Chapter 6 #2
Byron leans back in his chair. “He believes in your instincts, especially regarding new people. I want to join the movement, and Allan is a smart, cautious man. He is someone I’ve known and respected for quite a while.
Of course, he will ultimately decide if I am worthy, but if you say no, I’m out before I’m in.
I don’t want that to happen. So, I’m trying to impress you with the truth about who I am and who I aspire to become. ”
“Who do you aspire to be?”
“One of the first plantation owners to support and implement a labor union for workers.”
“That’s a nice speech, but it’ll take more than nice speeches to convince me you’re not your father’s spy. Besides, I thought you had nothing to do with your family business.”
“It will be my business one day.”
“And you aren’t in cahoots with the constable?” I ask in a mocking tone.
“This is not a joke to me, Zinzi.”
“It’s not a joke to me either,” I reply. “You were the one who said you wanted to share. I am simply encouraging you.”
He places the empty glass on the table.
“Touché.” He takes his napkin, wipes the corners of his mouth, and clears his throat.
“My mother died a decade ago, and I blamed my father. He never struck her or did anything to harm her physically, but he married her and ignored her. I hated him for that. So I left Jamaica, never intending to return.” He adjusts his shoulders, and his eyes cloud over.
“Sorry,” he says after a moment. “She and I were very close.”
“My condolences for your loss.”
“And for yours.”
“How do you know about my losses?” I ask, offended, but then I remember. “Oh, that’s right.” He heard some of my story at the union meeting. “Thank you.”
“You see, my mother was mulatto. My father was a womanizer, but despite that, she fell in love with him and gave birth to a blond-haired, green-eyed son.” He points at himself.
“When he married her, she had to live as white in his world. Some of her family—my family—worked as field laborers on his sugar plantation. I can’t understand why she loved him.
” He exhales loudly. “Anyway, when she died, I didn’t handle it well.
So, I left.” He gestures toward the waiter passing by.
“Another whiskey, sir?” the waiter asks.
“Coffee, please.” He turns to me. “Will you join me for a cup?”
“Sure, why not?” I reply, adding to the waiter, “With extra milk and sugar, please.”
He has shared far more than I expected, and the information about Allan and Byron’s pasts intrigues and unsettles me. I know nothing about Allan’s connection to a plantation owner’s son. At the very least, I owe Byron the courtesy of joining him for coffee.
“So, you want to join the movement because of your mother?” It’s a cynical question, and he flinches. But I don’t apologize. “Why did you come back to Jamaica?”
“I’m an only child. My father wants me to take over the business.”
“And he’ll be okay with you starting a union for your workers?”
“My father is very ill.”
My anger at his family’s plantation leaves me momentarily without words, but I recover enough to be polite. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” He bows his head slightly. “There is much about my father that I detest, but I would not wish him to suffer from an illness.”
“I understand.”
“The more I learn about the labor union, the more I want to make changes when Tynesdale Estate is under my management.”
“That’s quite a bold statement.”
“You don’t believe me?”
I gaze at him for a long moment. “I’m not sure.”
“I need you to believe me.” His voice is almost a plea.
“There’s something you should know. Sugar plantations are the villains in my story—the devils in my Bible.
The plantation workers who matter most to me are already lost, and my grief is unending.
So, while I may smile, make small talk, and ask intrusive questions, the thought of the owner’s son from Tynesdale Estate joining the movement repulses me.
“You don’t get it. I dream of burning your father’s plantation to the ground.” I slam my fist on the table but the sharp pain I feel is mostly in my heart, not my hand. “Look, this is more than I planned for one evening. I need to call it a night.”
“I understand,” he says. “Maybe after you talk to Allan, we can meet again tomorrow and have dinner at a reasonable hour.”
I frown noting how he didn’t react to my dream of destroying his family plantation. “Tomorrow? What’s the rush?”
“Ten years—it’s taken me to figure out what I want, and now that I know, I’m eager to get started.”
“What if I tell Allan you’re a no-go?”
“I’d still like to have dinner.” He smiles.
I don’t react to his obvious attempt at flirting. He didn’t react to my threat of arson. I’d never consider such a thing. “As I mentioned, I’ll talk to Allan and be in touch.”
An hour later, I lie in my narrow bed in my shabby home in Trench Town, exhaustion pulling me toward sleep.
But first, I jot down a few thoughts in the journal by my bedside.
Not that I’ll forget anything about Byron Tynesdale.
I just need to see it in writing. Meet Allan after work and share my first impression of the man who showed up yesterday to save us.