Serpents in the Sun

by Cave, Hugh

  Ima's ugly-handsome face took on lines of thought. "About a month."

  "I'm not sure I like the sound of that. If you've had it that long, shouldn't you see a doctor?"

  "I did go to the clinic, mum."

  "What did they say?"

  "The nurse gave me some salve for it. But it didn't help."

  "M'm. If a salve from the clinic didn't help, I doubt the Vaseline will. But I'll get it for you. Hold on a minute."

  At least, we now know what's wrong, Alison thought as she hurried from the room. And a rash can't be all that serious, can it? Returning, she handed the jar to Ima and said gently, "Now you'll be sure to let me know if this doesn't help, won't you? We women can't be too careful about such things, you know."

  "Yes, mum. Thank you."

  On Thursday the housekeeper's face was longer than ever as she spoke to Alison in the kitchen. "Mrs. Bennett, what me did speak to you about . . . it don't better, mum; it even worse," she reported, reverting to country talk in her anxiety. "Can me ask another favor, please?"

  "Of course, Ima. Do you want Mr. Bennett to get you some different medicine in the Bay tomorrow?"

  "Not that, mum. Could me go to the Bay with him and see a doctor me hear about there?"

  Had such a question been put to her when she first came to Jamaica, Alison would surely have said, "Do you have an appointment?" She knew now that appointments were impractical in rural Jamaica where so few people had telephones. If you wished to see a medic, you simply went to his office and awaited your turn.

  "You don't mean our Dr. Kirk, do you?" she asked. Kim Tulloch's friend, Tom Kirk, was the doctor the Bennetts went to. Ima shook her head. "No, mum. Not him."

  "You don't want to go to him?"

  "A lady in Mango Gut tell me about this other man for the kind of thing me have."

  "Well, all right. Lyle will take you, of course. I'll speak to him." Reminding herself that Ima had no family—at least none that anyone at Glencoe knew of—Alison reached out to clasp the other's hand. "Don't worry, Ima. If there's anything really wrong, you know you can count on us. Now, now, don't cry," she added quickly. "I'm only trying to say we love you."

  "Here?" Lyle said.

  "Yes, Mr. Bennett. His office is not on the main street here; it is down that likkle—that little lane you see there." Opening the car door, Ima started to get out. "And I am to look for you in Murcella's afterward?"

  "Yes. Please."

  "All right, sir."

  "And Ima—"

  She was walking away but stopped and turned back. "Yes, Mr. Bennett?"

  With the car's steering wheel on the right side, Lyle had only to put his head out the window. "Good luck, Ima," he said.

  "Thank you, Mr. Bennett." There were tears in her eyes as she turned again.

  Lyle watched her disappear down the lane, then drove on and found a parking place in front of Eastern Hardware, which everyone, including himself, referred to as Busha Haik's. With a wave through the open doorway to the store's owner, he crossed the street and walked on down to Barclay's Bank. There he presented a check and a scribbled note of how he wanted the money—so much in silver, so much in pound notes of various denominations—and when the pay bill money was pushed across the counter to him, he put it into the briefcase he always carried. This being payday at other plantations as well, the bank was crowded and many of those present were doing what he was doing. He exchanged the usual greetings. "Morning, Owen. Hello, Mike. How are you, Dicky?"

  On any normal Friday he would meet many of them later at Jimmy Watson’s Texaco station, where these wealthy owners of huge banana and sugar and coconut plantations would be standing around or sitting on the counter in their work clothes, chatting, while they drank Red Stripe or Dragon Stout out of bottles from the station cooler.

  He remembered a conversation he had had with the station owner one Friday morning, long ago, when the others had left and he had stayed behind to ask Watson to check his car's plugs because the engine had been skipping. "Have you any idea, Mr. Bennett, how much money you were swapping stories with just now?" Watson had asked him.

  "Money? I don't think I understand."

  "Those four fellows may have stopped here in Jeeps and looked as if they hadn't a pot to pee in, but together they own just about every plantation along this part of the coast."

  Glencoe with its 550 acres was not a large estate, Lyle had realized that day. Not even by Jamaican standards. On the other hand, the Blue Mountain Coffee it produced was the island's best and the world's most expensive, and that had earned him the respect of these men.

  Leaving the bank, he did some shopping for Alison, as usual. Morant Bay had only a single main thoroughfare and a few side streets, but unless one's needs were extensive they could be satisfied here without much trouble. He walked to a small supermarket. In the town's open marketplace he bought fruit and vegetables from higglers who exchanged pleasantries with him, and a loin of pork and a filet mignon from butchers who had saved those special cuts for him. Then he picked up some dish towels Alison had asked for, and went to a bakery for some of the patties Cliff was still so very fond of. Finally, with the meat in a cooler and the briefcase locked in the car's boot, he drove to what had once been a private home on one of the town's little side streets.

  Murcella's, it was called by its habitues now, that being the name of the young black woman who owned and ran it. There was no sign to indicate the kind of establishment it was; you had to climb the weathered veranda steps and walk in to know the place was half-café, half tavern, with a bar, tables, and a juke box. As he entered this morning, a man at the jukebox dropped in a coin and swinging trombones began blasting out a tune he rather liked called I'm a Little Boy Blue.

  "Morning, Busha," Murcella called from behind the mahogany bar.

  He waved and walked toward her, and by the time he reached the bar she had a bottle of stout waiting for him.

  Lyle did what he always did now before heading for home on a Friday morning, if there were time enough after the completion of his rounds. After exchanging a few words with the proprietress he retired to a table with his drink and let himself relax. It was a chance to get away from the problems of Glencoe for a while. An opportunity to soak up a little of the rural Jamaican ambience he had become so fond of.

  Little Boy Blue came to an end and the jukebox blared out one of the new reggae hits. His fingertips drummed an accompaniment on the tabletop. This reggae, now—he liked it for its catchy rhythm. He hadn't cared much for the Jamaican music called ska, but reggae made you want to get up and shake your cares away. Indeed it did.

  Waiting for Ima, he took his time about emptying the bottle, and then went to the bar for a second. There had been three other customers in the place when he entered: the fellow at the jukebox, a man at the bar, a woman eating a lunch of what looked like curried goat. By the time Ima came, all three had departed.

  She must have noticed that he was alone there with Murcella when she came in through the door; otherwise, being the kind of woman she was, she never would have come in bawling. Murcella's presence was not a deterrent; the two knew each other. With tears streaming down her face, and making a noise like an injured mule, Ima came stumbling across the floor to the table where Lyle sat, and slumped onto a chair. Except for reaching out to grope for her hand, Lyle did not know what to do. Nor, apparently, did Murcella, who came running from bar to table but then simply stood there staring.

  Lyle finally managed to get some words out. "Ima—for God's sake—what's wrong?"

  Her eyes were those of a cornered, terrified animal as she looked at him. "The doctor—him did say—oh my God, Mr. Bennett, him did say me have syphilis!"

  He was too shocked to answer her. His tongue simply refused to function.

  "How can me have syphilis?" Her voice filled the room. "Me nuh go with a man from the day Medwin did die, and that was seventeen years ago! Me swear it, Mr. Bennett! Me swear it on the Holy Bible!" Again her bawling
filled the place. A conversation was out of the question until she regained control.

  Lyle looked at Murcella. "Medwin?"

  "Her husband. They were actually man and wife, though only just married. Their house caught fire and he got her out safe but died later from his burns."

  "Ima, listen." Lyle stood up and went around the table to her side. "Please listen to me, Ima. You have to stop crying now. We must talk about this."

  The blubbering became a string of gasping sobs and at last ceased. Ima looked at him.

  "Now tell me . . . what, exactly, did the doctor say."

  "Him say me have syphilis, Mr. Bennett."

  "And how long is it since you've been with a man?"

  "Seventeen years." The sobbing began again.

  "And she is not lying, Busha," Murcella said with conviction. "This woman does not lie, ever." With a handkerchief she began to wipe the wetness from Ima's face. "So how can she all at once—" Suddenly she sucked in a breath. "Oh oh. Ima, who is this doctor you went to see?"

  Ima sobbed out a name.

  "Him! Why in heaven's name did you go to him?"

  Through the sobbing and sniffling, Ima managed to explain. "Well"—Murcella seemed almost angry now—"I say you should go to someone else. Because the man you're talking about does not have a good name in this town. No, he does not. Did he actually treat you for this syphilis you're supposed to have?"

  "Him did want—he wanted to. But I ran out." Ima's eyes suddenly went wide. "Oh Lord, me did run out without paying him!"

  "Never mind that," Lyle said firmly. "Murcella, may I use your phone? I want to find out if Dr. Kirk is in his office." When sheanswered with a nod, he crossed the room and stepped behind the bar. With no telephone at Glencoe he did not know the number and had to look it up in the book before dialing.

  "Edith, is Dr. Kirk there, please? This is Lyle Bennett."

  "Doctor is at the hospital, Mr. Bennett."

  "Thank you." He returned to the table. "Ima, come on. I'm taking you to the hospital."

  "But—"

  "Now don't be afraid. Dr. Kirk is there and I think I can persuade him to look at you. Then we'll know the truth about this. Come." Gently he helped her to her feet.

  Murcella went with them to the door. "Busha, will you let me know—?"

  "I will. And thanks."

  "It can't be true," the woman said almost inaudibly, as if to herself. "It just can't be."

  The Princess Margaret was just east of town: an attractive, white, two-story building overlooking the coastal highway and the sea. Ima had herself under control by the time they reached it. With dignity—or was it a kind of fatalism? —she held his arm and walked with him in silence to the entrance.

  Lyle had visited the hospital before, to bring workers whose machete cuts were too serious for the sulfa ointment he kept on hand for such accidents. At the desk he was recognized, and the large, friendly medic with the booming voice appeared in less than two minutes.

  Dr. Kirk listened, frowning slightly, while Lyle told him what had happened. Then he extended a hand to Ima. "Let's have a look at you, shall we?" he said.

  They went down the hall together and Lyle, expecting a long wait, reached for a newspaper that lay on an empty chair. It was the same Daily Gleaner that he picked up every day in Rainy Ridge, but reading it here might calm him. After a glance at the headlines he turned as usual to the paper's columnists.

  It was gratifying to know that at least one of them agreed with what he had been telling Cliff—that opposing political parties based on competing labor unions could hardly be expected to provide a stable government. He would have to call Cliff's attention to it.

  He looked through the paper for Leandro's daily cartoon, almost always a social or political rib-tickler. But before he could find it, Tom Kirk reappeared.

  Kirk's beard hid any telltale facial expression, but his eyes gave him away. Usually twinkling with good humor, they were now flat. "I'd like to keep her here for a biopsy, Lyle," he said.

  "It's serious, then?"

  "It could be cancer, I'm afraid. In fact, I'm pretty certain it is. Can you come back for her tomorrow?"

  Lyle felt numb. Cancer? Their Ima, who laughed so much, migh have cancer? The possibility sent a chill through him. "What time tomorrow, Tom?"

  "I'll need the lab report. Say about five?"

  "Five . . . yes . . . and thanks." Lyle started to walk away, but turned and came back. "Tom . . . if it is cancer, what can be done?"

  "She'll need surgery, I believe. At the University Hospital." The big man reached out to lay a hand on Lyle's shoulder. "Tomorrow," he said with unusual gentleness. "I'll know better then what we're up against."

  Heavy of heart, Lyle drove back to Murcella's. "Let's hope it's a false alarm," he said. Then, "And Murcella . . . maybe you have an answer to something else that's troubling me. Why, in all the years Ima has been living at Glencoe, hasn't she ever told us she had a husband?"

  "She never talked about him to anyone, Busha. She told me once she loved her man so much it was like a new hurt inside her whenever she spoke his name."

  "I see. Well . . . I'll let you know the outcome," Lyle promised, and began the journey home.

  All the way he thought about Ima and the possibility—or was it a probability—that she had cancer. Past the cemetery where his sister Pam and her husband Freeland Elliot, Luari's father were buried. Past the Serge Island sugar estate. Through Seaforth. Past Kim Tulloch's gate. Kim was fond of Ima too, and he should have stopped to tell her but hadn't the heart for it.

  The ride home seemed interminable.

  Next day he and Alison arrived at the hospital early, but Tom Kirk was waiting. Again the absence of sparkle in the big man's eyes told Lyle the news was bad even before Kirk spoke.

  "I've already sent her to University," he said, "and talked on the phone with the man who'll be doing the surgery. As soon as I know anything, I'll get word to you."

  "And the bill," Lyle said with his arm around Alison. "Have them send me the bill, Tom."

  Kirk shrugged. "Your part of it will be only a token amount. When this country's poor need medical help, we manage to be there for them. That's one thing we seem to do right."

  2

  It was a week of mixed emotions. From Roddy, in Haiti, came a letter that was like a triumphal shout. At last, at long last, the returns from his little resort hotel had stopped their wild fluctuations and the venture was showing a small but steady profit. "Let me emphasize that word steady," he wrote. "It's been a long, hard pull, but, by God, I now see a light at the end of the tunnel."

  A second letter from Haiti, this one from Lee, was also full of good personal news and contained a stunning photograph of her daughter Carita who, born in 1960, was now three years old. Little Carita had some of her father's good looks and some of Lee's, and on her several visits to Glencoe had demonstrated a predilection toward her mother's disposition. No one —at least no one with stodgy ideas—was ever going to make this busy little lady do something she didn't feel like doing.

  But a page added to the letter by Carey was less cheerful. They should know that something frightening had happened to Haiti since the election of Papa Doc Duvalier, he wrote. Upon moving into the National Palace, that man so respected for his part in the eradication of the yaws scourge had suffered an almost incomprehensible change of personality. The country doctor had become a dictator who ruled with a steel fist, and his private army of ruthless men, the Tonton Macoutes, daily became more barbarous. Those who opposed Duvalier in any way rotted in prison without trial or mysteriously disappeared. "I told you before, I think, of the story going around that Papa Doc had a massive heart attack in 1959, about a year and half after he became president, and was never the same afterward. And another thing may have contributed to the change in him. In 1960, about the time Carita was born, he turned on some Catholic priests and was excommunicated by the Pope. Except for Doc's goons, Port-au-Prince after dark is all but d
eserted now."

  So, of course, the Bennetts feared for the safety of Lee and her husband and child, and wondered aloud why Dr. Carey Aldred continued to work in such a dangerous place.

  Glencoe, however, was thriving. "You know something?" Lyle said to Alison one evening that week. "I've just been over our finances, and we could have backed Roddy in his hotel venture even without selling our house on Gorton Pond."

  "But we'd have sold it sooner or later anyway, Lyle," Alison argued. "If we ever do go back to the States, it won't be to those Rhode Island winters, you know. Not after such a long time in the tropics. It would be to Florida."

  "Anyway, it's good to know we're so solvent."

  The dark side of the week centered on Ima Bailey.

  Lyle and Alison visited her at the University Hospital the day after her surgery. In a cheerful, first-floor ward with large windows that looked out on a lawn dotted with trees and flowers, they sat beside her bed and held her hands while she gazed at them with wide, frightened eyes. Two days later they drove in again, to find those frightened eyes full of tears. On the first visit she had been too ill to be fully aware of what had been done to her, but on the second she had known how much of her body was no longer there. "Mum, me can't ever be a woman again," she whispered to Alison. ”Everything gone down there."

  Alison dried the tears. "But you're alive, Ima. You'll soon be well. And be honest . . . at our age the other doesn't matter that much, now does it?"

  It hadn't mattered to Ima since the tragic death of her husband, Lyle thought—but he kept the thought to himself.

  It would be two or three weeks, they were told, before Ima could leave the hospital. The surgery had gone well—it was performed in the hospital theater with student medics observing—but it had been radical and the healing would be slow. "But then you'll be coming back to Glencoe, Ima," Alison assured her, "to get over this in your own good time. Beryl has promised to stay on, so you'll only need to help her when you want to."

  The word of her illness had reached Mango Gut the very day Ima was taken to the hospital, it seemed. That evening her best friend, Beryl Mangan, had appeared at the Great House offering to take her place until she returned. An attractive woman some ten years younger than Ima, Beryl read the Bible in her church on Sundays. Unlike Ima, she went home nights.