The Lesson

by Cadwell Turnbull

  Where? he kept asking in that purgatory between sleep and wakefulness, but he found that her voice only repeated the plea.

  You can still go back.

  • • •

  Jackson had come across Mera by accident during his research.

  The earliest appearance was from the journal of Dr. Hans Balthazar Hornbeck, a Danish man appointed to be district physician of St. John in 1825, back when the Danes still owned the Virgin Islands. In Hornbeck’s early years as a physician, he noted stories of a woman who healed slaves on the island. He got a description from a slave boy he had been treating. The woman was slender, with smooth dark-brown skin and piercing amber eyes. Another patient described her as stout, with a mane of locked hair. Hornbeck himself never met the woman, but noted in his journal that he would have “loved the privilege of meeting the witch.”

  Several reports from physicians on St. Thomas, St. John, and St. Croix referenced a powerful obeah woman healing sick slaves. “Obeah” was the term used to describe women with healing or cursing powers and a natural inclination toward magical arts. It was all superstitious nonsense, Jackson thought at first, but the possibility soon began to nag at him.

  The stories were always decades apart, the descriptions of the woman always different. Neatly groomed short hair or long locks. Tall or short. Heavyset or lean. None of the contemporaneous accounts coming from more than one island. Another account from Rev. Henry Jackson Morton, several years before the Emancipation Proclamation of 1848, described a woman who would visit sick slaves in their homes, offering remedies with miraculous healing properties. He would be praying for sick members of his black congregation only to find them healed days later by an “angel of God,” according to those healed. Later, she would return to help heal slaves dying during a cholera epidemic.

  Both “demon” and “angel” were used to describe this woman, depending on the disposition of the person telling the story. Police reports in St. Croix in 1875 described the woman as a nuisance, “encouraging heathen beliefs among the blacks.” In contrast, descriptions of Mary and Maria Thomas of Garden Street in St. Thomas were kind, describing the mother and her later-appearing daughter as old-fashioned medicine women. These accounts were easy to apprehend because there were so many accounts from the 1930s through the 1960s. In the 1980s, a woman from the St. Thomas Historical Society gathered spoken accounts from witnesses, along with opinion articles from the Daily News, about the “women on the hill.” Both the affluent and the poor praised the women for their healing abilities.

  The account that really raised Jackson’s suspicions was one written in 1913 by Danish journalist Olaf Linck during his visit to the island. Linck’s contact on the island was Dr. Christian Winkel. At the time, Winkel was St. John’s physician and police superintendent. The journalist met him at his home, where they drank cocktails made from Johnian rum. Afterward, they rode horseback across the island, visiting one of the four still-running plantations, the Lameshur, where Dr. Winkel and Linck agreed to spend the night to treat a sick man named Oliver.

  Oliver, a black man in his midforties, slept fitfully in a back room of the plantation house, trying to fight off an unspecified illness. Dr. Winkel watched over the man until late in the night. According to Linck’s account, the man was a much-respected project head on the plantation, who kept operations going smoothly. For many blacks on the island, plantation work was still a mode of employment. Whatever had gotten hold of Oliver had kept him from his work for a full two weeks.

  Winkel broke the news to Mr. White, the overseer of the plantation. The man would not live. “Whatever it is,” Dr. Winkel said, “won’t be cured. He is destined for the next world.”

  Mr. White stared at Dr. Winkel. Linck said the man’s expression changed, became “darker.” Mr. White was a local St. Johnian, born on the island. He knew things about the place that Dr. Winkel, a recent expat, could not know. When he spoke, his voice was soft, barely above a whisper. “I will send for someone.”

  Late that night, a woman came to the plantation. Linck’s description was detailed, the best Jackson had come across. Long dark locks. A strong face and amber eyes. Tall for a woman, with a presence that Linck described as otherworldly. “Like someone who did not belong anywhere on this earth.” Her voice was soft but not weak. It commanded the attention of everyone in the room.

  Mr. White took the woman to the sick man. She stood over the bed and observed him for long minutes. What was written in the account had none of the flare of obeah stories told second- and thirdhand. The description mentioned none of the usual trappings of witchcraft—no animal bones or secret words spoken into the night. The woman put her hand on the man and closed her eyes. Linck recalled how hot the room was, how all the men were sweating in their clothes in the candlelight, yet the woman was as dry as if she were sitting in a cool breeze.

  She opened her eyes not long after closing them. “Give him some water. He will come out of this just fine.”

  She got up and left. From a window on the first floor, Linck watched her walk into the night. The darkness outside didn’t hinder her; she walked confidently down the path away from the plantation, the moonlight at her back. The next day, Oliver was completely healed.

  Jackson had gathered a lot of his research from historical societies on the three islands. This account was written in Gads Danske Magasin, a Danish publication. It was the most convincing piece of writing he had found. The description also felt familiar somehow, as if someone had presented a blurry photo that, if squinted at just right, would reveal a face. When it finally clicked, the face staring back at Jackson was the ambassador’s.

  • • •

  You can always go back, said the voice. In the darkness, eyes were on him, and out of that abyss came grasping hands.

  • • •

  Jackson woke up with a crick in his neck and a pounding in his head. He groaned and shifted on the living room couch, trying to find comfort for his old bones.

  He could hear someone rummaging around in the kitchen.

  “Hey,” he called out.

  The rummaging stopped. No one answered.

  Jackson tried to sit but gave up. “Hello?” he called out again.

  “Yes,” said the person. It wasn’t Aubrey.

  He got up then, enlivened by his surprise upon hearing this other woman’s voice.

  “Morning,” he said, stumbling through the greeting.

  The woman came out from the kitchen and into the dining room. She had morning head, the frizzy mane wild around a freckled face, but it looked natural, almost deliberate. She smiled nervously and reached out to grasp Jackson’s hand. He shook her hand and nodded, offering a smile of his own.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Alice.” She pointed to herself in a way that Jackson found endearing.

  “Jackson.”

  She smiled fully, showing teeth. The sun from the screen door caught her brown hair, and it flared red. Jackson had no trouble understanding what Aubrey saw in the woman. She had a warmth that complemented her obvious beauty. He buried a new upsurge of anger.

  “I was going to make tea,” she said. “You want some?”

  “Okay.”

  She went back to the kitchen, and a few minutes later the kettle was screeching alive. She brought him a mug filled with water and a tea bag. At his request, she put two spoons of sugar in the mug.

  He used to make the morning tea, he remembered. Aubrey was not a cooker of breakfast. She liked to relax in the mornings. So he had taken up that responsibility. And now here was this woman, doing what he had done. He pictured himself throwing the mug to the floor, watching it break, looking up to see her astonished face. You don’t belong here, he would say.

  Instead, he thanked her. “Where’s Aubrey?” he asked.

  “On the
porch. She likes sitting out there in the morning.”

  “To watch the sunrise,” he added. How dare she try to tell him what his wife liked. His ex-wife, he corrected himself. She hadn’t been his wife for a long while now. He took a sip of his tea.

  She sat on the chair to one side of the couch. “I wish we had met sooner.”

  Jackson looked at her. She was smiling at him. Was she serious? Did she think this would be civil?

  Then Jackson remembered Aubrey’s words from last night. They came back to him between the throbs of headache. We did a good thing. Let’s keep doing a good thing. He had so many voices in his head. They wanted so much from him, things he couldn’t give.

  Jackson didn’t smile or answer Alice. Instead, he just stared at her for a long time. Alice returned the stare. The smile slowly left her face, but she seemed oddly at ease under his gaze, the nerves from before completely gone.

  “She says she is happy,” Jackson said after a time. “Are you happy, too?”

  “She is an incredible woman.” She still wasn’t smiling. It was a statement without any hint of triviality. She was being sincere.

  “She is,” Jackson agreed. He forced a smile to his face—all he was capable of at the moment.

  A smile bloomed on Alice’s face in return, warm and true. It made him feel ashamed at the falseness of his own.

  The sliding door creaked open, and Aubrey stepped in. She froze, watching both of them.

  “Everything good?” she asked.

  Alice turned from Jackson and smiled at Aubrey—a huge smile that wrinkled her eyes nearly closed. “Yes. Everything’s good.”

  Jackson turned. He didn’t smile but said, “No trouble here.”

  Aubrey’s shoulders eased visibly. She walked into the kitchen to fix herself a cup of tea. Alice followed.

  Jackson watched them in the kitchen, their voices low, uneasy smiles on their faces. He figured if he weren’t here, they would be much different. They were containing themselves for his sake. He wished he were invisible then, so he could fully take in what he would likely never get to see: the two of them unhindered by his presence. It was an odd feeling, like stepping outside himself and looking back in. The view was different from this vantage point. He had mistaken his place in this story. The realization filled him with both terror and a little relief, the relief faint but present. He hoped the feeling would someday give him a measure of peace.

  His phone buzzed on the living room table. Jackson picked it up hesitantly and then chuckled when he saw who it was. A text from his daughter, as if no time had passed at all, instead of actual days.

  What’s up?

  Let Them Talk

  Derrick started deleting the hate emails. He could spot those at a glance: the reliance on caps lock, the multiple exclamation marks, the slurs hastily written in near-unintelligible text-speak. They were directed mostly at Mera, though every once in a while, one would be for him. The traitor.

  The office was small. Derrick’s desk was huddled against the south wall, and Mera’s much larger desk was on the north, yet only a few feet separated them. The large east-facing windows emptied morning sunlight into the room. Illuminated dust particles danced in the still air. Between the desks, a chair sat empty, casting a long shadow.

  As Derrick went through the emails, he could feel Mera’s eyes on him. This he had gotten used to, even come to love.

  The knock on the door was soft, spaced out. Derrick buzzed the visitor in. The door creaked open just a bit.

  “Inside?” asked the man.

  “Yes, come in, please,” Derrick replied.

  The man came in reluctantly. He was short and round, with scraggly facial hair. A yellow button-up stretched around his large gut, the bottom tucked forcefully into a pair of gray cargo pants. The man was drenched, his whole back dark with sweat. Derrick assumed he had been out there for a while, working up his courage, or else had walked some distance in the hot sun.

  Mera looked at him but didn’t get up from her chair. She was used to this: sweaty St. Thomian men, sometimes women, coming to meet her and give her a piece of their mind.

  “Good day, sir,” Derrick said, his voice as formal as he could manage. “Can I help you?”

  The man’s words came out slow. “I got a complaint to make.”

  “Okay,” said Mera. “Let’s hear it.”

  “One of your friend—them kill my dog. Rip him clean in two.”

  “And how do you know this?” she asked.

  “I see it! How else?” He flinched, seeming to regret his forwardness.

  Mera motioned for the man to sit in the chair in front of her desk. “How did this happen?” she asked.

  The man’s eyes darted from the chair to Mera, to Derrick. Derrick gave an affirming nod, and the man made his way hesitantly across the small office to the chair. “Well,” he started, “the dog was on the porch with me, and one of your friend, them came strolling up the way. The dog start barking, as dogs do. He run up to meet the man.” Derrick could see the man’s glance shift from his lap to Mera’s face. “Your friend reach down and grab the poor dog, tore his bottom half off and throw it on my porch. Then he keep on walking like nothing happen.”

  “So your dog wasn’t on a leash?” she asked.

  “He in the yard with me. What he need a leash for?”

  “It sounds like he left your yard to attack this man.”

  “It weren’t no man. It was a demon like you.” Derrick and the man seemed equally surprised at his response. The man shrank back. “He was just trying to protect me,” he added softly.

  “And the man was just trying to protect himself. There is nothing I can do.”

  “But, Miss—”

  “Isn’t there a law about keeping pets on leashes?”

  The man didn’t answer. The silence stretched on.

  “Well, then,” Derrick said, ready to let the awkwardness end. “I think we are done here?”

  The man got up and walked to the door. On the way out, he shot Derrick an evil look. Derrick pretended not to see the malice in his eyes. “Sorry, sir. Have a good day.”

  The man didn’t say goodbye, just left. Derrick would hear another story through the grapevine soon—from Louie, probably—about the ambassador’s assistant who did nothing to help his own people, the word “ambassador” oozing sarcasm and scorn.

  Derrick went back to deleting emails. When he finished, he started on the voicemails that always stacked up after a long weekend. After removing the slanderous ones, he made the necessary appointments for those who wanted to meet the ambassador, talk to her, make their complaints. He would have to call them back, slip into his friendliest voice, and set up the appointments, trying his best not to let their animosity affect his cordiality.

  As he listened to the voicemails, he looked at Mera. She was staring out the window, statuesque, her skin glistening in the natural light coming in. Brown human skin, like his. A clever trick, he thought.

  Derrick finished the string of messages quickly. There would be no appointments to make. He settled into the silence between himself and his boss.

  Derrick didn’t mind Mera’s silence. It felt like an old learned silence that seemed to stretch both backward and forward in time, drawing in and out like the tides. In the quiet, he imagined he could feel her silence on his skin, the essence of her solid and real, giving him goose pimples—like reading a poem and pulling something from it that wasn’t on the page.

  As he watched her, unmoving in the morning sun, her isolation became clear to him. Her difference. He recognized that she didn’t fit, that she was an outsider even among her own people. All from the quiet. All from the feeling he got just sitting in the room with her. He recognized it in himself, too: his own isolation, his own difference. They were different. This was completely clear. But with Mera, he could just be what
he was.

  Not that he didn’t have burning questions. Most days, Mera never moved from her chair. No one would come in, and Derrick would spend his time busying himself or appearing to be busy. When did she eat? He never saw her go out to lunch. He would take his break, and she barely said a word. And when he returned, she would be there.

  And why be there when she could set up appointments from home or wherever and just come in when she needed to? Was it to appear available for the locals, to give them a sense of comfort that she would always be there to help them through their grievances? The last thing Derrick would describe Mera as was comforting. Not that he was complaining. The job paid really well. But why even have an assistant just to sort emails and voicemails? She could do that just as easily on her own. She wasn’t doing anything, anyway. So why was he really here?

  He had spent months thinking about this. It was the background noise in his head most days when he got restless. He had planned to ask any number of times, but he would look at her, and the courage would rush right out of him.

  Today he would, he decided. He would ask. He wasn’t letting another damn day slip by.

  He opened his mouth to speak. Moments passed in that blanket of silence he couldn’t breach. He closed his mouth again and turned back to his screen. He spent the next hour playing Tetris.

  He tried again a few times, each time getting right to the edge of speech without crossing. Mera even looked over at him once, which made all the words fall right out of his head.

  It was a few minutes before his lunch break when Derrick finally mustered up the courage. The words came out loud and cracked.

  “Why did you take this job as an ambassador?” He cleared his throat.

  Mera seemed to ignore the question at first, not even budging in acknowledgment of it. Derrick felt the sudden fear creep over him. Her kind was prickly, and the wrong words could land you in the hospital. Or worse. He swallowed hard and waited.

  She turned. “I appointed myself to help ease our people into the assimilation process, get your people used to us.”