Crickets' Serenade

by Blythe, Carolita

  “You do have a point,” Debbie said.

  “And if there are three things that scare Jamaicans, it’s not having work, not having enough spice in their food, and communism, and not necessarily in that order,” Paulette added. The women laughed.

  “So Souci, do you think he’ll win?” Marilyn asked as she sipped her “lemonade.”

  “Why not, Paulett? You were wondering the same thing earlier.”

  “I was not. My question wasn’t directed to anyone in particular. It was rhetorical.”

  It was strange hearing Marilyn ask that question. I had been so busy in recent weeks, I hadn’t given much thought to Lewis losing.

  “Souci, hon, what planet did you just travel to?” Paulette’s question was followed by that unsettling high-pitched cackle of hers.

  “Sorry. Well, Lewis hasn’t gotten much help from the paper. If anything, it’s hurt him. It hasn’t been fair in reporting things.”

  “And them trying to say the violence is Lewis’ fault … that’s something,” Paulette said.

  “That paper is a gossip rag,” Debbie said as she stood up. “I say whatever they print, understand the opposite to be true … Ladies, I’m going to stretch my legs.”

  Debbie was a tall, big-boned woman who walked with a slight limp.

  “My goodness, that woman has let herself go,” Paulette said the minute Debbie was out of earshot. “And she loves to get on as if she’s so wise. Marilyn, why do you continue to invite her? Half the time, she just seems so bored with it all.”

  “John and her husband are practically best friends. What choice do I have? Besides, I don’t think she’s so bad. Sometimes she says some interesting things.”

  “Ohhhh, she just likes to dominate the conversation. She just wants everyone to see how smart she is.” Paulette looked at me, and her lips broadened into a giant smile.

  “I’m just happy to finally have Souci at one of our parties. What a welcomed addition.”

  I just smiled, then looked off at Debbie Dean, who was nearing the house. Ayleen Morgan rode along in the distance, hooting and waving. Paulette and Marilyn continued to bicker and I contemplated what life held in store for me two weeks hence, when the election would be over and the fate of the island, Lewis Montrose’s life and my own life would be decided.

  -17-

  Calderwood P.O.

  Stepney District, St. Ann

  November 17, 1975

  Dear Michele,

  There are so many things going through my mind, and you are the only person I can talk to about them. Everything happens tomorrow. I can only pray that people in Kingston won’t be too afraid to go to the polls and vote. Lewis says that if they don’t that benefits Carlysle. Oh Michele, Lewis has got to win this thing. I don’t know what it will do to him if he doesn’t. I’ve hardly seen him over the past two months—and we live in the same house. And tomorrow he’ll be at the polls. He even said something about going to the polls in districts that support the Labor Party. James Alvarez thinks those districts are a lost cause—that Lewis might meet with more trouble than supporters. He thinks Lewis should concentrate on neutral neighborhoods.

  Michele, here’s one thing that’s been worrying me so… What if Lewis loses this thing? I know what you tell me about the obeah man saying I would be in Kingston for a long time. But that don’t necessarily mean it’s because Lewis wins the election. You’ve seen Lewis and you’ve been around him, so you know how strong and how smart he is. Michele, if you could see him talk to the people. There’s no way you could ever imagine him losing. But I’ve met the current Prime Minister. I wouldn’t trust him so far as I could throw him. He has about one hundred giant teeth, and when he grins, he shows them all. And they’re so white, I almost had to cover my eyes from the glare. And he’s nothing as handsome as Lewis. But when he walked into that restaurant we were in, you should see how that place started buzzing. That’s what made me first wonder about things.

  I think Lewis will win, but if he doesn’t? And I don’t want to seem selfish, but what happens to me then? We never even discussed that—if he loses. We only discussed what would happen when he win. But I’m scared Michele. I mean, I know he would never just put me out into the street. But I’m not his real wife, so why would he keep me around? And what friends do I have here? I think Marilyn and Paulette only talk to me because I’m Mrs. Montrose. And you’re the only thing making Stepney not seem so far away. Oh Michele, by this time tomorrow night we will know. And I know you’ll get this letter way afterwards, but I know you’re hoping and praying just the same. Hopefully, by the time you get this letter, you’ll be laughing and sucking your teeth and saying how you knew I had nothing to worry about.

  Your very best friend,

  Souci

  * * *

  I had just finished writing my letter when a door slammed. I wasn’t really startled by it. It was a sound that, in the seven weeks since moving into Reach, I had become all too familiar with. Lewis was going on one of his late night walks. Although he hardly discussed the elections with me, I followed its progress closely in the newspaper and on the radio. Lewis was always leaving the dinner table with his plate still full. He roamed the silent halls of Reach like a lost wanderer. No lights were turned on, even on the blackest of nights, when the moon was hidden behind a blanket of clouds and the stars appeared so far away.

  He knew where every table, every vase, ever creaky floorboard was. He could make his way through the living room without running into the sofa or the handmade ottomans or the antique cellaret. Some nights he just sat in one of the rocking chairs in the upper vestibule rocking back and forth, slowly, for hours on end. I would crack my door open and watch quietly. He’d just sit, staring out into the darkness, lost in the stillness of the night. It made me wonder if I hadn’t married a vampire. I wondered how long he could survive without sleep. I was always tempted to go to him, but he never seemed to want for any company. This night, I decided to go.

  Lewis wasn’t in the vestibule, so I moved through the hallway and down the stairs. This side of the house away from the moonlight was shrouded in darkness. I had to stretch my arms out in front of me in order to feel my way around. My ankle turned slightly, then snapped back into place as I almost missed the final step. I stumbled, but quickly regained my balance and continued on. When I reached the ground floor, I felt a slight breeze and walked in that direction. The French doors were wide open. I walked through them and stepped out onto the verandah. There was no one there, so I wrapped my hands around the brass handles and pulled the doors shut.

  “No, leave them open,” came a voice from the shadows.

  Lewis was sitting only a few feet from where I was standing, in a chair pulled up to the side of the gigantic mahogany china cabinet. He was as still as a stone, his eyes wide and blank. In his hands was a small, framed photograph. I re-opened the doors and turned to face him.

  “Pull a chair over,” he said.

  I did as I was told. Lewis was still focused on the photograph. He seemed as far away as the night stars.

  “In my father’s absence, I used to run through every room in this house,” he said. “Always hated this one really. All these big, dead pieces of wood. They reminded me of the big, fancy wood coffin they paraded my grandfather through the streets in after he had died.”

  The black and white photograph appeared faded. In it, I could make out two boys and a girl standing between a man and woman on what appeared to be the back lawn. The man was a young Edward Montrose. Lewis’ mother stood next to him. She wasn’t very pretty, even in her youth. Her face was just a little too long and a little too thin.

  “Here’s a little story,” Lewis began. “There was once a woman who made a production of everything, especially birthdays. One time in particular, she arranged for a photographer to come to her home. With the exception of her wedding portraits and some old newspaper file photos, she really didn’t have any pictures of her husband, and she couldn’t keep up with al
l the different stages her children were going through.”

  “Her husband invested every ounce of his being into his business. But the five years it took to build took everything out of his wife. Days drifted by in which she didn’t see him, and the money it took to see the business through the red meant great sacrifices in her once very comfortable lifestyle. The European trips became a memory. Her weekly lunches with the ladies of society became fortnightly. They had to lay off servants who had been with them since before their children were born. Still, the woman tried to keep up the façade of wealth. She acted as though everything was just fine, but the children knew.” He held the picture up.

  “The children always know. The woman begged her husband to be there when their youngest son blew out his candles. She seemed surprised when he didn’t show up. Her son would have been surprised if he had. It was the boy’s birthday, but he was planning on giving a gift to his father.” He looked off into the darkness of the yard.

  “The woman stuffed the photographer with as much tea and coconut buns as he could ingest. But when the sun began to set and there was still no sign of her husband, she had no choice but to dismiss that photographer. Besides, the poor man had grown nauseous from all the pastries.”

  “All of a sudden, her husband came racing around the house, grasping the photographer’s arm. The woman whispered for him to wish his son a happy birthday. Then the boy read his poem. He called it, ‘Ode to My Father.’ You know what his father did? He looked over at his oldest son, who had a busted nose, and he asked him what happened. The woman jumped in and yelled, ‘He got hit in it playing cricket.’ She spoke of how wonderful her other son’s poem was. The boy loved his mother so much at that time. But the father didn’t even notice, or didn’t want to notice the effort that had gone into the poem. He just asked his oldest son if he had come out of the game.” He ran his fingers over the picture frame.

  “The older boy hadn’t come out of the game. He never came out of the game. In fact, he drove in four runs. The man told him he was happy he had a son who would one day achieve greatness. He put his arm around that son. That’s when the photographer snapped the picture. Later, after the cake had been eaten and the rain had fallen, the younger boy walked outside and found his poem drifting across the lawn like a meaningless piece of garbage.” He continued to stare at the photograph.

  “Souci, do you think those who have gone on before you can forgive you for your wrongs?”

  I wanted to be of comfort. I wanted to say just the right words, but I had no idea what Lewis was talking about.

  “My auntie used to say that everyone who’s ever loved you, who’s in heaven, they watch over you. They give you luck.”

  “What about those you might have wronged? Wouldn’t they wish eternal torture upon you?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I’m sure it’s a better place, wherever they are. I think to get to that place, they had to forgive you. I think they’re so happy in that place, they don’t believe in bad or evil wishes. They know we all make mistakes, and they forgive us.”

  “I’d like to think so. Souci, if all goes well, do you think you will be able to put up with me for years? Will you be able to stand by my side no matter what happens? Will you believe only me when they try to bring me down?”

  “Of course I will.”

  “I’m so happy you’re here.” He was quiet for some time. “I’m tired of people who support me getting hurt.”

  “It’s not so bad,” I said. I was only trying to make him feel better, but he suddenly became very agitated.

  “Not so bad. Not so bad? Well, it sure isn’t any good.”

  “What I mean is, I know there are problems here. I read about them every day.”

  “That’s it, Souci. You read about it. You read about it, but you don’t see it. You didn’t see the twelve-year-old boy who walked into a neighborhood that’s overwhelmingly Laborite, pro-Carlysle, and wrote on a wall—‘Montrose is God.’ I have no idea why he did a fool thing like that. When the hospital called the mother, the mother called me. She told me I needed to come down there with her. She told me I was the reason this was happening. And you didn’t see the grocery shop owner who has no feeling in his right arm because he was attacked for saying he supports me.” He ran his left hand across the photo, then placed it gently against the floor. “You didn’t see it, not because it’s not happening, but because I choose to keep you from seeing it. All you need to do is to show up at a few functions to remind the public that you’re still there. The rest is up to me.”

  I felt like a child who had been scolded by her all-powerful, all-knowing father. I watched Lewis as he sat quietly looking out beyond the French doors.

  “Go on back to bed, Souci,” he said quietly.

  But I didn’t want to go. I wanted to sit there by his side, like a real wife would. I wanted to be his confidante. I wanted to comfort him; to take away all his worry.

  “I’m not really sleepy. I can stay … if you need me,” I volunteered.

  He shook his head. “Go to bed. I’m just going to sit outside for a minute … get some air.”

  When I reached my room, I sat on the windowsill and looked out into the night. A patch of clouds drifted across the face of the moon. By the time it passed, I caught sight of Lewis walking across the yard. He bypassed the almond tree and continued on into the orange grove. I kept looking after him, waiting for him to reappear. Where could he have been going in the dead of night? I imagined him meeting with some witch doctor in a clearing, lighting a flame and sacrificing a sparrow or a chicken or a goat to the underworld. I tried to stay awake for as long as I could, but Lewis never came back. I drifted off to sleep right there on the windowsill.

  When I awakened a couple of hours later, I opened my bedroom door and looked across the hall. Lewis’ door was still open. He was still somewhere out there in that tangle of trees. I didn’t know whether I should have been worried. I was about to close my door again when I heard far off voices. Maybe Lewis had returned and was downstairs talking to Mr. or Mrs. Moore. I walked to the top of the stairs and squinted down into the darkness. No lights had been turned on. There was someone in a white dress, with white skin. She had her body pressed against Lewis’. It didn’t take long for me to realize that it was Agnes Gooding. I couldn’t tell if she was just coming or just leaving. I didn’t really want to know. That night, my sleep was unsettled and my dreams were clouded with strange images of Lewis floating up above the orange trees, people burning voting booths, and Michele moving her hips seductively to a silent tune as she sauntered along Stepney’s dry, dusty main road.

  -18-

  19 Skyline Close

  St. Andrew

  January 24, 1976

  Dear Souci

  Gal pickney. Gal pickney. Gal Pickney. Do I have to call you Mrs. Prime Minister now? Gal pickney. I feel like your still here with me because nearly everyday I see you in the paper. Did you really go to New York City? Is it as cold as they say it is, and all the people are rich and live in buildings that go higher than the clouds. I read you were at the State Empire Building. Is that the tallest building in all the world? And did you ride in the elevator? How did that feel? Like a rocket? How fast did it go and did your head spin? I would love to ride in elevator one day. And I see a picture of you next to your sexy man at some big fancy dinner. They even had a card with your name on it in front of you. And girl your hair look good. And your face. Wow. And you were all smiling. And you were sitting next to the president or prime minister or whatever it is they call the person in charge of Zambia or Zimbabwe or whatever country that was that start with Z. What do you talk to a president about?

  Oh Souci. Since you become so famous, every night in front of my father’s bar all they talk about is you. Stories I didn’t even think people even remember. Remember when you and me thief the tamarind balls and crackers out of Jimmy Mason store. He talk about that like it was his proudest moment. Who ever think that little tamarind ball th
ief would become famous he ask. And you wouldn’t believe. People from some villages that’s not even that close to Stepney keep getting lost in Stepney. Or so they say. Then they ask—oh this is Stepney. The place the prime minister wife come from. They come and they look and they stare. Too bad ain’t that much to stare at. Then they want to go down and see your house. Daddy say we should start charging money for that.

  Girl you famous. More than famous. I just think who would ever think anybody from Stepney would ever become famous. Just think girl. Maybe if I didn’t have my babies I would be in Kingston and be Miss Jamaica. Could you imagine. You being Mrs. Prime minister and me being Miss Jamaica and the two of us laughing and talking and eating fancy lunches and laughing at the other rich people. But I guess I’m okay here in Stepney. Oh Souci I’m so happy for you. Everyday I read the articles about you helping to open up some hospital or going to some big dinner and I just imagine how great your life is. Hope you and your prime minister husband getting on okay. If you know what I mean. I hope your getting on a lot more better than okay. Write soon.

  Michele

  * * *

  It was all so overwhelming in the beginning—traveling outside of Jamaica, visiting places I never thought I would get closer to than the pages of my schoolbooks, seeing things like the Tower of London and a Broadway show, meeting people I never even thought really existed. I mean, who ever gets to meet the Queen of England? That’s just ridiculous. And it amazed me just how much eating political people did. Every meeting or social engagement seemed to revolve around food. But after a few months, things started to calm down a bit, and I started to get settled into my life in Jamaica as a prime minister’s wife. It still sounds strange to me—Mrs. Prime Minister—me, Souci Alexander from Stepney.

  Lewis did not move into Vale Royal, which had been set up to become the prime minister’s official residence. He didn’t like the idea of having to spend long days at work in the city, and to not have an escape during the evenings, so he continued living up at Reach. A guardhouse was set up at the front gate, and security officers were added to the grounds. He still hosted official dinners at Vale Royal, but used Reach for personal engagements.