The Moon Always Rising

by Alice C. Early

  “Now that I’ve done your dirty work,” she said, “does yir karma feel any better?”

  “‘Like a kite cut from the string, lightly the soul of my youth has taken flight,’” he said. “Japanese poet, name of Takuboku. They named a comet or something after him. What are you going to do with the letters?”

  “What would you suggest? Publish them?”

  He looked at her, a flash of malice in his eyes, then turned pensive again. “Best to pretend they didn’t survive.”

  “Precisely.” She shot him a conspiratorial smile. “I never said whose letters you torched in the tub.”

  “If you’d returned them, she’d know you read them. Only a saint could resist that.”

  “No halo here,” she said. “I sent her a little gift through Teal. Three-by-fives of those nudes.”

  He laughed, Pirate Jack for a second. “That’s my girl.” He looked at her a long time, smiling, then said, “See ya,” and floated down the kitchen steps.

  “Is that it?” she called. “Are we all done? Are ye gone?”

  She hadn’t contemplated the consequences of complying with his request. At the idea that he might have left so abruptly and for good, she felt anew the prick of abandonment. Though she knew it was pointless, she checked the kitchen and went out to the empty court. A pearly-eyed thrasher sang from the mango tree, two notes up, two notes down, another two notes down.

  CHAPTER 30

  On the first of May, Lauretta stopped in to bring her previous month’s invoice. She refused a beer and stood in the kitchen with her arms crossed, twitching with nervous energy.

  Els dropped the invoice on the table. “I’ll give you part of it now and the rest as soon as I can.”

  “How long does that mean?”

  “I’m talking to some bankers.”

  “Those workmen are really bugging me.”

  “Give me a week.”

  “Like I have a choice,” Lauretta said, and went outside. The screen door slammed behind her. Els didn’t move until she heard the Lexus rumble over the cattle guard at the road.

  The bank manager stood behind his desk and gestured toward a chair. “I regret your wait, Ms. Gordon.” The office smelled of curry.

  She sat and crossed her legs. The skirt of her navy Armani suit was too short for this meeting. She uncrossed her legs and pressed her knees together. “I appreciate your giving me this time, Mr. Leonard,” she said. “I hope you’ve had a moment to review my CV.”

  His desktop was empty, save for her letter and CV, a partially consumed bottle of Fanta orange soda, and a few crumbs. He sat down and picked up the papers.

  “Royal Bank of Scotland. Sanders & Sons. Standard Heb,” he read with a slight twitch of his mouth on the last. Her family bank, now the butt of jokes. He was wearing a boldly flowered tie and a short-sleeved shirt. On the wall behind him, crayon drawings in plastic frames hung askew beside posters trumpeting a better life through loans.

  “Help me to understand how experience in mergers and acquisitions would benefit NevisOne.” He brushed the crumbs to the edge of the desk, used her CV as a dust collector, and shook them into his bin.

  She’d saved this bank for last, and the meeting was clearly heading toward perfunctory rejection, as had all her other interviews. “NevisOne leads the local banks in corporate lending,” she said. “You’ve spearheaded turning our island into an international investment haven. As investment in Nevis grows, so will your capacity to lend to local businesses.”

  “We will continue to support Al’s Auto Shoppe and Muriel’s Snackery,” he said. “But when international investors want to reinvigorate one of our sugar hotels, do you suppose they come to us? The last such group took its business straight to Argeron Capital.”

  “I’ve done deals with Argeron, and most of their ilk,” she said. “I have connections in New York, London, and elsewhere.” His bland expression did not change. “I could be of value in marketing and customer service. Help you attract that offshore money. I speak their language.”

  He folded his long brown fingers over her CV and regarded her. “We all speak English here, Ms. Gordon.”

  “I meant . . . money talk.”

  “NevisOne is dedicated to creating opportunity for our local people,” he said. “We have our full staff complement at present. Perhaps you should inquire at ECCB or Bank of Nevis, or the international and regional banks—Nova Scotia, RBTT, First Caribbean.”

  She unclasped her hands and fanned her fingers across her lap. “They’ve been encouraging. But the best fit is here, because you’ve got the jump on attracting a global customer base. My own money is with you, in case that matters.”

  “We appreciate your custom, Ms. Gordon.” He glanced back at the CV. “Banks serving more of an American clientele—in Puerto Rico or Barbados, because of the embassy—or those in the more developed islands, Trinidad perhaps, might welcome a background such as yours.” He held out her papers.

  “That would be some commute,” she said. She stood up, took the CV, and dropped it into his bin. She thanked him for his time, squared her shoulders, and walked past the winding queue of customers staring blankly at the CNN monitor. If you hired me, she thought, the first thing I’d do is put on more tellers at lunch hour.

  When the humid blast of the early May afternoon hit her, she could barely draw a breath. She walked to Wilma—parked near the slave market square—tossed her ridiculous designer jacket on the front passenger seat, and sat behind the wheel, listening to the seemingly unemployed young men flirt with the passing girls.

  Knowing Iguana had returned that afternoon, she raised the flag just before sunset and sat on the gallery, pretending to read. The knife of rejection cut deep into old territory, and her tumbler of rum had done nothing to quell her rising sense of panic.

  Against a flaming sky, Jason’s truck chugged up the hill. When it rolled to a stop, Liz hopped out and snapped to attention at the bottom of the steps. “You rang?”

  She tossed her book onto the other chair. “It was a bad idea,” she said. “I’m shitty company tonight. Go on back to yir floating palace.”

  He took the steps several at a time and pulled her to her feet. “Captain Liz has a cure for the blues. First I’m going to make you a drink”—he glanced at her glass—“well, maybe a refresher. Then you’re going to tell me all about it while we rustle up something to eat.”

  “You know I’m not even competent in the kitchen,” she said.

  “Just do what I tell you for a change and we’ll manage.”

  Lubricated by her second stiff rum, she’d confessed to being flat broke and terrified. “It’s not too late for me to get back in,” she said. “Somewhere.”

  “And give up all this?” he said.

  “I can no longer afford all this.”

  “Look,” he said. “Everyone here lives by their wits and their luck. You’ve got plenty of the first and you have to make your own luck, like the rest of us.”

  “I’m at my wits’ end and I’m shit out o’ luck,” she said. Her vegetable chopping had become vengeful.

  Liz took the chef’s knife from her and gave her the job of whisking the eggs. He finished mincing onions, tomatoes, and herbs from Finney’s garden, and when they hit the hot olive oil, they filled the kitchen with an aroma that made Els feel cosseted, and hungry.

  When he saw her clumsy whisking, which produced only globs of egg white wobbling like jellyfish in a lemony sea, Liz took the bowl from her and whisked energetically, then poured the mixture over the vegetables. A few minutes later, he was dishing out an inviting scramble.

  She took a bite, sucked air to cool it, and nodded her approval. “I mean, a type-A workaholic like me can handle only so much paradise.” She ticked off her accomplishments with her fingers: “I’ve hiked Nevis Peak, tramped up to Montravers, visited Philippa’s grave, poked about the Hamilton and Nelson museums, put in a massive number of plants, adopted a local mutt, painted every shell, flower, and fru
it on the island. What else is there for an unemployed person to do here?”

  “Become a drunk.”

  “Working on that,” she said, and sloshed a bit more rum into her glass. “Tony had the cheek to tell me a few days ago that he has a buyer for the house, as long as I swear I’ve never seen the jumbie.”

  He looked up, the fork halfway to his mouth. “You’ve put it on the market?”

  “It was just Tony fishing for a deal. Maybe he thought my plan was always to flip it for a profit and run back to the UK.”

  “Jason thinks the same thing. I told him you were putting down roots.”

  “Jason can go fuck himself. This is my home now.” She ate another bite of eggs. “Ye’re not bad in the kitchen fir a water rat.”

  “The way to a man’s heart is through his ego.”

  “Lauretta has been all over me to let her turn the house into a special events place,” she said. “Venue, she calls it. Weddings and such. Thinks she and I can make a business of it.”

  “There you go,” he said. “Daddy walks his princess down the steps to get hitched in the court. Wedding photos with a perfect sunset as backdrop.”

  “I hate the idea.”

  “You could charge a big price for letting people in for a few hours.”

  “As usual, ye’re awfully free with someone else’s privacy.”

  He sat back in his chair. “I’m just saying you should deploy your assets. You’ve taken one fantastic house and made it even better. And the garden, the way you sort of paint with plants and how the sun shines through them.”

  She looked at him. “Thank you for noticing.”

  “It’s my job to notice, remember?” He finished his beer. “Look, if you have something like this house or Iguana, that’s one of a kind, people will pay up for it, and talk about it for the rest of their lives. You can be choosy, exclusive. Get into the right circles, and word of mouth takes care of your advertising.”

  “So now ye’re a marketing whiz.”

  “Jason and I run a good business, and yes, I’m the marketing whiz and he’s the money man, and I bet his investment record could give yours a run any day.”

  “Kick her when she’s down, why don’t ye?”

  “Who had all her eggs in the same basket?” he said. He got himself another beer. When he sat back down, she thought he might reach for her hand, but he only leaned forward on his elbows.

  “Do I detect Mr. Marketing Whiz cooking up a package deal—storybook wedding at the Jumbie House and romantic honeymoon aboard a ‘piece o’ history’?” she asked.

  “Hadn’t thought of it, but it’s not a bad idea. One plus one equals four, isn’t that investment banker math?” He did take her hand now, and sought her eyes. “Just do it one time, make a few bucks, and see where it goes.”

  “You wernie listening,” she said, pulling away. “I really, really hate the idea.”

  CHAPTER 31

  To top off the barbecue celebrating Peanut’s first birthday in mid-May, the men proposed a game of horseshoes on Jack’s pitch between the house and Toad Hall, which Liz and Boney had persuaded Els to allow them to restore. Vivian sat under the mango tree, smiling at the men’s rivalry.

  While she helped Eulia wash up, Els stole glances through the kitchen screen at Liz—clowning, making a graceful toss, and helping Peanut lift a shoe and heave it a few inches. Boney and Finney cheered and Pinky whistled. Els went to the door and joined in the applause, but hers was for Liz’s gentleness and patience with the child. Jason, who’d kept his distance from Els and said little except in dialect to Finney or Eulia, was raking the pitch while Pinky collected the shoes.

  Els handed Eulia a small package. “This was mine.” Eulia unwrapped the gift and smoothed the paper as if she meant to frame it. Inside the box was a silver baby spoon with “E” engraved on the looped handle.

  Eulia lifted it out and slipped her thumb through the loop. “Well, ah guess you born with a silver spoon in you mouth,” she said, “but I never exspeck one to touch Peanut lips. This too valuable to use.”

  “It’s been chewed, banged, and thrown to a fare-thee-well,” Els said. She gave Eulia a second package, which she unwrapped as carefully as the first. It contained a miniature silver picture frame, engraved with “EJG” and holding a photo of a curly-headed white child looking saucily into the camera. Eulia ran her thumb along the edge of the frame.

  “I found it in a cigar box in the study,” Els said.

  “What this got to do with Peanut?”

  “It’s Jack at about the age Peanut is now.”

  “Anybody know Jack know this is him.” Eulia held the frame out to Els.

  “It’s rightfully Peanut’s,” Els said. “His likeness to Jack at that age is unmistakable.” A horseshoe clanged against a stake. “I did the math.” She looked at Eulia, who dropped her eyes to the picture. “What’s your baby’s real name, anyway?”

  The women gazed out the door at Peanut, who tottered up to Liz, dragging a shoe. Liz lifted the boy to his hip, took the shoe, and lofted it, and it clanked and thumped. Peanut shrieked and the men hollered and clapped.

  “He named for his daddy and us,” Eulia said. “Elliott Jackson Fleming.”

  “Did Jack die without knowing you were pregnant?”

  “Last I saw him, I didn’t know myself,” Eulia said. “I doan tell nobody but Doctor Lytton and Mamma and Daddy. Daddy was so vex, mostly at Jack. Mamma, she just sad. All dat time, I let them believe I was just doing for Jack, never talk ’bout the res’. Things turn ’round once Peanut come.” She looked at the photo. “Arright, I goin’ save this for when Peanut start asking about he daddy.” She smiled ruefully. “Jack look cute when he was small.”

  “Maybe Peanut got the better part of his nature,” Els said.

  “Jumbie been sweetin’ you up,” Eulia said.

  Still watching Liz play with Peanut, Els said, “He visits now and again. I’m what he calls ‘receptive.’”

  Eulia glanced around the kitchen as if Jack might pop out from behind the stove. “Receptive mean you could see jumbie?”

  “He must believe you aren’t, or I’m sure he’d visit you as well.”

  “I doan want see he at all,” Eulia said. “That finish long ago.”

  Having invited themselves over on the pretext of helping Pinky repair Jack’s waterworks before leaving to sail the Mediterranean for the summer, Liz and Boney raised beers to celebrate the restored flow of water throughout the garden. While the women sat in the mango shade, they challenged Finney to a domino game that became more boastful than usual.

  The shadows of the palm trees stretched across the court, everything washed in caramel light. Boney came out of the kitchen with another round of beers, sashaying to the beat of Martha and the Vandellas’s “Dancing in the Street” pumping from the lounge. He stopped to straighten the dartboard, which was still hanging on the stone wall near the kitchen door, and stood there a minute, pulling on his beard.

  “Hot damn,” he said. “I’ve got the answer to your dye-lemma, Fair Lady.” He set the beers down ceremoniously. “Just start charging for these here drinks.”

  “I may be broke, but I can still stand you to a few beers,” Els said.

  “Resurrect old Jack’s bashments,” Boney said. “Offer some tasty grub, good drink, friendly competition, and com-ra-de-ree, all at a fair price. They’d come running.”

  Liz lowered his beer slowly. He was shirtless, a turquoise bandanna around his head. “Bones is onto something,” he said. “Look, Els, you can make money off the house without losing all your privacy. Put a few tables out here, crank up the grill, maybe make a bar up there in the big room, but keep the top floor off-limits. Let Eulia do her kitchen magic.”

  Eulia looked up from the book she was reading to Vivian.

  “Domino nights again,” Finney said.

  “All the old games,” Boney said, his eyes shining. “Dart tournaments. Crab races in the ring.”

  �
�What ring?” Els said.

  Boney walked to the circle of bleached conch shells about ten feet in diameter where the soil had been tamped so hard that only a few tufts of grass had broken the surface. He yanked out the grass, stamped down the divots, and struck a ta-da pose.

  “I’ve been trying to get Pinky to dig that up so I can plant something there,” Els called. “But he pretends not ti understand, and one day I caught him sweeping it.”

  Pinky laughed his puff of air and whistled.

  “Dig it up?” Boney called back. “Sacrilege. I’m not the only one to lose a month’s wages over those godforsaken crustaceans on this very spot.” He crouched and straightened one of the conch shells, patted the tamped earth, and walked back to the patio. “We raced on Sundays. Best fun of the week,” he said. “But the dominoes and darts would keep ’em coming night after night.”

  “Night after night?” Els said. “The prospect of the occasional wedding was odious enough.”

  “It’ll take a lot of beers to equal one fancy wedding,” Liz said. “But you get a great pub going, and the weddings could be optional, a little boost to the bottom line.”

  “Pub is it, now?” Els put a hand on her hip. “Do yi think me a bar wench?”

  “You just run the business end. Eulia can manage the rest with her hands tied.”

  “Need all a’ my hands and a big cooler besides,” Eulia said. “And a new stove.” She was staring toward the kitchen, her eyes narrowed, a calculating little smile on her lips.

  Els looked around at their expectant faces. “You want a sizeable investment in equipment? Darts and horseshoes flying, crabs threatening people’s toes, wagering? I suppose you want me to shoot off that cannon at sunset, put a sign at the road, and call it ‘Horseshoe Jack’s.’”

  Boney looked at her, a slow grin crinkling his eyes. “Purely inspired, Fair Lady.”