Chapter 21
ZINZI
Trench Town, Kingston
My father died from the injuries he sustained while working at the Tynesdale Estate. Every inch of him was a scab, a scar, or a burn. When he passed, my mother couldn’t be consoled. She cried for days, months, years.
Some nights, as I try to fall asleep, the memories of what I have lost are so vivid, so loud, and relentless that I can almost touch the scars on my father’s arms, kiss Marvin’s cold, lifeless lips, or dare River Mumma to pull me under the sea.
I lie in my cot, staring at the ceiling, wishing for the darkness to end and the dawn to rise.
I roll onto my side wearily. Generations of the Maroon people fought for their freedom and survived. I moved through my grief after my father’s death when I met Marvin. A joyful bull of a man, he was eager to raise a family and believed in the power of the silk cotton tree.
Maybe Raymond’s message arrived just in time. Maybe Byron will be able to tell me how much truth there is in his father’s words.
Maybe, as much as I don’t want to, leaving Kingston for a few days to play tour guide for some Americans will give me a chance to clear my mind. Allan said he understood. Whatever Byron says about his father won’t matter. I might as well go and see my mother.
Myrtle Bank Hotel, Kingston
The sunset spreads over Kingston Harbour like a fading rainbow.
I sit on the veranda at the Myrtle Bank Hotel, watching Byron as he watches me.
“The other day, your father visited Allan’s office.
” I pause, waiting for Byron’s reaction, but he shows none.
“He said you misled Allan and me about your motives for joining the labor union movement. He claims you’ve been keeping track of me for a while, since shortly after your return to Jamaica several weeks ago. ”
“My father believes the only way I could be interested in the labor union has to be about something other than the union.”
“Like a woman?”
He shakes his head, dismissing my supposition. “Did he mention the tax?”
“On the Maroon people for the rum made in the Cockpit? Yes, he brought it up.”
“He’s behind the push by government officials and other plantation owners.”
“That’s not all he had to say.” A chill runs down my spine. “Did you know a fieldworker at Tynesdale Estates named Marvin Banks?”
Byron’s jaw muscles tighten. “He was your fiancé, and yes, I knew him, which I assume my father told you.” He lights a cigarette, his hand shaking slightly. “I met him the season I worked the sugarcane fields at Tynesdale. We were mates.”
“Were you with him the day he died?” I fear I’ll lose control of my voice but I manage to avoid screaming and keep talking. “Was it your machete that took his life? Why didn’t you tell me you knew him?”
“I—I didn’t know he was your fiancé at first.”
“You’re lying. How could you not know?”
“Because you never said his name when you spoke at the rallies I attended. And he never referred to you by name when he talked about his fiancée.”
“I still don’t believe you,” I say, my voice icy. “If you knew him, you would have known about us. That’s just who he was.”
“The woman he loved he called Mermaid.”
Marvin knew of my love for flowing water and River Mumma.
He understood my fear of enclosed spaces.
He knew everything there was to know about the girl I was then and the woman I aspired to be.
He called me Mermaid, a creature capable of conquering her fears, loving generously, and escaping any prison that might hold her, with the help of water and fins.
Hearing his nickname for me again after so long nearly brings me to my knees.
“Did you know about Marvin and me on the day you saved me from arrest? Was it some misguided attempt to make amends? Tell me—when did you find out that Marvin’s Mermaid and I were the same?”
“It was my father and his private detective. They told me.”
“Do you even care about the labor union movement? Why are you here? To tell me more lies?”
“Zinzi, please. I swear. My father will do or say whatever he can to keep me under his thumb. He told you lies and half-truths. He wants you not to trust me, for he knows if you don’t, neither will Allan Coombs.
He wants you to be afraid of his power. That’s why he’s leading the discussion on taxation against the Maroon people over rum.
He’s a bully: putting police officers in his pocket, sabotaging rallies, and arresting labor union organizers and volunteers.
” Byron exhales. “His first step is to have you arrested.”
“Why me? Why not Allan or any of the organizers?”
“Bernard Tynesdale knows I care about you and believes you influenced my support for the labor union movement.”
The air on the veranda rises toward the sky and disappears into the clouds. I try to swallow, but there’s nothing in my throat. “I can’t be arrested. I couldn’t bear being trapped in a jail cell.”
The lines across his forehead deepen. “Trust me. I’ll find a way to stop him. But I can’t do it yet. I need more time and for you to be patient.”
I sense he’s not saying something. “What do you want me to do?”
“Don’t go to the Kingston Waterfront rally. Leave town.”
“Run away? The Waterfront rally is too important to miss.”
Byron leans forward, elbows on the table, palms pressed together. “Consider my father’s threat a promise. He will have you arrested.”
The hotel’s veranda is too crowded, and our conversation is attracting onlookers. Or it’s my imagination. Either way, I need to leave. “I can’t sit here. Can we go for a walk?”
“Yes, sure.” Byron asks for the check, although I don’t recall ordering anything. Soon, we make our way through the lobby when a crack of thunder explodes. Then lightning and a downpour begin.
“Let’s go upstairs to my suite,” he says. “We can sit on the balcony and watch the rain.”
We climb the stairs in silence, lost in our own thoughts.
In his suite, he stops in the small entranceway. “I hope you know I didn’t want any of this to happen. Since we met, I’ve felt a connection to you that isn’t only about the labor movement.”
He’s talking about the kiss, and if not, I’m thinking about it. I feel a flutter in my stomach, a kaleidoscope of butterflies making themselves known. “Oh you do?”
Byron looks down at me with gentle eyes. “I’ve known you for a week, but I want to know you better and longer.” He chuckles shyly. “I think I’m falling in love with you, or maybe I’m already in love.”
Rarely in the past ten years have I been at a loss for words.
In this moment, I am speechless. I have spent most of my thirty-two years either in love or afraid of love.
I cherished my father, my fiancé, and the Cockpit, along with the thatched-roof hut where I grew up.
I loved everything from tilling the soil during planting season to digging for root vegetables in the fall and picking ackee fruit, Jamaican cherries, and strawberries in late spring and early summer.
But love can destroy as much as it heals.
That’s why I fear it, and that fear has kept me safe for a decade.
Byron, with his passion, determination, quiet strength, and even his anger—damn him—takes my fear away.
Without knowing how, I find myself in his arms, sharing a kiss that is so passionate, so consuming, so sensual I forget why I waited so long for another kiss and now, that kiss is not enough.
I want to feel his body pressed against mine, his lips on my throat, my breasts.
Passionately, my arms wrap around his neck.
He has one hand on my waist, and I don’t notice where his other hand is until I feel his palm gently cupping my chin.
I forget about time, sugarcane, and fear as we make the kind of love I had given up on, a feeling I haven’t experienced in too long.
Since leaving Accompong, I have been with other men.
My body craves what it craves, but with Byron, I discover something more intimate and profound—something deeper than I can or want to define.
Afterward, we lay in his bed, naked, our bodies glowing from the love we’ve shared. Admittedly, however, I don’t recall how we got to the bedroom or where we left our clothing.
Curled against his body, I decide that I might as well give him my answer.
“All right—”
“All right what?” he says with surprise, squeezing me tighter.
“I’ll stay away from the rally, but your father is dangerous.”
“I am my father’s son, but I won’t let him jeopardize the family business because of his inability to change.” Byron inhales deeply. “I’ll make it right, Zinzi. Trust me.”