by Cave, Hugh
"What should she do, Tom?"
"She should stay here at Glencoe." Tom Kirk could still command a booming voice when he felt the occasion called for one. "She should stay here and, when her time comes, be laid to rest down there beside him. Let's sit a minute, Carey, shall we?" They had come upon one of several handsome garden benches made recently by Cliff, with lumber from Alison's pine forest. Kirk sank onto it.
"Lee thinks we should take her to the States with us," Carey said, glad enough to follow the older man's lead. "Cliff agrees with you, that she should stay here. Alison, herself, simply refuses to accept the fact that Lyle is dying."
The two men continued to talk, each of them glad to be able to confide in someone who would listen with understanding. In his room at the Great House, the man whose imminent death they discussed lay in bed with his eyes closed, seemingly asleep.
But Lyle was not sleeping. He only wished he were, so that he might escape the unending pain.
It was his own fault that he was lying here, he thought. There was no denying that dismal fact. All of them, not just Alison but all of them, had begged him for years to stop smoking so much. Drinking, too—but he had turned to the liquor, he guessed, because it helped ease the mental anguish of knowing he was a slave to the cigarettes. God, if only he could turn the clock back and start over, he would somehow find the willpower that had so cruelly eluded him.
Now, like those people at the cancer place, he was dying. Every day the coughing and the pain became worse. Every time he awoke after a precious few hours of sleep, he was surprised to find himself still alive. But what kind of life was it when the pain was always there like some fierce, fanged animal crouching at the foot of the bed, waiting to pounce on him the moment it saw his eyes open?
Death. It would come soon, thank God. For a long time he had hoped that by not smoking—because, of course, he couldn't smoke now—he might survive this crisis and get back on his feet. But now he knew better. It was only a matter of weeks, at the most. Perhaps even days.
Was he afraid of dying? No, damn it, he was not. What was it Kim Tulloch had said in her feisty, gutsy way, just before she passed away? "Why should I be afraid to die, for heaven's sake? If there's another life after this one, I'll be back to enjoy it. If there isn't . . . well, if this is the end of everything, I won't even know I'm dead, will I?"
He should stop thinking about it, he told himself. Right now, for instance, the pain was not too intense and he should think about some of the good things. About Alison, who had loved him and stuck by him all these years in spite of his stupidity. And the kids, who were happily married—at least the twins were, and Roddy had been for a while after all but destroying himself over losing the McKenzie girl. What a bastard that old Judge McKenzie had been, as if a little indiscreet love-making between two loving young people were something satanic. Had he never made a mistake himself?
And Luari. How wonderful, really, that Freeland Elliot's out-of-wedlock daughter had become Cliff's wife, bearing Cliff two lovely daughters. How fulfilling that the wheel had come full circle and she, to whom the plantation probably should have gone when Freeland and Pamela died, was now in fact mistress of Glencoe . . .
But the fanged thing that lurked at the foot of the bed was about to pounce again, and when it did, its claws would sink into his chest and the pain would be almost more than he could bear.
Bracing himself, he struggled to take in a breath.
That, of course, was a mistake. Of late, he had had to do his breathing in tiny sips, not gulps. A deep breath always made the pain more excruciating.
Through the terrible sound of his coughing he heard someone come running into the room. Then the beast buried its fangs deeper into his chest and he sank into blessed oblivion.
Andrea's Englishman, Russell Hazard, arrived in time for dinner. He was six-two and blond, and good-looking in a way another man from England, Lyle Bennett, must have been when only that old. Afterward he was invited to stay the night and drive back to Kingston in the morning, because a sudden, unexpected rain had more than likely made the mountain road dangerous in the dark. Lyle, heavily sedated, slept again after his attack. The women occupied the drawing room and talked about plans for the wedding. The men gathered on the veranda—all but Roddy, who complained of being weary from the day's activities and retired to his room.
"The feeling seems to be that Michael will make a comeback," Russell Hazard said. "People like him, you know. He's the embodiment of the new catch-word, 'charisma', while Seaga's a bit on the dour side. Mind you," he quickly added, "I think Seaga's the better man, myself. But I tend to believe the voters will disagree with me."
"You weren't here for the '83 election," Cliff said. "But I suppose you know Manley's party boycotted it, leaving the JLP controlling all sixty seats."
"Yes, I know. There was some sort of dispute over the timing?"
"The JLP named an election date only two months off, giving the opposition too little time—or so they claimed— to register voters and get themselves organized."
"Why did Seaga's people do that?" the man from England asked.
Vernon Jansen said, "Probably because they were riding high after my country kicked the Communists out of Grenada. He backed us in that, you know, and for once we seem to have done something the rest of the hemisphere approved of."
Tom Kirk directed a frown at Cliff. "I seem to remember you've more or less approved of Michael all along, Cliff. The political scene here is one of the few things you and your father have never quite agreed on."
"I like the man. Of course, I don't approve of the mess he made of Jamaica with his so-called democratic socialism." Cliff's tone was defensive. "But the truth is, I tend to agree with those who say his biggest mistake was in letting party hacks sway his better judgment. Now we hear that he's privately admitting he made mistakes and won't make them again."
"And you think he'll win," Russell Hazard said.
"I think he'll win. Yes."
"If he does," Tom Kirk said, "and hasn't changed his thinking, we could be in for one hell of a time here." He scowled at Carey. "What's your opinion, Carey?"
Carey threw up his hands. "Don't even ask me. I've just lived through the death and resurrection of Haiti. By the time your next election rolls around, Lee and I will be in the States."
"He's going to win," Cliff said again. "It's ironic, because the reason he'll win is that Eddie Seaga hasn't been able to put the country straight after the mess Michael himself made of it. But I don't think Michael will make those mistakes twice."
"Well, it'll be a couple of years before you find out," Vernon Jansen said. "This whole screwed-up world could see some changes before then."
"What kind of changes?"
"Major ones. Dictators falling, oppressive governments being kicked out . . . that sort of thing. Haiti wasn't the only basket case on this sick planet, you know. Now that her people have found the courage to clean out the termites, who's to sayothers won't do the same?"
In the drawing room, where the women sat in the cluster of chairs at the fireplace, Carita Aldred was saying, "But can't wekeep it sort of informal, Grandmother Bennett? Vern and I have just been through a pretty rough time, you know."
"Oh, we'll do that," Alison assured her. "It isn't as though you and Vern are being married in a church, you know. We're very good at doing weddings here."
"You ought to be. You've done enough of them!" said fifteen-year-old Glenda, with a grin. Luari's youngest daughter got up to help Beryl Mangan, who had just come from the kitchen with coffee and was looking for a place to put down the tray. "But Carita's right, you know. We ought to keep it simple and charming. Of course, any wedding here in this house would be charming. If I had a dollar for every time I've heard that word used by strangers here, I'd go to Miami on a shopping spree."
The others had only loving smiles for her as she handed them their cups. Like Andrea, she so closely resembled her mother that only her age made a differe
nce. But somehow she had also acquired—perhaps from her Aunt Leora—a touch of independence that set her apart. A star student at the girls' school she attended, she rode horseback like a Cossack, loved to help Beryl in the kitchen, and had added to the Glencoe household two mongrel dogs and a one-eyed black kitten that did their best to follow her wherever she went. The dogs were on the floor by the fireplace now, with the kitten asleep between the paws of the larger one. And when she had passed around the cream and sugar, Glenda solemnly poured an inch of cream into her own saucer and placed it under the kitten's nose.
The wedding talk continued. The ceremony would take place on Saturday, the twelfth, in the late afternoon, Andrea informed them, and there would be a reception afterward. "You'll really like the new minister," she announced with another grin. "He's young and super-looking and has the most marvelous voice!"
"I hope you're not inviting a whole crowd of people," Carita said anxiously. "After what we went through in Haiti, even the thought of a crowd gives me the jitters."
"Well, of course, the Reids will be here," Alison said. "And Tom Kirk. But not many others, I promise."
"Will you be going somewhere for a honeymoon?" Glenda asked. "You could, you know. Even if it's only to Montego Bay to spend some time at the beach. Or Christiana. I love the countryside around Christiana. But of course that's a lot like here, and the beach would be a nice change."
Carita shook her head. "We'll be going to the States, you know. Vern is due back in Washington for reassignment."
"Reassignment where?" Alison asked.
"They haven't told him. But who cares, so long as we're together?"
In his room, with the door shut, Roddy lay on his bed with his hands clasped beneath his head and his gaze on the white-painted wooden ceiling. The fatigue he had complained about was not physical; it was a weariness of the mind. Since being shown the Gleaner's report of the death of Heather McKenzie's husband, his mind had been a kind of television screen that would not stop showing him pictures. Pictures of Heather—so vivid they might have been taken only moments ago.
Lying there on the bed, he had relived the moment in Devon when he had lowered himself into the pit, in the cave, to bring Heather back up. And the moment—the eternity of moments— when her father had returned unexpectedly to the house in Constant Spring and found him making love to her. And the times when he had sat in his car afterward, across the street from her house, desperately hoping for a glimpse of her.
But other pictures lingered in his mind, too. Of his marriage to Olive Frazer, here in the Glencoe Great House. Of the way Olive had so tirelessly worked with him to make a success of the resort in Haiti. Of his walking into the wreckage of that resort and discovering what the Tonton Macoutes had done to her.
Should he go to Montego Bay and look for Heather at this point in time? Would she even want him to? She was fifty-one now, for God's sake. He was fifty-three.
Fifty-three years old, and the heartaches were all behind him. With his experience, it should not be hard for him to find a job as resident manager of some modest resort hotel in the States. There must be hundreds of them. And such a job would answer his problem of where to live, as well.
That was the sensible thing to do; of course it was. Now, with the question answered, perhaps he could stop struggling with it and enjoy the wedding.
Right after the wedding, he would leave.
8
A few minutes before the wedding was to begin, Lyle insisted on being a part of it. "Just lift me out of bed and carry me to a chair in the drawing room, the way you used to carry me to the veranda," he said. "Carita's my granddaughter, damn it. If she's going to be married, I want to be there to see the job done right."
He said this—with a rare grin—to Desmond Reid, when Desmond went to his room to greet him soon after arriving with Mildred. Not knowing how to handle the request, Desmond returned to the drawing room and asked Tom Kirk for his opinion.
"He wants to be brought in here?" Kirk echoed.
"That's what he said."
"Well, why not? Tell you what, though." Kirk looked around the room, which at the moment was full of family and guests. "Let's not carry him in here like a bag of potatoes, Des. Just hold on a minute." Crossing the room to a group that included Cliff and Roddy, he brought those two back with him.
With the bearded doctor directing the performance, the four men picked up one of the big easy chairs by the fireplace and carried it to Lyle's bedside. Lifting Lyle from the bed, they stood him on his feet and put a dressing gown on him. But he did not like the dressing gown. "Damn it, this is a wedding!" he said. "I'm not going out there looking as though I've just escaped from a hospital!"
Cliff lifted a brown suit from a closet, and they dressed him. "No, you can't have a tie!" Kirk boomed when Lyle demanded one. "Anything tight around the neck could start you coughing, and then all of this would be for nothing. You look nice, man. Your granddaughter will be proud of you."
Grudgingly, Lyle settled for the suit, a white shirt with the collar unbuttoned, and his favorite leather slippers. But they needn't have brought the chair, he insisted. He could walk to the drawing room.
They let him try. With Roddy on one side of him, Cliff on the other, he got as far as the door. "All right, you win," he conceded with a groan. "Carry me if you have to."
When they had made him comfortable in the chair, the four of them picked it up and carried it to the drawing room. All conversation abruptly ceased when they made their appearance. Then, one by one, those present approached and exchanged a few words with him.
Alison was the last to do so. "I'm going to sit here beside you, dear," she said quietly. "Is that all right?"
"Of course." His hand found hers and closed on it.
He was alert when the ceremony began, Alison saw. With a smile on his lips, his eyes wide and bright, he looked more alive than he had in weeks. Toward the end, seeing him that way becameso reassuring that she allowed herself to concentrate for several minutes on what the Reverend Lundie Rae Nesbit, the young Scot Glenda thought so "super," was saying to Carita and Vernon.
When she looked at Lyle again, his head had slumped and his eyes were closed.
She leaned toward him, frightened. Had Tom Kirk given him something drastic to keep the pain at bay for this special occasion? Given him too much of something, perhaps? No, his chest was rising and falling. He was breathing. He had only fallen asleep.
He would stop breathing one day soon, though, she told herself, and then after fifty-four years of being married to him she would be alone. What, dear God, should she do—go back to the States and live with Lee and Carey or stay here at Glencoe ?
Even if Lee and Carey loved her and wanted her, as they kept telling her they did, her being with them would only add to their problems while they made a new home for themselves and he established a practice. Here she was in nobody's way and, besides, she was part of what had happened here. She had helped Lyle transform Glencoe into a thriving coffee plantation. Had given the children a fine start toward their education. Had even planted a pine forest! So . . . didn't it make more sense to stay here with Cliff and Luari, as they wanted her to? Didn't she belong here? Wasn't she partly responsible for making Glencoe into the proud and beautiful thing it had become?
“ . . . husband and wife."
Delivered in the voice her granddaughter Glenda so admired, the words jarred Alison out of her reverie. Good Lord, with worrying about Lyle and then about herself, she had missed the key part of the ceremony! But never mind. Carita and her Vernon were married, were kissing each other, and now there was music in the room. With Lee at the piano, Luari was singing Oh Promise Me. She still had a voice, too, even if she wasn't the Solitaire any longer. Such a lovely voice . . .
"He fell asleep, eh?" The speaker was Tom Kirk, bending over Lyle. "I thought he might. Never mind, he'll remember being here, and that's what matters. I'd better get him back to his bed now, though."
He becko
ned to the three who had helped him carry the chair before, and they hurried forward. Alison went with them, intending to stay at the bedside if Lyle awoke.
He didn't, though. And probably wouldn't for a while, Tom Kirk predicted. "Come on, Al. You need to join in the fun."
For the reception, Beryl and her helpers—three women recruited from the many who regularly picked Glencoe's coffee—had outdone themselves in preparing a buffet of things Jamaican. The big mahogany table groaned under its weight of food and drink. By demand, Cliff played some of Luari's records and followed them with reggae for the young people to dance to. Fifteen year old Glenda danced with the Reverend Lundie Nesbit and laughed a lot.
At ten o'clock, led by Tom Kirk and the Reids, the guests began to depart. Among the last to leave, the minister bid Luari goodbye, then turned to Glenda, held both of Glenda's hands for a moment, and murmured in Luari's hearing, "Will you hurry and grow up, lass? Please?"
Luari smiled, remembering a day at the pools when Cliff had whispered the same words, or a variation of them, to her. Then she smiled again on seeing Glenda at the veranda railing, waving goodbye as the young Scot got into his car.
By eleven, the sound of the last car to climb the driveway had died away and the Great House yard no longer resembled a parking lot. At eleven-fifteen, tired but happy, Alison went down the hall to Lyle's bedroom for the fourth time, to be sure he was still comfortably sleeping.
This time when she leaned over him she sensed something wrong. Alarmed, shebent closer and put an ear to his chest. Then she ran from the room shouting for Carey, who was on the veranda talking to his daughter and new son-in-law. Carey hurried back to the room with her.
While he examined her husband, Alison stood at the foot of the bed, her eyes wide and unblinking, one clenched hand pressing her lips against her teeth. After what seemed a very long time but could have been only a moment or two, Carey straightened and turned to face her, shaking his head, then stepped forward in silence and took her in his arms.
