spreading newspapers on the bathroom floor so it would be easy to clean up. She didn’t think the baby ever breathed. It definitely didn’t cry right away as Arlene thought it would, that’s what they did in the movies. She knew she had to cut the umbilical cord.
She thought the baby was dead, so she wrapped it tightly in the papers and placed it in the cedar chest in her deceased parents’ bedroom. It was a girl.
McLaren told Horton he felt like an intruder hearing this woman’s story, told in such an unemotional manner.
Arlene Goodell Moore said she had packed a bag for herself a few weeks earlier, in case her sisters caught her and tried to make her go to a home for unwed mothers, a common practice. She had been reading out-of-town newspapers at the library and noticed that General Motors was advertising lots of jobs in the Detroit area.
She took all her savings, from babysitting jobs and years of birthday gift money, bought a bus ticket and left the next day. She was confident the baby’s body wouldn’t be found very quickly. The chest was full of mostly old things and rarely opened.
When she reached Detroit, Traveler’s Aid sent her to get a room in a Salvation Army residence for women. She interviewed at two factories but decided Detroit was too big a city for her so she headed to Lansing, got a job at Oldsmobile, met and married her husband and went on with her life.
“McLaren said he would leave it to experts whether this woman was right that the baby never took a breath. He did believe her–she thought the baby was stillborn,” Horton told Mark. “He thinks this experience caused her to be such a difficult person. She has put this behind her and doesn’t want to have to explain it any more. He was just glad he was able to convince her to tell it to him.
“Oh, one more thing: forensics reports that the infant was probably stillborn due to the shape of its head and the fontanelle was not closed yet. Remnants of an umbilical cord were present and it definitely was a female. It was in relatively good mummified condition, because it was wrapped tightly and lacked bacteria that generate decomposition.”
Mark set down his pen and took a deep breath. What a terrible commentary on a young woman’s life. She hadn’t been prepared to make the decisions forced upon her. He was glad the story was known, including the official declaration. He wondered what she would tell her son, Donald, when he returned home with so many questions. Thankfully, that wasn’t in his bailiwick.
“Well, Greg, thank you, that’s excellent. That’s what I like about you. We’ll be flying home Sunday, so I’ll see you soon.”
“Okay, have a terrific time, whatever is on your agenda. Jamaica sounds like a getaway I might enjoy some time with my wife and kids,” Horton said.
“For sure. The scenery is spectacular and the beach more beautiful than any dreams,” answered Mark. The strong aroma of Jamaican coffee rose to the loft and the microwave oven dinged to signal that their breakfast rolls were warm. He smiled, thinking he could get used to this morning routine.
“Oh-oh, looks like you got sunburned! We weren’t in the sun very long yesterday, but it doesn’t take much! Here, put on some aloe before you sit down. We need to make sure you have sunscreen on before we go out today,” Bashia said when Mark came down the ladder. “Don’t forget, we’re closer to the equator here. Didn’t you use sunscreen yesterday?” She handed him her bottle of green aloe lotion.
“No, I guess not. I had other things on my mind.”
”Well, let’s not forget it today. But, here, have some breakfast so we can get going…. Not that I’m that anxious, but there’s a reason we flew down here.” Bashia stopped talking and studied her coffee, stirring vigorously.
He bit into a warm cinnamon roll. “Yes, we’ll do that today. Do you know the way? You said we’re going over the mountains? Do we need to gas up?”
When he spied freshly cut mango, he changed the subject: “I think I just died and went to heaven!”
“Yes, to all your questions. There aren’t too many gas stations once you get away from the coast, and the climb over the Blue Mountains is three hours, even by car. Any other questions?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Mark answered, as he swallowed the last of his coffee and picked up the road map. “As you say, let’s go!”
They drove slowly along the coast before turning south toward the center of the island. The road gradually turned into a narrow two-lane road as it twisted over the mountains. They passed Brown’s Town with its sprawling bus transfer station, then dropped down to the river.
Several women stood ankle deep in water, scrubbing clothes on a rock. Clean clothes were spread out on the grass to dry. Children waded in the shallow pools; the rushing water was inviting in the sweltering heat.
The hillsides were covered with lush fruit trees of all kinds, banana, ackee, orange, and pineapple along with red flame trees. Occasional roadside stands offering box lunches of rice and peas, curried goat, fruit and drinks, stood dangerously close to the traffic. Reggae music blared out from all of them.
Sharp twists and harrowing turns brought them into Spaldings, deep in the Dry Harbor Mountains, two hours later. They passed the bus park and a crowd of people pushing to get on a bus. “Oh, I’m so glad we have a car,” Bashia exclaimed once more.
Mark slowed down and stared at the old cars and busses parked close to each other. “Look at that bus loading passengers. The one with a Paradise Travel sign overhead and a bicycle strapped to the front grill. Look, some guys are tying a mountain of suitcases and boxes on top. Well, I’ll be. Is that child planning to bring his goat?”
Bashia laughed. “Probably, but it’s not common. I never rode on a bus with a goat. A chicken, yes, but not a goat. The driver will make sure there are twice as many people as seats before leaving. That bus must be about 1956 vintage. Actually, it’s in better shape than many–it actually has fenders and a bumper!”
They passed a reddish, muddy lake in one of the valleys. “What is that all about?” Mark asked.
“Oh, that’s one of the lakes the aluminum company created for their waste water. It comes from open-pit mining for bauxite. The red dirt is washed to remove the iron oxide and other stuff. So the water ends up here and the bauxite goes to the states to be processed into aluminum. Do you know Jamaica is third in world production for bauxite? The natives tell me the water is poisonous, no fish survive there.”
As they continued toward Christiana, in the 3,000-foot Dry Harbor Mountains, Bashia sat up straight in her seat, staring ahead at the town where she had lived as a Peace Corps Volunteer for two years. In a low dip in the road, they passed the large Anglican Church on the left and the smaller Catholic Church on the right where she had taught catechism class.
Then as the road rose to the hilltop, the center of town came into sight. A two-story grocery store stood in the center flanked by shops selling furniture, clothing and baked goods. A tempting smell of meat patties wafted into the street from the bakery.
Men pushing small handmade carts jostled for space in the street, selling cold drinks or flavored shaved ice out of c
oolers. As Mark slowed to a crawl he studied the carts. Four small rubber tires supported a rough wooden frame which held an ice chest and tray for glasses. An old auto steering wheel was connected to the wheels with a rope to steer the cart and a strip of rubber nailed across the back worked as a brake when the man stood on it. A few were topped by large colorful umbrellas.
“Cum bu’ me bag ju, bag ju,” he called, “Sweet strawberry, cool pineapple!” He shaved ice with what looked like a wood plane, scooped it up in a small plastic bag and poured brightly colored, thick syrup over it as he continued to call to the crowd.
A few men sat on the curb smoking large cigars. Strong-bodied women carried huge bundles of goods on their heads; small children darted back and forth. Skinny dogs with exposed ribs roamed loose, as did goats. “Curried goat is one of the most common foods here. It’s not bad, but there are a lot of little bones you have to chew the meat off.”
Mark kept one foot on the brake, maneuvering slowly through the crowd, then passed a marketplace of tightly packed stands with people selling everything from food to live animals, tobacco and clothing.
“I loved going to the market and mingling with the Jamaicans. I never felt uncomfortable with them, that is until…” She clamped her lips tightly together and stared out the window.
“Is your apartment nearby?” Mark asked, trying to keep Bashia’s spirits up.
“No, we make one more turn and dip down the road again before we start to climb once more. I used to walk this every day, up and down the hills over rough terrain. See, there’s the post office, where my landlady is the postmistress but it didn’t help me in getting mail. Like everyone else, I had to stand in line and then wait for the counter worker to look in the mail slots for my mail. My apartment is down the next street.”
Mark stared at a spigot at the side of a narrow dirt road they were passing. “What’s the water pipe doing there?”
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