by Joan Hess
Behind them, a short black woman carried a tray with a pitcher, an ice bucket, several glasses, and a plate of crackers. Gerry introduced her as Emelda, the maid.
“Hope you like my rum punch, Mr. Bloomer,” she said, her round face wrinkling as she smiled at him. “I make the best punch on the island, or so they tell me.”
“I’m sure it will prove excellent,” Theo said. Once she had gone, he looked at Dorrie. “Everything under control in the kitchen, my dear?”
“I suppose so, although we’re having peculiar things for dinner, and I’m not sure what the others will think. Callaloo, cho-cho, peas and rice, and a chicken dish that actually may have potential.” She gazed at Mary Margaret’s inert form, then turned to Gerry. “It is vital, however, that I do menus immediately. I do think we’ll be safer with lobster, shrimp, steaks, and that sort of thing.”
“But you ought to sample the Jamaican food while you’re here,” Gerry said. “I’m sure Amelia will prepare ackee and salt fish for breakfast, along with fried plantains, bammies, and boiled green bananas if she can get them.”
Dorrie gave Theo a look reminiscent of a lab bunny facing a twelve-inch hypodermic needle. “I’d better speak to her at once,” she said as she scrambled out of her chair and hurried toward the house.
Theo took the proffered glass of rum punch from Gerry. “In one sense, Dorrie is terribly sophisticated, but in another she’s as provincial as a native who’s never left the island. Her parents have taken her to Europe several times, but they always stay in American hotel chains where they can count on English-speaking waiters to serve bacon and eggs for breakfast. Her father almost had a stroke when first confronted with a continental breakfast.”
“Tell me about this group, Theo. They are somewhat younger than most of my clients, and they seem awfully uptight for a bunch of college kids on spring break.”
He took a moment to recall what he could of Dorrie’s commentary on the airplane. “Well, Sandy, the blond-haired boy, attends naval academy. His mother is solid Baltimore money, his father a stern, harrumphing sort who stresses discipline and personal sacrifice. Sandy and Biff are old prep school chums, with lots of holiday visiting and yachting in the summer.”
“And Biff belongs to the red-haired girl?”
“That seems to be an issue at the moment,” Theo confessed. “Biff is reputedly engaged to my niece, Dorrie, although I don’t believe it’s official yet and no dates have been discussed that I’m aware of.”
Gerry stared at the figure across the pool. “Oh, dear, I could see the fireworks going off, but I wasn’t sure why. The redhead has the moves of a hungry tigress; I can understand why your niece is storming around the kitchen.”
“It’s actually her normal behavior.” He then explained the volatile situation between Trey and Bitsy, which earned a few ill-disguised snickers of laughter from Gerry, who was clearly amused by the complexities of the house party. “I merely intend to survive the week,” he concluded stiffly.
“Marie Antoinette said the same during the French Revolution, Theo. But for now, let me show you the brochures concerning the boat and train rides, the beach parties at the hotels, the great houses and gardens, and all the touristy things in the area.”
They were discussing botanical gardens when Biff, Sandy, and Bitsy, now dressed in bathing suits and carrying towels, suntan lotion, magazines, and other necessary paraphernalia to battle the sun, came out of the house and down the steps to the pool deck. Sandy and Bitsy continued around to the table with the pitcher and glasses, but Biff, after a furtive peek at the terrace, turned the opposite way and sat down next to Mary Margaret.
When Dorrie returned to the terrace, she stopped to stare at the two whispering together, their faces no more than a foot apart. For a moment, Theo thought she might stomp her foot or even snatch up an ashtray to hurl at the treacherous duo, but she gained control of herself and glided down the stairs with a serene smile. Caldicotts avoided public displays, relying on more subtle forms of vengeance. Nadine had produced more than one nervous breakdown through strategic manipulation of seating arrangements at dinner parties.
Once Dorrie had a glass of rum punch in her hand, she crossed her legs and looked at Gerry. “I had a discussion with Amelia about the breakfast menu. Are you aware that this ackee thing is poisonous if not handled properly?”
“That’s what we’re having for breakfast?” Sandy said from his chaise in the sun. He grasped his neck and produced a gurgling noise. “I’d rather croak with a decent tan so Mummy can have an open casket. Can’t we wait until the last morning for the fateful dish?”
“I read of this ackee in the travel guide,” Theo said. “It is known as the Blighia sapida and is now considered endemic to Jamaica, although it was introduced from Africa by slave ships in the late eighteenth century. It is only dangerous in its unripened stage, when ingestion leads to what is called the vomiting sickness. There is no known antidote. Once the pod has split, it’s safe. In fact, it’s the national dish of Jamaica.”
Dorrie shook her head. “Amelia showed me one, and it’s utterly gross-looking. The interior resembles eyeballs with shiny black centers. It was disgusting, which is by far the kindest thing I can say about it.”
“It sounds scary,” Bitsy said, her eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses that gave her the appearance of a curly-haired insect. “I don’t see any reason to take chances with it. The cook may not know how to judge whether it’s ripe or not, and I for one have no intention of dying outside the continental United States.”
Gerry chuckled. “It is the national dish, and Amelia has prepared it all her life. The white flesh is boiled, then chopped and cooked with salted codfish imported from Canada. It tastes very much like scrambled eggs.”
“Then let’s just have scrambled eggs.” Bitsy took a bottle of suntan oil from a denim bag and began to apply it to her legs. After a moment, Sandy took the bottle from her hand and assisted her amid little squeals of protest and giggles when his hand strayed.
“What do you think, Biff?” Dorrie called across the pool. “Shall we have poisonous fruit for breakfast, or would you prefer to live dangerously in other ways?”
Biff glanced up guiltily, then stood up and came around the pool to pour himself a glass of punch. “Whatever has put you in this tedious snit, Dorrie? It is not attractive.”
“What can you possibly be talking about, Biffkin? I was inquiring in all innocence about everyone’s preferences for breakfast tomorrow morning. One of us has to deal with the help, after all, and let them know what we expect of them. The little chore has cut into the peak tanning hours already, but someone has to do it. Now that it’s settled, perhaps I’ll change into my string bikini and wallow around on the deck like a half-naked albino walrus.”
“Dorrie, that was a totally gross thing to say, and—”
“Is it time for martinis?” Trey called as he appeared on the stairs that led to the front lawn. “I have explored the territory and can claim it as my own. However, I am absolutely arid, and it is after five o’clock in the afternoon somewhere in the world.”
Dorrie turned away from Biff. “Yes, darling, although we’re all having rum punch. Shall I pour you one?”
“I never touch anything with fruit juice in it. My body is unaccustomed to anything remotely connected with vitamins. It drove Mummy wild. She used to tell me bedtime stories about sailors with scurvy, rickets, and zits.”
“I’ll run up to the kitchen and have Emelda fix up a pitcher of martinis just for you,” Dorrie said. “In the interim, you can join the discussion about the breakfast menu. We’re considering having this thing that’s poisonous.”
“I never eat breakfast, so you may all spread cyanide on your toast if you desire. And tell the woman that martinis are shaken, not stirred.” Trey flopped into a chaise and gave the others a boyish smile. “I’m sending the pool boy to the hotel shop for suntan oil and a copy of The Wall Street Journal, by the way. If any of you chaps ne
ed anything, you’d better hop off your fannies and catch him before he leaves.”
All turned their heads as a beige car roared down the driveway and squealed around the corner.
Biff gave him a withering look. “You might have let us know ahead of time, Trey. I might need something, too.”
“I doubt they have cold showers in the shop at the hotel. The rooms, probably, but not the shop. Too public for words.”
“Biff,” Mary Margaret called, “would you be so kind as to bring me a glass of punch and help me oil my back? I can tell I’m going to turn bright red if I miss one little centimeter of flesh. I’d just die if I burned my back on the first day.”
“Because you’re planning to spend so much time on it at night?” Trey called back in a genial voice.
Biff glared at him, then at the terrace door through which Dorrie had vanished. His hand shook as he filled a glass with the red punch, but he managed a smile as he went around the pool and knelt next to Mary Margaret. Taking the plastic bottle, he began to dribble oil on her back.
It was intermission time. Aware that the second act would not begin until Dorrie returned, Theo looked at Gerry. “You mentioned that you’ve been with your firm for twenty years. You must enjoy it.”
“It’s amusing,” she said. “We handle nearly fifty villas in this development, and lease to parties for anywhere between one week and three months. Some of the families have been coming as long as I’ve been here.”
“And before that?” Theo inquired.
“I was a real estate agent in New Jersey. The climate here is so much more civilized, and the pace more suitable for this middle-aged body. It can be frantic when I have several groups descending the same day, but for the most part I do correspondence in the office, work in my garden, or run up to New York for travel fairs and conventions.”
“I went to Jersey once,” Trey said. “It was more than enough for a lifetime. Princeton, of course, but it turned out to be one of the country’s most boring institutions. Where did you live?”
“Not too far from New York City. You didn’t like Princeton?”
Bitsy sat up. “He was booted for what he called a practical joke. I believe the police referred to it as a second-degree felony.” She oiled her forearms, then lay back.
“I didn’t realize you’d transferred to the Harvard Law School,” Trey said, his voice hinting at anger for the first time. “But I might have guessed, since your literary taste leans toward epics like Love Story.”
“At least I can read.”
Theo decided to intervene. “So, Gerry, you have a garden. Tell me, have you tried tomatoes here, or do you find the climate too hot?”
“I garden in a very modest way, Theo. I have a few bougainvilleas, azaleas, and simple things like that. I’d invite you to inspect my efforts, but I can see you’ll be very busy this week.”
Theo spotted Dorrie on the terrace, a pitcher in her hand.
She was staring down at the couple on the distant side of the pool, and he could see the pitcher trembling. Mary Margaret was prone and glistening, but Biff stared back with a coldly defiant expression. Trey was snorting under his breath, Bitsy’s latest barb seeming to have found its target. Bitsy’s mouth had a self-righteous curl. Sandy was gazing at the ocean.
“Very busy, I fear,” Theo agreed with a sigh. He decided to consult his travel guide for the perimeters of the hurricane season. It might provide a divertissement.
Dinner was strained, but the group had been through years of nannies, etiquette classes, parental lectures, and prep school rules, and the conversation was determinedly polite. They gathered on the terrace for coffee to allow Amelia and Emelda to clear the table. One was always considerate of the help.
Sandy took one of the brochures Gerry had left for them. “There’s a beach party at one of the big resorts tonight. All the booze you can drink, wet T-shirt and limbo contests, non-stop reggae music. It sounds outrageous. Why don’t we check it out?”
“It’s open to the public?” Dorrie said doubtfully.
“I think it sounds marvelous,” Mary Margaret said. “Don’t you think it sounds marvelous, Biff? If Dorrie’s too tired, I’m sure she can stay here and try to get a good night’s sleep.” She switched her smile to Dorrie. “You look like a raccoon, with those old dark circles under your eyes. Did all those drinks on the flight give you a nasty hangover?”
“Your concern is so totally sweet, but my mascara must be smudged. I’m not the least bit tired. I was wondering if you’d prefer to stay here and try to do something about your hair, which must be causing you no end of depression. We can thank our lucky stars that Mr. Robert isn’t here to see it, can’t we? But I think the party sounds marvelous.”
She and the other two girls went upstairs. Biff said to Theo, “We’d be delighted to have you come with us, sir. The music may be loud, but I’m sure we can find a table toward the edge of the crowd so it won’t be unbearable for you.”
“How kind of you, but please go without me,” Theo said hastily. “I would prefer to sit by the pool for a while, then retire at a reasonable time. I assume my presence as a chaperone is more an honorary position than a relentless responsibility. You will take care of the girls, I trust?”
“Very good care, sir,” Sandy said earnestly. “As Dorrie mentioned, it is open to the public, and there is an undesirable element on the island.”
Trey, who had been noticeably quiet at dinner, managed a nod.
The girls came down half an hour later, now in sundresses. Sandy announced that Eli would drive them over and wait, which meant they could all get looped, paralytic, twisted, wasted, and wrecked. It did not sound particularly appealing to Theo, but he wished them a pleasant evening and carried the coffee cups and pot to the kitchen.
Amelia snatched the tray from him. “Emelda supposed to clear the table. That be her job.”
“I was on my way upstairs,” Theo lied, “and it was no problem at all. Have you and Emelda made arrangements to be picked up once you’ve finished in here?”
“We walk to the bus stop at the bottom of the hill. Am I to fix ackee and sal’ fish tomorrow morning or not? If not, I can go to the market before I come here, but I’ll be late and won’t have breakfast ready on time.”
“I truly don’t know,” Theo said glumly. “I suppose you might as well fix the dish, as long as there’s plenty of toast and coffee for those who are a bit squeamish.”
“Whole bunch of them are squeamish,” Amelia muttered. She dumped the coffee cups in the sink and splashed water on them. “Real squeamish.”
“Indeed.” Theo went upstairs to find his travel guide, then returned to the terrace and sat down to reread about the ackee tree and its potentially lethal fruit. After a short while, Amelia and Emelda went out the kitchen door and walked down the driveway, talking loudly to each other. Although their English had been fine earlier, Theo could understand nothing of what they said between themselves. He flipped to the section on island dialect.
The chapter was enlightening, but not enough to prevent his eyes from closing and his chin from falling against his chest. He was blissfully dozing when something caused him to open his eyes. He first suspected his unruly charges had returned home, but the house was dark and the driveway vacant. As he wrinkled his forehead, he heard voices from the villa next door.
“I’m absolutely booked solid tomorrow. I’m having lunch at a private estate in Ocho Rios. The woman has been asking me over for an intimate little luncheon for six weeks. If I simply show her a little affection, as distasteful as it may be for me, I can take her out next week for a long, profitable cruise should I encounter our friends on the high seas. However, I’m going to have to spend some time with her—even if it bores me to death.” The voice was male, irritated.
“Then don’t do it,” a second male voice said, although it was so low Theo had difficulty making out the words. Male, definitely, and more composed than the first speaker. “I don’t like this business
.”
“And you think I do? I’m sick of pseudo-reggae music, lunches with pudgy white ladies from New York, escorting the same to dinners where I almost puke every time I look across the table—”
“I never knew gigolos were so sensitive,” interrupted the second voice.
Theo realized he was eavesdropping, an act he permitted himself only when he deemed it necessary. He coughed to announce his presence, then flipped open his book and rustled the pages. The voices stopped, although he could not help noticing a few whispers before a door closed on the far side of the fence. Within ten minutes, headlights flashed on the palm trees and a car rumbled down the driveway and into the night.
Seconds later, a car pulled up the driveway adjoining the terrace. For a moment, Theo thought Gerry might have returned with more brochures, but noted the car was a tame beige. He put down his book, wondering why a reputedly tranquil paradise seemed to have so much traffic. Eli climbed out of the car and stopped by the entrance to the terrace.
“I left the kids at the beach for a while. I’ll go back for them around midnight.”
“Are you sure they’ll be quite safe, Eli? This is their first night in Jamaica, and they’re not familiar with the local customs.”
“No problem. I could see they familiar with the drinking and dancing customs. The red-haired girl was onstage trying to limbo when I left, and one of the boys had puked twice out by the water. Jamaicans don’t go to the hotel parties, anyway. We go to our own places where the music is better and the rum cheaper.” Eli displayed perfect white teeth. “You want to come with me some night? I can show you a good time, with lots of pretty women.”
“No, thank you,” Theo said, trying to imagine himself in such a place. “If nothing else, I have gathered that the political situation is causing unrest between the major parties, and a certain amount of resentment against the tourists.”
“Not around Montego Bay, Mr. Bloomer. There be trouble in Kingston, where they had the gas riots couple years back. They have the demonstrations, the riots, all the fun. Here in MoBay, we just serve rum and make music for the tourists. Then we take their dollars and drink rum and make music for ourselves. No problem in MoBay.”
