“When people started building down that street there was no water line, so the town put in that spigot from the water main. Children would have the daily task of carrying five-gallon cans of water to their home. Many homes do have large cisterns that enable them to collect rainwater and a few people even have drilled wells.”
They drove on, continuing to climb farther and farther up the steep hill.
“Wait, stop! I think that was the road I took with my bike.”
Mark pulled over to the side as Bashia got out of the car and looked around. “Yes, this is it,” she said slowly. “But–it looks different.”
He was at her side and took her by the arm. “Let’s see if it is,” he said, as he walked her across the road. The narrow lane, barely wide enough for one car, was deep in shadow from the surrounding trees.
“Yes, this is it,” she said, as she stopped to turn and look across the valley. “I remember, because there’s the field for cattle right across and, look, that old bull is still there–I can’t believe it! This has to be the road.” She hesitated and took a few more steps down the lane, which gradually turned into a path. “Funny, it seems different and not as frightening as I remembered.”
“Things change. Let’s take a walk,” Mark said as they slowly made their way down the lane. Soon red dust covered their shoes and Bashia silently searched for the spot of her attack.
She couldn’t find it. Hands of fruit hanging low from the banana trees obscured her view and the homes were barely visible. Turning to Mark, she exclaimed, “I know this is the area, but it doesn’t look the same. What’s wrong with me? I’ve had a terrible picture in my mind all this time.”
“That’s why I wanted you to come back here. Things do change, scenery changes and your recall process is different. Can you look at it and chase the terror from your mind? Do you think you can leave your duppies here?”
Bashia sunk down on the side of the lane, ran her hand through the tall grass and looked about. She studied the scene for a long time. There were the banana trees and a few houses down the hillside, but the vision of a man with a machete would not appear. Finally she rose, threw her arms around Mark’s neck and cried on his shoulder.
“This burden I’ve been carrying, it isn’t here! It doesn’t exist. I don’t know if my nightmares are gone or how I will feel next week, but right now I feel you have rescued me from hell.” The warm strength of his body gave her emotional and physical support.
“Bogu dzieki!” Mark exclaimed. “Thank God. I want you to throw those ‘duppies’ out the window.” They laughed as he swept her off her feet and swung her around, the red dust rising about them. “Let’s go back to town and get some of those tasty meat patties.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Early the next morning, Bashia rattled the ladder and called, “Mark get up, time’s a-wasting. Coffee’s perking. I want to take you sightseeing.” With the dreaded rape scene visit behind them, she looked forward to showing Mark some of her favorite spots.
The aroma of hot Blue Mountain coffee drifted to the loft, waking Mark as much as Bashia’s call. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he answered sleepily.
“Quick, let’s have some coffee and get on the road. Put your bathing trunks on under your shorts. We’ll go to Dunn’s River Falls after we go to the Craft Market in Ocho Rios. I hope we have time to go to Fern Gully, the pottery market and dinner at Almond Tree on Mallards Bay. We won’t visit Kingston, but there’s a lot to do on this side of the island. So let’s go!”
“Here we go again, full-speed-ahead-Bashia!” Mark laughed as he climbed down the ladder. “All right, lady, show me Jamaica, but first, can we at least have breakfast? What’s cooking?”
“Sorry, there’s nothing cooking except coffee. We could walk up to the small store on the main street and pick up some Jamaican rolls–bama, and come back, but I’d rather sip our coffee and be on our way. What do you think?”
“My stomach is growling, but I guess I can survive until we get to the closest Dunkin Donuts.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, I don’t remember seeing Dunkin Donuts on the island when I lived here. Kentucky Fried, yes, but no donuts.
“We’ll be able to pick up something, I guarantee you. Remember those little roadside stands? They have snacks, box lunches and fruits. The Peace Corps was forever reminding us the food was safe if it’s cooked or you can peel it.”
“As long as we can stop at the first place that looks and smells like food. Then, let’s go. We’ve got one fun day to take it all in. Lead the way!”
The Craft Market in Ocho Rios was a beehive of activity–jammed with vendor booths, calypso bands and natives playing dominoes. They parked in a rutted dirt lot, crossed the street and headed for the sound of music, chanting voices and enticing smells.
Suddenly an old Chevy drove through a puddle, splashing them. The dark haired woman driver backed up, rolled down her window and apologized, “So sorry,” she said. “Please forgive me.” Astonished, both Bashia and Mark nodded at her.
“Well, wasn’t that nice! There may be thieves who will steal you blind, but there also are people who make a point of apologizing. And don’t you love the lilt of her voice? I just love to hear their soothing way of talking,” said Bashia.
The market was a colorful blend of bright clothing, a variety of skin tones and large assortment of crafts. Vacationers from the nearby cruise ship had been transported en masse and left to haggle with the vendors.
Small booths were crowded with souvenir T-shirts, handmade baskets, straw hats, musical instruments, wood carvings, toys and jewelry. Dickering was as much fun as the actual purchase. Elderly women sat in the shade of their stalls, calling “Come bu’ me mango. Yu wan pineapple, pear, ackee?” Youngsters persistently followed visitors about, tugging at their clothes, selling cigarettes, gum and Lifesavers.
Bashia and Mark mingled with the crowd, and approached a booth that held several types of tin products. “Oh, this little tin lantern is cute. Look, it has a wick and a place for the oil. Wouldn’t this would be handy back home?” Bashia asked.
“I guess, if we have a hurricane!” Mark answered as he reached for his wallet. “How much?”
“Only thirty dolla for you, sa.”
Mark handed over the money as Bashia reminded him of the exchange rate–the purchase cost only one American dollar. They wandered through the marketplace, admiring the wood carvers, the food vendors and lively musicians, buying a few other small items before they felt the heat was wearing them down.
Dunn’s River Falls was less crowded and cool after the heat of Ocho Rios. In their bathing suits they climbed the rough path alongside the 650-foot limestone waterfall that cascaded in a series of falls to the beach and ocean. The hillside was covered with lush tropical trees with long vines dangling from their branches.
Screams and laughter of children could be heard over the splashing water. Halfway up the hill, they joined others bravely sliding down on smooth water-covered boulders. The force of the water propelled them haphazardly to the bottom of the falls. Drenched, spewing water and laughing, they retreated to the side and rested in a calm shallow pool.
“That’s it! I think you’re trying to kill me!” Mark caught his breath as they watched others careening down the boulders. “No wonder this place is called the ‘land of wood and water’. It certainly has plenty of both.”
“And surprisingly, the wood hasn’t been depleted, nor the water contaminated. At least the locals can drink it,” Bashia declared. “But can you imagine the delight of the Spanish and English when they explored and settled on this beautiful island? Now there is a booming population, overcrowding, a high crime rate, and an occasional hurricane, just like in the states. Things never remain the same, as I discovered yesterday.
“Look, we’ve been in the water so long, my skin is beginning to wrinkle. Now, that’s a thought–I have an excuse for my wrinkles!”
“What wrinkles, I don’t see any. Besides, haven’t you heard they
give you character? I like you just the way you are!” He drew her close and kissed her wet hair. Reluctantly they made their way out of the water and headed for the changing rooms.
In the evening twilight, he gave his arm to Bashia as they entered the Almond Tree restaurant through a cave-like entrance that led to a bar and a two-tiered dining patio with a large tree growing through the roof. In one corner a calypso band was playing lively music. They were seated at a cloth-covered table with a bouquet of hibiscus amid a group of small candles. Their waiter brought tall glasses of ice water, whipped a white linen napkin off his arm and placed it in Bashia’s lap.
“Oh, this is going to be super! I feel so elegant.” she exclaimed as they scanned the menu. “Everything looks so good. We must have something special on this, our last night in Jamaica. What shall it be?”
“How about the Lobster Thermador?” Mark asked. “I know how much you like lobster. I think I’ll try the ‘Annie Palmer’. It says here steak flambéed with brandy and served with a pepper sauce. Yes, I’ll have that.” They placed their order and relaxed with a drink, while watching the sun disappear over the horizon, sending off rays of crimson and gold.
“I can remember coming here when I was assigned to work in a small dressmaking shop in Ocho Rios. Cochita was her name. Oh, geekers, I’m sorry I didn’t think of her earlier. It would have been fun to call on her, but now I don’t even remember the street where she lived.”
“Well, we can’t do everything in a couple days, and we did accomplish our mission.” Mark replied as their meal was served. “Oh, this smells fantastic, I like Annie Palmer already.”
The waiter smiled. “You are familiar with the story of Annie Palmer?” he asked.
“Yes, my friend has told me the tale. I hope this meat doesn’t come from Rose Hall!” Mark laughed and the waiter joined in.
“No, no, Sir. This is beef raised on the island, but not at Rose Hall.” He served the side dish of Jamaican plantation rice, refilled their water glasses and left them to enjoy their meal.
“Oh, Mark, I’ve had the best time!” Bashia rested her head on the headrest as Mark drove back to the villa. “The island is beautiful, and most of the people gracious and kind. I can’t thank you enough for bringing me back here. And to think you almost had to drag me! I actually hate to think of returning tomorrow.
“And I especially appreciate you not forcing yourself on me. Now that I’ve gotten rid of my duppies–I think–I just might be able to loosen up. But let’s leave things as they are for now, okay?”
Mark nodded, hoping there would be more to come in the future. He wished they could stay longer, but knew it was time to pack and prepare for their flight home.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Hiram Lazarus felt trapped. To deal with his mounting problems, he realized he had to focus on one at a time. Together, they were too much to handle.
Sitting in his library-office, a steaming mug of strong black coffee at his side, his immediate concern was the throbbing, surging pain in his motionless right arm. So far today, he’d been unable to calm it down.
He’d been jolted awake in the middle of the night, his pillowcase clammy, his body covered in perspiration. After all these years, he still dreamed of the ferocious Vietnam firefight that killed his best friend, Louis. He sat up in the bed and breathed deeply. Counting slowly, he was able to push his night-frights aside. Months of therapy had taught him to concentrate on other matters and squeeze the fear out of his mind.
Now, the pain in his arm wouldn’t let go. He took a pill as soon as he got up, but it was still in what he called “full alert”. Sometimes he wished he’d listened to one Army medic who told him the arm should be amputated, that it would never again be strong or useful, just an ongoing source of pain and terrible memories. The doc might have been right, but Hiram hadn’t wanted to lose that limb. He’d lost too much already, plus he had heard other soldiers scream with phantom pain in missing legs and arms. If he had to fight pain, he wanted to see where it originated.
He pulled a heavy wool, khaki lap blanket off the back of his chair and carefully wrapped it around his aching limb. It had come from the Philadelphia VA Medical Center and was never far from his side. Besides its therapeutic warmth, the blanket was comforting, linked with memories of Lucinda soothing his daily woes.
Hiram’s mind wandered from one thing to another. He couldn’t still his thoughts. Too many things were going wrong in his life.
He needed to finalize details for expanding his New England Antiques business in Essex while maintaining top quality merchandise here in his home, where his oldest, best customers preferred to come.
He had a strong line of credit with Fleet Bank in Boston, so knew he would have no trouble getting cash to buy the entire Goodell household furnishings. If he decided to borrow for the deal, he needed to get over there to schmooze with the vice president and set it up.
Hiram was happy that Donald Moore and his mother weren’t into antiques. Gladys Goodell had some valuable furniture in her family’s homestead. Hiram already had several wealthy customers in mind for some of the best pieces.
The sudden, recent, disturbing appearance of Skip Dempsey in Essex kept coming to mind. Also troubling was his nearly knockdown, drag-out session with Tom Litchman over his dream for a furniture store.
On top of everything else muddling his mind, Lucinda had been acting weird lately, asking questions about his travels, who had he seen, what had he sold–something she never used to do. What’s that all about?
Hiram needed to think about one matter at a time. He leaned back in his favorite maroon leather office chair, lightly massaged his thickly padded elbow to generate heat, then rubbed the hairless crown of his olive-skinned head, an absent gesture to contemplate his past, present and future.
He wasn’t really bald, he told people, he’d just grown too tall for his salt and pepper Mideastern fringe. In his mid-fifties, he was just less than six feet tall. But he enjoyed thinking he was still growing–up as well as out.
Like many Vietnam veterans, he had used drugs to numb his reaction to things he didn’t want to see or do. He and Louis Litchman, with three years in country, were senior Green Beret officers and established their fiefdom of supply to meet the immense drug demand with a little help from their company medic’s black market sources.
Their world fell apart in one devastating attack–Louis and the medic dead and Hiram shipped to the Army hospital in Ramstein, Germany, for emergency care. He returned to the states and the VA Medical Center a few days later when he received permission to escort the body of his best friend so he could be on hand to comfort Lucinda and attend services.
He and Lucinda quickly became very close because she wanted to know all about their Vietnam adventures. She volunteered at the hospital and spent many hours with him.
When old friends came to visit, she quickly recognized some of them as drug addicts and discouraged their visits. A few came for help to get connected; others thought he should share the heavy drugs that were just barely keeping him stable through several surgeries and the immense physical and emotional pain. Lucinda told them to leave him alone.
He knew it was largely Lucinda’s influence that enabled him to drop his dependence on illegal drugs. She had insisted, cajoled and intimidated him into taking only the medications prescribed by the VA staff.
He was grateful for her help and quickly sensed his growing romantic feelings for her were being returned. It became difficult to differentiate whether each needed the other to keep Louis Litchman’s memory alive, or whether they were just falling in love.
Whichever it was, they decided to stick together when Hiram was well enough to leave the hospital. They found a home for themselves and her young boys in Frankford, Pennsylvania, not far from Philly’s Tacony-Palmyra Bridge to the New Jersey Turnpike and the shore. It was in the area where they both grew up.
Although he had gotten clean himself, Hiram found it impossible to resist maki
ng money from drugs he found readily available once he was discharged from both the hospital and his military duty.
Many of his Army buddies became his best customers and the drug business was easy and profitable. He tried to hide that activity from Lucinda, but eventually decided it wasn’t worth the risk. He came to realize that people were dying in the streets because of his livelihood. Plus organized crime was moving in to take over.
The first time a rough, tough pair of thugs stopped by to “encourage” him to share the wealth he was amassing in drugs, Hiram decided he needed a better way to support himself. He sure didn’t want Lucinda’s sons, Thomas and Chad, involved. He also had the feeling that if he were ever responsible for another person’s death, outside the arena of war, he would not be able to go on living.
As a youth, he had grown up in a large extended family of immigrant Armenians who came to the U.S. with very little, but became prosperous through hard work selling imported Persian rugs.
They were independent in their business dealings and dealt only with people of class and integrity. He decided he should follow his relatives’ example and become a better person.
Moving to Woodstock had been one of his smartest decisions so far. He needed to establish himself far enough away from Philadelphia that he wouldn’t be running into old drug customers.
This beautiful region was agricultural, but full of people with money in their pockets who loved antiques. Hiram had decided that rugs were too limited to jump into on his own in a new area. Antique furniture was broader and held more interest for him.
So he began to learn, collect and sell from any source he could find, first at flea markets, then auctions and estate sales. Quickly he expanded his expertise, contacts and inventories until his own home was full and his reputation was spreading throughout the Northeast.
During his buying and selling excursions, he had found this unique, somewhat secluded home in the woods with a little land. They utilized an enormous wood stove in the summerhouse to create a work area for Lucinda’s craft projects. He had loved seeing her creative, energetic, even poetic nature blossom.
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