The Rhythm of the August Rain

by Gillian Royes

  “You see that?” he called out as he smashed down a double three. He looked up at Shad, aged, yellow eyes shining. “What you say about that?”

  “Nice, man, nice.”

  “We can wait in the car until you’re finished,” Shannon said.

  “Stay right there.” Thorne pointed to the man on his right. “Robinson going to take a long time to play, his eyes not too good.” Robinson glared at him and back at the dominoes under his nose.

  “We was wondering,” Shad said, “if you remember a Canadian lady who lived here about thirty-five years ago. Her name was Katlyn.”

  Thorne looked up at the red ackee pods overhead. “Katlyn, Katlyn.” He scrutinized Shad for a second. “What she was doing here?”

  “She was living—”

  “She was a dancer,” Shannon interjected. “She rented a room or a house here for about six months.”

  “A dancer,” Thorne said. “What kind of dancing you talking about?”

  “Modern dance, African dance, Jamaican dance.” Shannon removed the photograph, the ragged edge catching on her pocket for a second, and placed it on the table. “Here she is.”

  The men leaned over and peered at the picture. Robinson slapped Thorne on his arm. “That not the lady was living in Miss Gwendolyn’s house?”

  “She looking like one of them Peace Corps people.” Thorne pronounced it corpse.

  “Miss Gwendolyn?” Shad said. “She still there?”

  “She dead from pressure,” the third player, a bald-headed man, said without looking up. “She was my cousin.”

  “Who can I talk to, then?” Shannon asked.

  “Talk to Miss Gwen’s daughter,” said the fourth player, a man wearing a straw hat. “She living there now.”

  “Yes,” said Robinson. “If Miss Gwen daughter say that is she, yes, come back and see me and I tell you what I know about her.”

  All four men got into the act of directing them to the house, contradicting each other, pointing out where each man had messed up. Shad resorted to writing the directions, and since he seldom wrote anything, it took another five minutes to get it all down. Back in the taxi, he read his notes slowly to Carlton, who put the car in gear.

  “We forgot to ask if any Rastas living around here,” Shad pointed out after they’d set off.

  “We’re on a roll here,” Shannon said. “Let’s keep going.”

  After only two queries to pedestrians, they arrived at a steep staircase that ascended from the road. The bartender and the photographer carefully climbed the forty-three (Shad counting aloud) concrete steps leading to a wire fence, behind which was a hedge of orange hibiscus and another set of five steps leading up to a modest house. A rooster inside the fence welcomed them with a blast of crowing, and two women appeared at the front door.

  “Pardon, please,” Shad called, breathing heavily. “We looking for Miss Gwendolyn house.”

  “This the right house, but Miss Gwen dead,” said the younger woman, a plump teenager in an old T-shirt. Shad tried to ignore her large breasts with their insistent nipples.

  “Who you want?” the older woman said, her head covered by assorted pink rollers.

  “We inquiring about a foreign lady we think used to board here. She name Katlyn.”

  “When she was living here?” the woman asked as she walked to the steps. “I is Miss Gwen’s daughter.”

  “About thirty-five years ago,” Shannon said.

  The woman shook her head, the rollers bobbling. “That a long time ago. My mother used to rent out the back room, and we have all kind of boarders come here, from Peace Corps and everything. I was little bit then, only seven, eight years old, and I can’t remember everybody.”

  “She was a dancer,” Shad added. “She used to teach dancing at the school.” A baby’s cry came from inside the house.

  “Mamma, you didn’t take some dancing lessons one time?” the younger woman said before disappearing inside.

  “I wonder—could be, you know,” her mother murmured. “I don’t remember who the teacher was, though. I think she was American. I only remember she was a nice woman. She teach us some Jamaican dances, kumina and so, and I remember we wanted to learn American dances but she teach us our own dances.”

  “That sounds like her,” Shannon breathed in Shad’s ear.

  More memories were coming back to Miss Gwen’s daughter. “She had long, black hair down her back,” she said, putting her hand behind her. “She used to wear it in a long plait. And she was little bit, not a big woman, only a little bigger than us children—but she could dance good.” Shannon showed her the photograph and the woman smiled, saying, “Yes, yes, that look like the lady.”

  “Do you know where she went after she left the village?”

  “No, I don’t, sorry.”

  “Do you happen to have some record, a book, perhaps, where your mother made a note of her boarders?” Shannon asked.

  “Everybody keep them kind of records,” Shad interjected.

  Miss Gwen’s daughter admitted that she still had her mother’s book with the names of her guests and the amounts they paid every month. She fetched a large ledger and sat down, groaning, on the top verandah step.

  “What year you say it was?” She dusted off the cover with her hand. The daughter came back with a baby in her arms.

  “Her name was Katlyn Carrington,” Shannon said as she and Shad mounted the verandah steps. “That would have been—let’s see—”

  “Nineteen seventy-seven,” Shad interjected.

  The woman turned the pages of the book, reading the years out loud, going back, back, smoothing pages as she went.

  “See it here.” She ran her finger down the column with the names, first one page, then another. “I don’t see no Katy, though.”

  “Try Carrington,” Shad suggested.

  The name was under Carrington, K., the woman announced. Shad craned his head sideways to read the spidery handwriting.

  “She come February seventeen, and she pay twenty dollars a week.” Miss Gwen’s daughter looked up at her own daughter and they laughed. “Lord, that sound little bit nowadays, nuh?”

  “How long did she stay?” Shannon asked.

  The woman examined the ledger again. “Last time she pay was July sixteen, same year.” She frowned for a second. “You know, I remember Mamma talking about a lady from Canada. It must be the same lady used to teach us dancing.” Her posture stiffened. “She went back to Canada, I sure. She sent Mamma a ashtray with a leaf—but it break.”

  They thanked her and descended to the car, where Carlton was snoozing. “Wake up quick,” Shad commanded. “Drive back to the yard where the men was playing dominoes. We need to talk to one of the men.”

  When they got back to Mr. Thorne’s house, the domino game had ended, and according to the homeowner, Mr. Robinson had won. “He gone back to his yard with my money,” Thorne added with an irritated gesture of his thumb to the house next door.

  Mr. Robinson was at home in a good mood. He invited his guests into the tiny living room. “So she was the woman I was thinking of? If it was she, she taught my daughter dancing. She used to hold classes in the old community center before they build the new one.”

  “And her name was Katlyn?” Shannon probed as she sat down in a mahogany chair.

  “I don’t remember her name, but she was a nice young lady, treat everybody good, not like some foreigners who act like they know more than you.”

  “What happen to her after she left here?” Shad asked.

  “I don’t know. I only remember she was pretty, didn’t wear no makeup, just natural like.”

  “She had a Rasta boyfriend,” Shad said. “You ever see her with him?”

  Robinson frowned, staring at the ashtray sunk into the arm of his chair. “Now you say that, I remember hearing something about it after she left. He was from one of the groups that settled up so.” He flapped his hand in the direction of the mountain behind them. “I never met him or not
hing, though.”

  Shad exchanged smiles with Shannon, the familiar surge of adrenaline his clue that they were onto something solid.

  As they got up to leave, Mr. Robinson muttered, “If you going into them Rasta camps, you need to find a Rasta to take you in. You don’t want to go into one of the camps and they don’t invite you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  * * *

  Never one to leave a message, Eric was about to hang up when Simone answered.

  “How you doing, Eric Keller?”

  “I hadn’t called in a couple of weeks, so I thought I should—”

  “You don’t have to make excuses.”

  “I’m not—so, what’s new with you?”

  “You’re the one with the news. What’s up with the new hotel, everything going well?”

  “Yup. The groundbreaking is definitely Saturday—is it the third or the fourth?”

  The woman gave her throaty laugh. “You’re funny. You don’t even know your big date?”

  “I’m terrible with dates, and I’ve been busy, what can I tell you.”

  “Let’s see. I’m looking it up on my phone: the first Saturday is August fourth. And by the way, the Monday after that is Jamaica’s fiftieth anniversary of independence. The Jamaicans in Atlanta have been planning a big ball. I bet you didn’t even know it was the fiftieth and you live there.”

  “What kind of hermit d’you think I am? They’ve been preparing all kinds of fun and games in the village. I think Lambert is sponsoring fireworks or something.”

  “I could stay over a few extra days to see that.” She paused for a heartbeat, as if waiting for him to confirm. “If you still want me to come down, that is.”

  “Why would I be calling you if I didn’t?”

  “Some things can change in the blink of an eye.”

  “Not that, trust me. I’ll be at the airport with bells on.”

  “You’d better be.”

  “How’s stuff going with you?”

  While she brought him up-to-date with her new foundation and the grants she was applying for—all of it sounding deathly dull to him—Eric sat on his bed looking out at the island she’d lived on only twelve months before, imagining her short, curly hair bobbing above the bushes the way it used to. He remembered his excitement every time he rowed out to see her, trying to be cool but wanting so badly to hold her skinny body in his arms. Would it still be like that when he saw her again—or would Shannon’s presence change everything, Shannon, with her surprising confidence and womanly body?

  “I have some more news,” he said, interrupting her.

  “What’s that?” Simone said, her voice in a frown.

  “Eve is here, my daughter.”

  “Your daughter from Canada?” He felt the frown disappear. “That’s great! Did her mom send her down for the summer?”

  “No, her mom came with her.” His own forehead tightened. “She’s writing an article for a magazine, doing the photography, too. They arrived a few days ago.”

  A brief silence, followed by a little sigh. “Everything can change in the blink of an eye, like I said.”

  “It doesn’t change anything.”

  “Of course it does.” She sucked air in between her teeth—her parents had been from Jamaica, after all. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “It was kind of sudden.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” He could sense her emotions ping-ponging around.

  “I’m not.”

  “Answer me this: Are they or are they not staying with you—in your apartment?”

  “They’re up at the Delgados’. Shannon and Jennifer used to be good friends—back in the day.”

  “So you’re not sleeping with her.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Look, I’ve been divorced once. I can take the truth, don’t worry.”

  “You don’t have to worry.”

  “Will they be there for the groundbreaking?”

  “It depends how long this article takes her.”

  “We’ll just have to deal with it if they are, but I just want you to know, I don’t like drama.” She’d switched to her business voice, the one she’d used to negotiate renting the island after she’d caught him snooping around her shelter in the ruins.

  “But you never know what life is going to throw at you,” he said, his chuckle sounding like a guilty snicker even to him.

  It seemed to help, though, because she sounded slightly less terse when she spoke again. “How are the wedding plans? I wish I could be there, but this meeting in DC has me tied up. It’s the best lead I have to get funds for the foundation, so I’ve got to be there. I hope Shad understands.”

  “I’m sure he will.”

  “Is he feeling good about the wedding? I know he—”

  “Beth has him under heavy manners, no escape for him this time.”

  “They’ve been together long enough,” Simone said briskly.

  It was a relief to Eric when they said their good-byes. A man who would prefer to scrape donkey dung off the bottom of his shoe than tell one girlfriend about another, he was grateful, deeply grateful, that Simone had taken it as well as she had. She was no-nonsense, and he liked that about her, liked that, if she had a problem with him, she’d tell him right away. Shannon was different. Although she was more assertive now, she’d always kept things close to her chest, still left more unspoken than stated.

  The conversation with Simone was not his last difficult exchange for the day. Eric knew it as soon as he saw his daughter slouching into the bar, shortly before noon, while he was preparing piña coladas for a group of tourists. She was wearing jeans and another big shirt, this one with a graffiti print.

  “Looks like you’ve been in the sun.” She slid onto a barstool and shrugged. “Not hanging out with Casey today?”

  “She’s watching a Disney movie.” Eve spat out the name, her face expressionless.

  “We could sure use your help. Maisie is in the kitchen cooking, but we don’t have a waiter. Ready for the job?” Another shrug. “I’ll take you back there and introduce you—as soon as I finish serving these guys.”

  When he got back, she was already off the barstool. “I want to see where you live.” Her accusing eyes held his for a second.

  “Sure, sure.” He gestured to the door at the end of the short passageway, glad that Maisie had just straightened the place.

  Eve opened the door and paused warily, as if expecting something to jump out. After a second, she entered and looked around. She needed, Eric knew, to find out how he lived, needed to intrude on his world and make herself present. He remained silent as she inspected the matchbox living room with the cheap wooden table where he counted the bar’s weekly earnings with Shad, clasped the upright back of one of the dining chairs, examined the white tiles underfoot. Entering the bedroom, she looked briefly at the double bed and walked around it to the bedside table with its lamp and books.

  “You read sci-fi books.”

  “Yes.” It wasn’t a lie; it just took him a year to finish one.

  She let her hand rest on the large sliced shell beside the books. “I know what kind of shell this is.” She stuck the other hand in her jeans pocket.

  “Your mother gave it to me long ago.”

  “It’s a nautilus. We have a couple at home.” She ran one finger around the shell’s circular chambers. “Do you know what they call this formation?” Another test for him, he knew, letting him know that she knew more than him, more than kangaroos now.

  “The circles in the shell, you mean?”

  She kept running her finger around the shell’s delicate interior. “They call it a whorl.”

  “A whirl of whorls, huh?” His light laugh received no response as she kept focused on the shell. Typical woman, Eric concluded, unable to shift moods quickly, but it was worth a try.

  She walked through the open louver doors onto the verandah. Circling the two wooden armchairs, she walked to the edg
e of the verandah facing the ocean, her frizzy hair sparkling in the sun. “You don’t have rails.”

  “I like a clear view of the ocean.” He couldn’t afford to enclose it—and he hadn’t been expecting visits from children.

  She looked over the bougainvillea bushes to the kitchen window, where Maisie was busy at the sink, and sat down in one of the chairs.

  Eric lowered to the other, his mind racing ahead to what could come next. “It’s hot out here in the day, so I don’t—”

  “Is that where your hotel was?” She pointed to the island.

  “Yes, a long time ago.”

  “And that’s where the woman was living.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Miss Bertha.”

  He sat back and crossed his arms. “Yes, that’s where she lived. After she left, we named it after her, Simone Island.”

  “How long was she there?” she said, shielding her eyes as she peered at the site.

  “A little over two months.”

  Her rose-pink nose was long and straight, the Keller nose, he noticed for the first time. “How did she get food?”

  “We rowed it out to her.”

  “And she was all alone?” The corners of Eve’s lips twitched, as if she were thinking it would be cool to live in exile.

  “Except for a little dog, she called him Cammy—after her brother Cameron.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Back in Atlanta.”

  “With the dog?”

  “He ran away as soon as they came back to the village. Cute little thing. He barked and woke her up once when some men went out there to hurt her, probably saved her life.”

  Eve looked at him hard with her blue Irish eyes with their black spokes. “Do you—are you and her, you know, having a thing?”

  He swallowed. “We’re good friends, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You like her, though.”

  “Why’d you think so?”

  “You look kind of weird when you talk about her.”

  He swept his hair back over his ears and stood up. “I have to get back to the bar. Those folks might need lunch. Come on, let’s meet Maisie and take some orders.”