Chapter 24
OTHELLA
Kingston-to-Montego-Bay Railway
I read aloud from the United Fruit Company travel brochure:
“ ‘The main line of the Appleton Estate railway departs from Kingston at noon each day and travels west through Spanish Town, Old Harbour, and May Pen before continuing through Bal-la-cla-va.’ ”
“Balaclava, that’s it, Othella,” Robbie says supportively. “Keep it up.”
“Give me a minute.” I stare out the glassless train window, listening to the crunch of the wheels on the broken iron slats.
Cackling chickens roam the train, competing with the braying beasts in the caboose.
Seated across from me are partially clothed islanders smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and chewing on sliced fruit.
The clickety-clack noise grows louder as the train ascends on wobbly tracks, winding around hills and jagged cliffs, passing through valleys and swaying near limestone rocks and fields of banana trees.
The air is filled with the scent of ripe fruit—bananas, mangoes, and coconuts.
My mother once bought a coconut in Chicago—how it got there, I never knew—and we ate it in the kitchenette after she used a large knife to split it open.
If this is to be my new home, knowing how to use a big knife seems smart because my switchblade is half the size of my mother’s coconut cutter.
It’s strange to think I can never go back to Chicago, not with blood on my hands. The train lurches to the side: What am I doing here?
This town, Accompong, is a village, and I have never seen a village before. It surely has no jazz music, dance halls, gin and tonics, or satin sheets. Not that I’d ever slept on satin sheets, but there was always a chance that might happen in Chicago.
Then there are my clothes. My T-strap pumps, sheer chiffon dresses, and plunging necklines are out of place in the jungle. And heaven help me, I have only one pack of cigarettes, even though the islanders on the train are smoking—but those hand-rolled cigarettes aren’t my brand.
“Come on, Othella. Read a little more.”
His voice pulls me from my panic. “Okay, Robbie, I’m reading, I’m reading.” I bring the brochure closer to my face. The print is small, but I love the smell of the ink. “ ‘Eventually, this train will pass by the Appleton Estate.’ ” I pause. “What is that?”
Another jarring shift occurs, and it feels like the train is about to derail. Sitting next to me, Robbie seems to share the same concern as he turns an unhealthy shade of brown and green.
“It’s a sugar plantation,” he says between rough swallows. “The largest in this parish, after the Tynesdale Estate.”
“A sugar plantation?”
“Sugarcane grows in fields like corn. By the time you see it in the grocery store, it has already been processed,” Robbie explains.
I think about this for a moment, my eyes squinting in concentration. Then I unfold the brochure to the last page and read, “ ‘We’ll arrive in Maggot Town.’ ” I frown at Robbie. “Now, that’s a disgusting name.”
“It’s pronounced Maggotty,” he assures me.
“All I hear is maggot.”
I wince, my body twisting in disgust. The smells of bananas and other fruits have given way to the stench of animal droppings and the sweat of several Jamaican passengers in baggy, unwashed dungarees, straw hats, and without proper shirts.
Beneath the foul odors lies a sweet, sugary scent reminiscent of the molasses my mother used when she ran out of white sugar.
“Robbie, what will I do in this village? Should I stay with you all day? Will we live in the same house? Are you going to teach me about the plants and animals from that book you read about the Caribbean jungles?”
“You’ll spend part of the day with me and I’ll teach you about plants and small animals, but we’ll also work for Miss Katherine and Miss Vivian Jean. Whatever she asks us to do, we’ll do it.”
“You should call them Katherine and Vivian Jean. That’s what they told me. You should do the same.” I stare out the window again. There is little to see besides rocks, green leaves, and brown bark. “I hope I’m going to like living in Accompong.”
The train hits another bump, and I worry that everyone on board will be tossed into the jungle. I grab Robbie’s hand, and his fingers intertwine with mine. He touches my cheek gently, lifts my hand to his lips, and kisses my knuckles.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be there soon enough.”
Why did a few words from Robbie make such a difference? The uncertainties fade away and I rest my head on his shoulder. “I’m tired. You said soon, but how much longer?”
“Miss Zinzi said it would take three hours with all the stops the train makes. We have at least another hour to go.”
I close my eyes and let myself daydream.
Katherine has described the African dances we will explore in Jamaica as primitive yet inspirational.
Our ancestors danced the same steps we are about to learn to honor their heritage.
I won’t need a crystal ball to know that whatever dances the Maroon people perform will be nothing like the Lindy Hop, the foxtrot, or the shimmy.
I jerk upright.
“Are you feeling okay, Othella?” Robbie asks, his voice gentle with concern.
“Did you bring any Cab Calloway records? Mr. Hartfield has recording machines, so he must have a gramophone or phonograph too, right?”
“I don’t think so. Even if it plays, he might reserve the needles for recording,” Robbie replies, looking at me with something like pity.
I am livid, but my anger quickly fades. It’s not his fault that I am rethinking everything.
“When we arrive,” he begins, “we’ll freshen up and take a nap. I’m sure Katherine and Vivian Jean won’t mind if we rest for a bit before the hard work begins.”
“No matter what that hard work turns out to be,” I state with a hint of unhappiness.
“I understand why you’re feeling this way.”
“If you think my mood has anything to do with what I told you last night about Jerry,” I whisper his name, “it has nothing to do with that. I’m worried I won’t like it here.
I’m terrified I won’t enjoy anywhere other than where I’ve been.
I’ve spent too much time picking pockets, gold-digging, and being a floozy.
Sorry, if I never mentioned the floozy part before. ”
“It’s okay. You already told me.”
“I’m just worried I won’t fit in in Jamaica.”
“You should have more faith in yourself,” he replies. “Everything you’ve dreamed of will be yours if you want it badly enough.”
“You live in a fairyland,” I exclaim. “You got parents? You told me you were a numbers runner and did some bad stuff, but you haven’t told me much else.”
“I have parents. They live in Ohio. Yes, I’ve done some things, but mostly I’ve read books, picked snap beans and corn, and milked cows. I come from a family of farmers, you know. I grew up on a farm.”
“Why did you leave? Did they die?”
“No, they’re alive and kicking. But I got into some trouble helping a white woman and had to leave home. When I got to Chicago, I met Major Thomas, who helped me.”
“Major Thomas took you in just like the reverend did me after my mother died.” I don’t mention Jerry’s comment about the major being a bootlegger. Robbie might already know, but if he doesn’t, I don’t want to be the one to tell him.
“The reverend? You hardly mention him, or the orphanage. I don’t mean to pry, but it seems like I am, right?” He smiles shyly.
“No matter. I’ll tell you about the orphanage and the reverend one day.” I shrug. “Or maybe not. It’s just that I can never go back to Chicago. I have to stay here, in this country. Are you gonna stay with me? No, don’t answer that. I know you will. You’ll never leave.”
He laughs. “If you want me to stay with you, I will.”
“Sounds to me like you don’t have many other places to go, just like I don’t.”
“If you say so.”
A deafening noise erupts as rickety wheels screech over rickety tracks. I hold on to Robbie and gaze out the window. “How much longer before we reach Maggotty and the mules?” I ask.
“I told you five minutes ago. Another hour or two.”
I close my eyes and recite in my head: I hope I like Accompong. I hope I like Accompong.