“Your heart.”
She swirled her drink. “My heart.”
“And what damage have I done to this house, head, heart of yours?”
“I’m thinking about prevention,” she said.
“Oh, Christ, I’m finally getting you to stop obsessing on the past, only to have you start fearing the future.”
She retied the pareo knot. “Okay, Jack, you’ve done me no serious harm. Yet.”
He stood up and walked over to the bookcase. “I wish that were true of Eulia.”
She sipped her rum. The frogs chanted from the ghaut.
“I researched those medications you left around,” she said. “It was AIDS, Jack, wasn’t it?” His back to her, he caressed the ebony carving of an African woman’s head. “Tell me you didn’t drive Eulia away to prevent further sex.”
“A wise man knows his own weakness.”
“Even if celibacy was your penance, was that terrifying enough to kill yourself?”
“The storm killed me,” he said. “I owed her a future—especially now, with the boy.” He faced her and spread his arms to embrace the lounge. “My olive branch to her, however bountiful, came too late.” His eyes were full of pleading. “Get me a few words with her.” He walked to the door and turned. “Then, if you’re bent on my exorcism to clear the way for your captain, go get help from Miranda.”
“The herbalist who treats Vivian?”
“She’s got powers you wouldn’t believe,” he said, and drifted through the screen.
CHAPTER 41
The mountain road led through a village of dilapidated wooden houses, kept standing by bright paint and corrugated iron patches. Els gave two elderly women using black umbrellas as parasols a wide berth, then eased Wilma around a deep pothole.
“Sheep can drown in there,” Finney said. “Gorment spend all the road-fixin’ money in they own neighborhoods.”
The houses thinned, the bush began.
“That old witch doctor live up ahead with the trees and the monkeys,” Finney said.
“Miranda’s no witch doctor to Vivian.”
“She come by every now and again with some kinda bush to drink or use for pain. It does give Viv some comfort.” He looked out the window. “Some believe she a obeah woman. Els, what kinda trouble you wanna get de rid of?”
“Just checking out my options.”
They followed a switchback deep into a ghaut and continued through a neighborhood with security cameras and million-dollar views of St. Kitts. The way turned to gravel and entered lush forest—coconut palms with an understory of banana and heliconia—where the air was markedly cooler. When the road became little more than a track with volcanic stones pressed into the mud, branches smacked the windscreen.
“This one of the oldest bits a’ road on the island,” Finney said. “Built by slaves. Plantation owners lived up high to enjoy the breezes. Some ruins over there behind that baobab tree, all cobed up. Rich folks in those villas we just passed doing the same thing. Paradise Gardens.” He sucked his teeth. “Fuh dem, mebbe.”
Miranda’s house was barely visible behind the flaming hues of a croton hedge. “Wait here,” Finney said. He hopped out of the Jeep and let himself through the gate with a hand-painted sign that read, “Don’t leave in sheep or goat or donkey or cow.” The tiny wooden house was double-peaked and on blocks, its shingles weathered, its trim the bright red-orange of flamboyant tree flowers.
Finney’s shout of “Inside?” brought Miranda to the porch. She wore an African print turban and caftan, dangling earrings, and silver bangles on both wrists. After she and Finney had an exchange full of her chuckles and his “anhs,” she stepped inside and returned with a Ting and handed it over the railing. Finney beckoned to Els and went to sit on a wicker settee in the shade of a mango tree.
“Go ahead, Finney, drop asleep if need be,” Miranda called. “We goin’ be a while.” As Els climbed out of the Jeep, Miranda moved deliberately, almost regally, down the porch steps and out to the gate. “Miss Els, I expectin’ you for some time,” she said. “Come in, darlin’. You doan need to ’fraid me.”
Els latched the gate and extended her hand. Instead of shaking it, Miranda grasped her fingers, peered into her palm, and read her pulse.
“I’m not here ti have my fortune told,” Els said, tugging her hand, but Miranda held it fast.
She studied Els’s face. “Some people buy Jack house, show up here de nex’ day, lookin’ to toss him out.” She gave Els’s fingers a little squeeze and let go. As she walked toward the house, her rhinestone mules slapped the pink undersides of her heels.
Els followed along a path of crushed volcanic stone that snaked through a landscape of plants in Nevis Pottery pots and car tires.
“This my pharmacy,” Miranda said.
The house smelled of thyme, vanilla, and jasmine. On the shelves were jars of dried leaves, bark, shriveled berries, bones. Miranda shooed a tiger cat off a recliner and ushered it out the door with her foot before facing Els, her knuckles on her hip. “What you need from Miranda?”
“Are you really an exorcist?” Els asked.
“Could be,” Miranda said. “Exorcism forever, though. No going back.”
“Death wasn’t permanent enough.”
Miranda invited her to sit at a Formica table under an open window. “You as jumpy as a tree frog. You needs a dose a’ special bush tea.” She dropped a pinch from three different jars into a small pot, poured in water from a pitcher, and set the pot to boil. She hummed as steam began to rise and fill the room with a vegetal scent. She took down a cup and saucer—pink flowered with gold at the rim—and poured the tea, then drizzled in local honey.
“Let that cool a minute,” she said, and set the cup in front of Els.
Els contemplated the twigs and leaves floating in olive-green liquid. “What will it do to me?”
“We goin’ see,” Miranda said. “Everybody react different.” She lowered herself into the chair opposite Els. “This knee carry me fuh seventy-one years, and it like it doan wan’ carry me seventy-one more.”
“I’d taken you for much younger than that.”
Miranda smiled. She was missing a molar on one side, and another flashed gold. “Drink that now.”
Els lifted the cup and sniffed.
“Go on. It just settle you nerves, help you story roll on out.”
Els sipped. The tea had a raw floral sweetness from the honey and a woodsy, bitter undertone.
“Too many spirits in you head,” Miranda said. “You loving all jumbled. You prefer a straight way.” She waved her arm, jingling the bracelets. “But love go its own way.”
“Some of my spirits are becoming obstacles.”
Miranda looked out at the garden. “You studyin’ too much ’bout Jack.” Yard fowl cackled from a pen near the fence. “Some tink Jack use woman, but dey could use him too. Twis’ him and knot him right up. He need dem like he need oxygen.” She tapped her maroon fingernails on the windowsill. A gecko poking its head over the edge looked at her, tasted the air, and scampered into the mandevilla vine. “That Jack, he pull ’ooman like magnet pull iron. And he know what make dem happy.” The soft light in Miranda’s amber eyes made her look under fifty and exotically beautiful; perhaps she and Jack had found each other irresistible at one time.
“I take it he was a good lover,” Els said.
Miranda laughed, a throaty chuckle. “Spile a woman for the rest a’ men.”
Yearning for Mallo surged through Els. She blinked and managed not to drop her gaze. “Jack’s never touched me.”
“He can’t do that, darlin’, but he can touch your mind all the same.”
“Can he be all in my mind?” Els said. “Some kind of hallucination?” She stared into her cup, seeking whatever answer might be lurking in the tangle of leaves at the bottom. “Am I crazy?”
“There’s all kind a’ madness.”
“He appears when I’m wide awake, but never in full daylight. I
dream about him. Well, not exactly about him, but his visits can provoke these dreams. Some leave me weeping for a loss I can’t name.” Els swirled her cup and watched the leaves rearrange themselves. “We made this bargain. He’s certainly keeping his side. Always pushing me to chase what I most fear.”
Miranda took the cup, reheated the tea, and poured Els a refill. “Tell Miranda about that fear.”
“You experience deep love with this Mallo man,” Miranda said.
Peering into the dregs of her third cup of tea, Els felt as if she’d had a glass of wine: loosened but not yet wobbly, and far more candid even than when drunk. “More than that,” she said. “I believed only he, who knew me so well and for so long, could ever love the difficult person I’ve always been.”
“But you angry at him too.”
“I’m furious at him for dying. For leaving me.” Els hid her eyes in the heels of her hands to squeeze in the tears. “Since he died, I’ve no place for all that love to go.”
Miranda clasped Els’s forearms, her touch encouraging, knowing. “You got to forgive him that he can’t be here no more to soak up all that love.” She pried away one of Els’s hands and looked at her. “Darlin’, you must be just drownin’ in love pushin’ to flow out.”
“I’m trapped in ice.”
“Ice doan last long in a place like this,” Miranda said. She heaved herself out of her chair and put Els’s cup on the counter. “Liz not an easy man. Fighting inside, even though he stop boxing down everybody. He got his own load a’ sadness. Maybe you help it, maybe nobody can.”
“Am I a fool?”
“Love make all a’ we a bit foolish.”
“I’m terrified.”
“Of Liz?”
“Of no Liz.” The words were iridescent soap bubbles, too delicate to touch lest they dissolve. A pair of hummingbirds flitting around the porch sent their thrumming through the open window. Els felt tears welling, blinked them back. “Liz is absurdly jealous of Jack. It’s unfair to have to choose between them. But even if I wanted him gone, Jack won’t leave until Eulia lets him in, and she’s too bitter.”
Miranda shook some of the herbs she’d used to make Els’s tea into a small jar and handed it to her. “You brew this like I show you. Drink it down before you go sleep.”
“Will it send him away?”
“No, darlin’. You drink it for clar-i-ty in you own spirit. We got work to do before you done with Jack. Come.” She went out to the porch. “Finney,” she called. “Miss Els goin’ now.” Finney emerged from the shade and returned to the Jeep.
“If I decide Jack must go,” Els said, “can you make Eulia receptive to him?”
“Only she can do that,” Miranda said. “I go tink on it.”
She led Els to the gate, brushing her hand along the croton hedge as they passed. “This plant got a strong heart,” she said. “You make a row all one color, it throw out a stem like this one or that one, spile your design.” She broke off a shoot—burgundy leaves with red spots—from a plant that was otherwise acid green with yellow veining, and handed it to Els. “You heart takin’ you its own way.”
Els stepped through the gate. Miranda fastened it behind her and said, “I mus’ consult my wisdom.”
Twirling the croton leaves, Els watched Miranda return to her house, her mules slapping.
CHAPTER 42
When Els explained Miranda’s plan to Pinky, he’d nodded his quick nod, thumped his fist against his chest, and whistled. Ten days later, he’d summoned Els to the patio and presented the mahogany coffin he’d made of wood from the mountain, hand planed and sanded until its surface was as smooth as baby skin. His eyes had been moist when she embraced and thanked him.
The next morning, as she dumped all of Jack’s clothing onto the patio table, it sighed out his scent and a hint of cigar. Though the sun had just crested the peak and was beginning to illuminate the mountain’s western folds, she could already tell it would be a stifling day.
In the volcanic dust from neighboring Montserrat that had settled on the lid during the night she wrote with her finger, “RIP Jack,” then wiped it away with a kitchen towel. She stared into the box and listened to the cooing of the doves, a rooster far away, his call echoed by another even farther.
She scattered the photos of women from Jack’s bulletin board over the bottom and laid his moth-eaten tennis sweater on top of them. After layering in everything else, the coffin was as full as a well-packed suitcase. The aroma of new wood might soon overcome the traces of Jack, just as the aromas of Nevis had erased her memory of Mallo’s scent.
She arranged Jack’s dark trousers and tucked a yellowed dress shirt inside his only jacket, a tuxedo. After struggling with the fish-print bow tie and only succeeding when she filled the shirt neck with boxer shorts, she fastened the skull and crossbones earring into the top buttonhole like a formal stud. She stuffed the trouser legs with Jack’s partially burned letters to Susie and the charred photos of her and the other women. Taking a last look at the shapely legs and feet she now knew to be Eulia’s, she nestled the fragment inside the shirt where the heart would be.
She picked up Jack’s shoes. “Can’t imagine you wearing these,” she said, “much as you prized them.” She propped them against the inside of the coffin foot and tucked in the trouser cuffs. Last, she arranged his faded Foxy’s baseball cap where the head would have been. The effect was of a deflated body, the cap over its face, as if Jack had wafted out of the clothing as easily as he drifted through the screen door.
She sat on the gallery with Liz and Jason and stared at the sea through the midafternoon heat shimmers, fanning herself with a paperback book of Dylan Thomas poems. She’d chosen her black cocktail dress and diamond ear studs; Liz’s eyes, made all the bluer by his cornflower shirt, had widened when he saw her. Boney, sporting a fresh haircut, was weeding and stamping down the dirt in the crab ring. Miranda, Finney, and Vivian waited on the patio, drinking lemonade. Giulietta, wanting nothing to do with the scheme, had claimed a headache and was holed up in Toad Hall.
“What if she doesn’t show?” Liz asked.
“Miranda and I have no Plan B,” Els said.
“We could start without her.”
“I told you how this has to go.”
“I’m getting a beer. Jason, want one?” He started to rise.
“Don’t ye think that would be disrespectful?” Els said.
“We’re talking Jack, here,” Liz said, but he settled deeper in his chair. “What’s with the poetry?”
“Dylan Thomas was a favorite of Jack’s,” she said. After packing the coffin, she’d found the dog-eared book on the seat of the leather chair, a brass candlestick weighting it open. “I came across some lines this morning that will be just the ticket for today.”
Eulia’s newly acquired car rattled over the cattle guard and into the court. She sat for a minute before sliding out. She was wearing a white dress and her church hat, a swoop of persimmon straw and tulle that shaded her face.
“Thought you’d chickened out,” Els said.
“Mamma made me promise to come,” Eulia said. Hugging her elbows, she leaned against the car, and Els feared she might get back in and drive away.
“Come on, child,” Vivian called. “This home-going ceremony’s already long overdue.”
Eulia lifted Peanut from the car, went to the patio, and said something to Vivian, who reached up and took her hand. Carrying Jack’s Bible and the poems, Els led them all to the top of the garden, where Liz and Boney had set the coffin on some cinder blocks next to a long, narrow hole, the dirt piled behind it. At the coffin’s foot, Els had placed an arrangement of the garden’s wildest assortment of croton boughs. Pinky emerged from the bush and came through the back gate to join them.
The family of monkeys Els had dubbed “the bathroom gang” and tried to keep out of the restaurant were gathered on the back fence, a mute choir. Miranda, wearing a white caftan and turban, her nails painted bright red to ma
tch her lipstick, took her place at the foot of the coffin with her back to the sea. When she brought her palms together and nodded, Boney stepped forward and opened the lid.
Everyone gathered closer.
“Well, hello, Old Jack,” Boney said. “Looking nattier than the last time I saw you, or maybe ever.”
“She got all a’ his things in there,” Finney told Vivian. “I see a corner of that Anguilla T-shirt I brought him, what left of it after he wore it clean through. She got him laid out like a undertaker would do.”
“Liz, I want you to know all his shirts are in there,” Els said.
He stared toward the sea. “Seems a good time to part with them.”
Eulia stepped closer and looked in. “I told you to get rid of all a’ that. I thought you’d a’ burned it by now.”
“I wasn’t ready,” Els said. She placed the Bible in the coffin and arranged the empty sleeves over it.
“You want ol’ Jack to rest easy, you might not want to put that in there,” Boney said.
“Trust me, he’ll rest easier if this particular Bible is underground.” She looked around the group. “Anything else you want to send along with him?”
Boney tucked a dart into the jacket pocket, its flights a jaunty boutonniere. Jason unrolled a tattered burgee and placed it across the chest like a sash of honor.
“His drinkin’ flag,” he said.
Liz propped a Bob Marley CD next to the cap where the ear would be. “Dance the night away, mon,” he said.
“Doan never forget how I taught you to shape them boards,” Finney said, and placed a small block plane next to the jacket’s elbow.
“Eulia?” Miranda said.
“He got everything from me he gon’ get,” she said.
The monkeys began squabbling, and one jumped into a tree and screeched at the others. When the commotion subsided, everyone shuffled and looked at the ground.
“Read your piece, darlin’,” Miranda said.
Els stepped to the head of the coffin. It was a still, oppressive afternoon with enough of Montserrat’s ash in the air that the sun hung like an orange halfway down the sky. “As Jack wasn’t a religious man,” she said, “I thought I’d read a few lines of poetry that he might well have chosen for today.”
The Moon Always Rising Page 28