Crickets' Serenade

by Blythe, Carolita

  Despite Reach being the prime minister’s official residence and various people moving through the house each day—security, extra help, delivery men—as things settled down, there were times I actually felt a little lonely. Seems strange, doesn’t it. Feeling lonely among so many people. But I really didn’t have to deal with most of them, so I had to find other ways to entertain myself. And there was no such thing as a standard work week with Lewis. He was just as likely to be off in meetings at Jamaica House on a Sunday as he was on a Wednesday or Thursday. It was on one such Sunday about five months into his term that I heard him moving around before dawn. I hadn’t seen much of him lately, so I tried to put myself together in time to sit for breakfast with him, but by the time I got downstairs, he was already gone.

  I just settled into the mode I had gotten so used to—breakfast for one on the back verandah. That’s when I noticed Henry Donovan. Henry had become a pretty familiar sight to me in the seven months I had lived at Reach. For the first few months, he turned up a couple of times a week to help out Mr. Harris, the old gardener, and to run errands. But Mr. Harris suffered from brittle bones. On good days, he stood as tall and as straight as a stalk of sugar cane. But when the rains drew near, his body curled over like a wilting blossom. “I don’t need no fancy weatherman to tell me when storm’s coming,” he would always say, “I just listen to de music of me bones.”

  Henry was kneeling near the eastern side of the house tugging at the ground around a rose bush. His head bopped up and down to the beat coming from the tiny transistor radio tucked inside his belt. I watched him for some time without saying anything, but he must have felt my eyes on him because he suddenly looked my way and tipped his baseball cap. I waved, and he put his tools down and walked toward the verandah.

  “Sweet, sweet Sunday morning to you, Mrs. PM,” he said as he flashed a large grin. He had never called me Mrs. Montrose, or by my first name, which is what I had told him to call me. At first it had been, “Mrs. Prime Minister,” but he later just shortened it to “Mrs. PM.” He didn’t come up onto the verandah. He just stayed on the grass and poked his head above the railing. There was a large bruise around his right eye, which hadn’t been there when I had last seen him three days before.

  “Henry, what is it that happen to your face?”

  “It was just dis ole crazy t’ing,” he said. “You see, me friend Stevie get into it wit’ Lucifah Bonds. Wasn’t any kind of surprise really. Been building fe a long time now.”

  I smiled in anticipation of one of Henry’s long, colorful stories. He was my link to big, bad Kingston, and I looked forward to his tales of debauchery. To him, I wasn’t so much the Prime Minister’s wife as I was someone somewhat close in age, someone who could appreciate his boastful tales. Half the time, I couldn’t tell whether he was lying or not, but it really didn’t matter. He removed a rag from his back pocket and wiped away the dirt from his hands before going on with his story.

  “Lucifah get him name from being de baddest rude bwoy around, or so dem say. Me an’ Stevie don’t t’ink he wort’ shit. All he got is a wicked screw face dat he most probably get from practicing a whole lot in front of a mirror. ’Cept for dis fat bwoy who talk all dis shit an’ try fe act like he was a rude bwoy. ’Enry nevah see Lucifah in any kind a jump up. An’ dat fat bwoy don’t even really count ’cause Lucifah lick him upside de head wit’ a piece of wood when him wasn’t even looking.” Henry lifted his arms and swung, as if he were holding an imaginary bat.

  “Knock dat fat bwoy right out an’ split him head open. Dat was ’bout two years ago. Den during de election, him would stand ’pon street cornah an’ ask strangahs which party dem did a go vote for. If dem say Nationalist Party, Lucifah would chase dem out of town. After dat, everybody start calling Lucifah de boss. Plus, him have dat screwface an’ him don’t talk much, so everybody t’ink him as bad as Clint Eastwood.”

  “Henry, are you trying to tell me you’re a rude bwoy?”

  “No mon. ’Enry is a good Christian bwoy.” He made the sign of the the cross and giggled. “But ’Enry live near hooligans, so you know, sometimes ’Enry must defend himself.”

  “So, how did you and Lucifer manage to get into it?”

  “Me coming wit’ dat part, mon. ’Enry just need fe set up de story right.” Henry tugged at his pant waist, pulled down his t-shirt, then started pacing around. “So, Lucifah used to talk to Vie, who is Stevie’s galfriend now. ’Bout two nights ago, Stevie see Lucifah hanging out in front of Vie’s house, but Stevie nevah really do anyt’ing ’bout it. Just file it away in him memory. But last night, me an’ Stevie was walking by Vie’s house so Stevie could give her a likkle kiss, an’ dere was Lucifah again. Him keep trying fe pull Vie out on de sidewalk wit’ him. She was laughing, but she wasn’t moving from her gate. Stevie nevah ask no questions. Him just tell Lucifer fe leave his girl alone. An’ den, Lucifah go where him shouldn’t have. Lucifah say dat de only reason Vie was wit’ Stevie was cause she was missing Lucifah.” The farther into the story Henry went, the faster he spoke. And he used his hands a lot. They were up in the air or on his hips or balled up into fists. It was as almost as much fun watching Henry play out the story as it was hearing it.

  “Stevie never wait fe anyt’ing else. Him just knock dat bwoy in de head. But dis night, Lucifah was traveling wit’ two of ’is bredren, so when one of dem try fe step in, ’Enry just grab him in a headlock. But den, boom! One a him frien’ lick me wit’ a piece of tree branch clear ’cross de face. By now, Stevie have him ratchet press up against Lucifah neck an’ everybody just stop in dem tracks.” Henry was pressing an imaginary knife up against his own neck.

  “But, Stevie nevah really cut him. Him just kind of push de point in, just deep enough fe draw likkle blood. Stevie show him who was really boss.” Henry stopped bouncing and bobbing and weaving and shook his head slowly. His lips eased into a satisfied smile.

  “When Stevie let him go, Lucifah was all freak out ’bout de likkle drop a blood running down him neck. Stevie just tell him nevah fe go ’round Vie again. Anyway, dat’s how ’Enry face get all bruise up.”

  By this point, I was on the edge of my chair.

  “But Henry, you not ’fraid Lucifer might try an’ get back at you all?”

  “Him nah go do anyt’ing like dat, mon. All him got is a wicked screwface an’ a crazy name. But Stevie’s even changed dat. Stevie start calling him ‘Angel’ now, instead.” He let out a great, big laugh, but suddenly caught himself and stopped.

  “’Enry shouldn’t have tell you dat story.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause dat probably ain’t de t’ing you should tell de wife of a prime minister,” he teased.

  “An’ what kind of t’ing should you tell a prime minister’s wife?”

  “Oh, me nuh know. I suppose you tell her how healt’y an’ green her lawn is an’ how sweet her roses smell. Nice, safe t’ings like dat.”

  “Oh please. Henry, I was a country girl long before I came into any of this. Those used to be the stories we would hear about Kingston … rude bwoys an’ fighting an’ stuff. It’s like a movie almost.”

  “Speaking of movies, ’Enry see a new flick at de Rialto. A real classic western. Wild Bunch.”

  “Never hear of it.”

  Henry appeared mildly startled. “William Holden, bang bang.”

  “I’ve never even been to one of those big cinemas.”

  “You lie. You mean you nevah see Shane, or True Grit. Oh God, you cyan’t tell me you nevah see Entah de Dragon.”

  “No.”

  “You nevah see Bruce Lee in action?” He did a quick karate chop. “’Enry t’ink dat might be a sin. What ’bout ’Arder Dey Come? Jimmy Cliff baddah dan bad, ruffah dan rough as de toughest rude bwoy dere ever was … Ivan O. Martin.” He pulled two imaginary pistols out of his waistband and fired them.

  “I don’t even know who Ivan O. Martin is.”

  Henry turned around and did a little jig. “I
cyan’t believe dat. You know de song ‘Johnny too Bad’ an’ ‘Many Rivers to Cross?’ ”

  “Who in Jamaica don’t know those songs, mon?”

  “Who in Jamaica nuh see de movie?”

  “I guess we just don’t really get time to get to the movies.”

  He looked around the yard, folded his arms in front of him and shook his head. “I guess is all busy an’ important being marry to de prime minister an’ all, but not to be able to see a movie? Cho, mon. But den again, de t’ings you must get fe do.”

  “Is not a bad trade off.”

  “Yeah. Me suppose if most people had was to choose between living in a place like dis an’ going to de movies, well, wouldn’t really be no choice to make.”

  Static started coming from Henry’s transistor radio, so he adjusted the dial. The volume suddenly peaked. At that very moment, Mrs. Moore walked out onto the verandah. She fixed Henry with a steady look. He quickly turned the radio down and tipped his cap to her. I tried not to laugh.

  “Mr. Lewis has just returned home, ma’am. He would like to see you.”

  * * *

  “I’m taking a little trip to Port Antonio,” Lewis said. “In about an hour. Now, it’s not really a social call. I need to visit with an old friend, Brandon Fields. He’s a former trade unionist who has a good piece of property up in the hills above the ocean. It’s probably where the economic conference I’ve been working toward will be held. I need to talk over a few things with Brandon, but it’s such a nice drive. I just thought you’d really enjoy yourself. And we’ll get a chance to spend some time together.”

  “When do we leave?” I asked.

  “As soon as you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready right now.”

  I had already been on a few of these types of outings with Lewis. They usually started off or ended with a meal, during which a lot of jokes and small talk were made. Business was always handled separate of the meal. I usually spent that time talking about the home décor or something even less important with the other wife or wives in attendance. I didn’t foresee this trip being much different, but I was happy to be able to spend any small amount of time with Lewis.

  The moment we got into the car, Lewis began flipping through some papers. I don’t think he said anything for the first half-hour of the drive, so I just looked out at the view along the northern coastal road. From one side, the hills grew tall and green and the many ferns and bamboo stalks arched over and shaded the road. From the other side, I could see clear across the Caribbean Sea. The blue of the water varied in color. It was pale, almost translucent near the shoreline. Farther out, it became greener, then almost turquoise, then as deep and as vibrant as the sky, out near the horizon. We drove past a fishing village where fishermen worked at removing nets from their colorful little boats. Sometimes the land dipped to almost the level of the sea, then suddenly climbed upwards and wound around a cliff. Sometimes we passed small fruit stands with women selling starrapples and june plums, and I thought of the Crossroads.

  “Navy Island,” were the first two words Lewis said during the drive, and this was almost when we had reached our destination. He was looking out at a small piece of land in the middle of a harbor. I was actually surprised by the sound of his voice. I didn’t know whether he was talking to me, or just thinking out loud.

  “It was once used by the British military. Later Errol Flynn and his wife Patrice made it their home.”

  I thought about how excited Michele would have been, had she been in the car with us. Errol Flynn was her very favorite American movie star.

  “Did you know him?” I asked.

  “I have only vague memories of him. He died several years ago, but was a part of my mother’s crowd. She used to tell so many stories of the parties she attended there … and all along the north coast. There were a few other well known people who lived up here.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like Noel Coward….”

  “He’s Mrs. Eldermeyer’s favorite. She had me read ‘Blithe Spirit’ three times.”

  “And Ian Fleming.”

  I shook my head.

  “I’m pretty sure he’s not one of Ms. Eugenia’s favorite authors.” He chuckled. “I can’t see her getting too excited about the chauvinistic secret agent James Bond.” He looked out into the harbor for a while.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve even mentioned all of those names in the same breath,” he said softly.

  When the car turned off the main highway, it began a steady climb along a hillside that wound through giant bushes and tall, twisting trees with willowy leaves. The car climbed further along the hillside, and my ears popped. Ten minutes later, we were driving though a gateway that seemed to appear out of nowhere. The car stopped in front of a sprawling white house. It seemed to have been the only one that far up. The last house I remembered passing was over a mile further down.

  Brandon Fields was an older man. He had puffy white hair that reminded me of a cloud. I almost wanted to reach up and touch it. He seemed more of Edward Montrose’s generation than of Lewis’. Soon after introductions were made, he and Lewis went off by themselves while I was left with Mr. Fields’ daughter, Cheryl.

  “This house is the highest one on the hill,” Cheryl said as she walked me through the home. “In fact, before it was built, there was no road going so far up, so my father had to have one built before they could start construction.”

  Cheryl was a writer who had moved back in with her father after her mother died five years before. We reached the back of the house, and I found myself gazing off at the most amazing sight I had ever seen. It was as if God had removed a chunk of the hill himself so he could have the single most breathtaking view of Jamaica.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Cheryl said. “My father had to have a number of trees cleared out so we could have that view. And he had part of the hill shaved down.”

  Hill shaved down. I had never heard of such a thing. I couldn’t help thinking about how much it must have cost, and despite the beauty of it, I couldn’t help thinking how big a waste of money it was.

  “I’ve spent my life traveling, and I’ve never seen something so beautiful. I’m lucky. I can spend my days looking off at all this and writing my stories and getting paid for what I do.”

  “What kind of stories do you write?”

  “Biographies. I write about the lives of great, infamous or courageous people. I don’t know. Maybe I’m envious of what some people have been able to achieve in their lives, and my way of putting myself into their shoes is by writing about it. I hope to write about your husband some day soon. I’m usually writing about people I don’t care about either way, but with Lewis, it’s different. You’re a lucky woman, Souci. So many women would kill to be in your place. In fact …” She stopped speaking and laughed.

  “What?”

  “Well, being a woman myself, there was a time I had a little crush on your husband. How old was I then? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? Anyway, I think many women have had crushes on your husband, but you landed him. You lucky devil,” Cheryl giggled. I did the same, but probably not for the same reason. I had landed him, all right—just not exactly in the same way Cheryl believed.

  Nearly three hours after we arrived, Lewis and Mr. Fields reappeared, and we were invited to go river rafting. A couple of calls were made, and after a light lunch, we were boarding a van and heading back down the hillside, and back along the northern coastal route. I had never rafted before; had never even been on a river. I was almost expecting to have to grab an oar or a tree limb and help steer the slab of wood. But to my surprise, once we reached the Rio Grande, Lewis and I were given a comfortable seat at the back of a narrow bamboo raft and told to just relax.

  We didn’t have to compete with any tourist traffic since the river had been closed to the public a half-hour before. The rower leaned a long bamboo pole into the water, pushed off, and we were soon gliding down the river. Lewis stretched his arm acr
oss the back of the bench. The raft tilted a bit to the left side, and his arm shifted and rubbed against my shoulder.

  It felt good. Sitting so close to him, I felt a little unsettled, like all my nerve endings were tingling. There’s only one other person I had ever felt that way about—a boy in secondary school who would make my insides churn just by breathing the same air as me. He wasn’t nearly as handsome as Lewis, but there was something about the way he moved. He was so sure of himself, so determined. It had been that long since my body had responded so intensely to a man. Greenie was a nice person, but of all the bones in his body, not one was sexy. I’d let him get on top of me and poke around unsurely and do whatever it was he did, but he did that with as much excitement as if he were mending a suit or putting a sole on a boot. I guess my body had just gotten used to Tilford Greene.

  I looked off at the little cliffs that rose up then leveled off around us and at the mangroves with the gnarled roots twisting out of the water. I dropped my left hand over the side of the raft and dragged it across the top of the water, but quickly removed it when I noticed a large lizard-looking creature swishing about.

  “Are there alligators here?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so. But it doesn’t really matter, I suppose, unless you’re planning on going for a swim. It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” I said. Lewis was looking at the back of the rower, who stood some twenty feet in front of us.

  “I really hope you’re enjoying yourself, Souci. I hope this has been more than just another official function.”

  “It’s nice,” I said.

  “Good. Because I know things can sometimes get a little run of the mill. It’s all about politics and about business, and I know that’s not necessarily what you’re used to.”