Roz: The Story of a Jamaican Lolita

ROZ

The Story of a Jamaican Lolita

Jon Michael Miller

Copyright 2011 by Jon Michael Miller

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

An epic love story … a helluva book!

--Jamaica’s Daily Gleaner

After emigrating to the US, I was always looking for books that would reconnect me to home. It took me eleven years to find, well worth the wait. Words just cannot express how much I enjoyed & appreciated this book. I am a Rosalind, by the way, so it was easy to relate.

--Natalee Nicola Pryce

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This book is dedicated to

April Enck Fairweather,

who once saw me through a sea of trouble,

and to

the women of Jamaica.

ROZ

Part One

1

Near Lucea, Jamaica, 1990

Rosalind Juliet Mitchell stood in front of a voodoo shack. She was barefoot and frightened. The shack was painted in Rastafarian black, red, yellow and green and stood along the main road. In rags, her hair a weed patch, Rosalind marveled at the beaded trinkets, totems, woodcarvings and scary African masks. Dolls woven from reeds dangled on a line.

A squeaking sound startled her. She turned. Peeking out of the doorway was an aged woman in a white dress and turban. She puffed on a small pipe and leaned on a black stick. Rosalind knew it was Sophie, the renowned mada woman, famous for her powerful obeah.

What you want here, child? Sophie’s voice was deep, masculine, like ashes grinding.

Rosalind was too startled to speak. She’d been warned never to come to this place. The masks chilled her very soul.

What you want, I say!

Me love one special man. Need a spell for tie him onto me.

Him in foreign land? White man?

Ah! How you know these things?

With her cane Sophie pointed to the figurines bobbing on the line.

Choose the most right spirit. She hobbled back into the cabin. Then, come in here with me.

The dolls were painted, some black, some red, some white. The male ones had big cocks sticking up. The female ones were colored pink between their legs. She chose one—white, a male. She crept up the steps and pushed the door open. The thick scent of ganja hit her. In the dimness like a shadow, Sophie sat at a table. Behind her hung a picture of Jesus on blue velvet. White, bearded, he was staring toward heaven, his hands together in prayer. Jars sat on shelves beside dolls with tags. Rosalind jerked when she saw a human skull. She coughed from the smoke.

Sophie tapped the table with her cane, indicating Rosalind should sit. The old woman grabbed the doll.

Did you bring something of your special man for Sophie to hold?

Me only have this. She handed the woman a small paper, folded and frayed. His business card, what he give me.

Sophie squinted and peered at it. Mumbling, she rotated the doll in her hands, caressing it. She rubbed the card all over. Then she stared at her visitor.

Is this your one special man?

Uh … yeh, ma’am, me guess so.

You feel him your one special man? All your heart? All your soul?

Him my Mister Right, forever.

One hundred dollah—American.

Rosalind’s hope sank. Don’t have no money, ma’am. Me poor.

Sophie shoved the doll toward Rosalind. Go ahead, touch your one special man.

Rosalind touched the doll’s prominent penis, gasped and pulled her finger away.

One hundred—American, Sophie said.

Rosalind’s finger hurt like a bee sting. She stared at it.

Touch him once more. Go on, girl, touch him.

With her little finger Rosalind hesitantly nudged the protrusion. Her finger tingled.

Do you believe Sophie’s obeah?

Rosalind nodded.

Not for free. Must pay Sophie.

No moneys. None a’tal.

Then why you come here?

Because me don’t know where else to turn. Me love him so. Feel so lonely. Must do something or my heart will break in two.

Sophie shook her head in irritation. How old you are?

Sixteen, next month.

When your man come here from foreign land, you pay Sophie then, yeh?

This idea seemed to have come from Jesus to save her. Rosalind gazed at the old woman with joy.

If you don’t pay, the woman said, Sophie will send red man’s curse upon your head.

Rosalind felt something pressing between her knees—Sophie, prodding with her stick.

Why you poke me? What you want?

Open your legs, girl! To have obeah, you must do all what Sophie say!

Rosalind parted her knees just a bit, and the cane probed up between her thighs with force. She jumped back in protest.

Why you stab my private?

If you don’t want Sophie’s spell, go home now. But you must pay, else Sophie will put curse upon you. When you sleep, black spider will come inside your house, suck all your blood dry.

Rosalind looked at the doll as if it would rescue her. She felt it embodied the being of Mr. Glenn Webber, Pennsylvania, United States of America. She touched it again. The tingling was there.

But you cannot put the stick inside my belly. Must be virgin girl for him.

Sophie puffed her pipe rapidly, creating a cloud of smoke.

Close your eyes, bad girl! For obeah to work, you must have silent faith.

Rosalind did as ordered. She felt Mr. Webber’s closeness, his kindness as she and her cousin Annie had ridden in the back seat of his car, drinking cold sodas he bought them.

Touch your one special man again. Hold your finger there.

The cane moved up between Rosalind’s legs, touching her spot, shoving against it. In a man’s voice the old woman mumbled a chant. The stick jabbed but Rosalind kept her tummy tight. Sophie’s hum rose, the staff shoved mercilessly, her drone grew higher still until it ended in a sharp squeal.

Rosalind opened her eyes. Sophie was collapsed back in her chair, the cane fallen to the floor, her eyes closed. She was smiling with broken teeth.

Rosalind glanced at the skull and turned to the gentle blue eyes of Jesus that matched the blue of the background cloth and the blue of Mr. Webber’s eyes.

The old woman’s eyes opened, deep and dark like a turtle’s under its shell.

Go home now. Take this card. Write your special man a letter.

What me must say?

Speak your heart. Go ‘way now. Sophie must rest. When your man come, bring my money.

2

Glenn Webber had been swamped all morning at his studio shooting last minute graduation portraits. Leafing through his mail over his lunch break, he came across an airmail envelope penned in a ragged scrawl. He realized it was from one of the kids he picked up on his way to the airport his last day in Jamaica. Scratched on a piece of notebook paper he found the following:

Dear Mr. Glenn Webber photographer

greetins you and yore famly God bless and kip you. me whsht to sen you my dipst gratitude for kiness when you tak me and my cuzzin Annie to Lucea and for wen you buys me ginger beer and tak me and Annie’s pikchur and say we yore Jamaican sweethearts. you a good man and hansom man like a Prince, like Prince Charmin. Me hope you come bak to my counry soon. god bless and protek you and yore famly, forever yore Jamaica sweetheart, frenship and good will. Miss Rosalind Juliet Mitchell.

It took a while for Glenn to get through this epistle; the penmanship was so garbled reading it was like deciphering a code. But the effort made him smile. He remembered the day of his drive from Negril to the airport, when he’d finally learned to negotiate the potholed roadways, driving on the left, and was no longer uneasy with the people there.

That day symbolized for him a subtle breakthrough. Since then he’d been too busy to think about it much but Miss Mitchell’s letter brought the feeling back. Leaving several clients in the studio lobby, he went into the lab, found the rolls he shot in Jamaica, and told Andy, his assistant, to run the proof sheets.

Later Andy, a severe critic, handed them to Glenn. You’ll like these. You missed the light on some of the landscapes, though.

Ever been there? Glenn asked, having a look.

No, but I dig Bob Marley. My girlfriend went once, said the people hassled her a lot.

You’re right, I do like these. And you’re also right about the landscapes.

"Yeah, but the portraits are right on. The last one, of the two girls, could make the cover of Travel."

I got a letter from one of them today. Your girlfriend’s right about the hassling, but I’d like to get back there—one of these years.

From this work I can see why, Andy said. And you know I’m hard to please. Hey, I wanted to ask you. When are you going to let me go solo on a wedding?

You know how my clients are, Glenn answered.

Yes, they want only the great Glenn Webber. But you’re stifling my creativity. Sooner or later you gotta give me a chance. I’ll do the whole thing in digital, prime this operation for the twenty-first century.

That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. I like the ancient ways—no need for priming.

The two girls wore pink dresses, arms around each other, cheek to cheek, smiling brightly. Behind them was a shimmering lagoon with some colorful dugout canoes upside-down on a beach. One of the girls, the talkative one, was a bit chubby; the taller had large, watchful eyes, silent, slim, with high cheekbones and arched brows. Assuming he was writing to the chubby one, he typed out a quick answer to Miss Mitchell and placed it with the outgoing mail.

It wasn’t for another six weeks that Rosalind received a letter from Glenn at the post office in Lucea, a twelve-mile hike down the mountain from her forest home. She tore the envelope open. Standing among the postal patrons she studied the typed words and gazed at the photo of her and her cousin. They’d borrowed pink frocks for their trip to Negril, looking unsuccessfully for work at the hotels.

Her chest filled with joy, she wandered into the noisy street. As she tried to cross, Marlow Johnston cut her off on his motorbike. She moved to go around him, but he blocked her.

Oy! he said. Where you goes?

Leave me be.

Don’t wanna talk?

She moved to go around but he edged forward. Why you don’t like me?

Because me have a man already.

Him have a motorbike?

None your business what him have. Him a grown up man, a real man, in U.S.A. She held up her letter and tried to go.

So, that why you walk ‘round with your nose in the air.

Gwan. Leave me be.

But me come to your house for check you, sure. You look good, for true. Ripe ‘n rude, girl.

With a sound like a hog grunting he rode away.

When she got home, the sun had set. She’d had to hike up the mountain road to a smaller lane and back a path where cars rarely went, two muddy tracks. Her house was made of wood planks and set up on blocks to keep the wet and creatures out, only one room with a curtained alcove for her mother’s bed. Rosalind lived there with her three younger brothers. They slept together on burlap bags filled with shavings from cane stalks. Her older brother Horace was off hiding, wanted for selling ganja to tourists. This time when she got home, a donkey was tied outside.

Lenny, her mother’s man, was visiting. Inside, her mother’s bed squeaked. Moans and heavy breathing came from behind the curtain. The boys were listening intently. Rosalind saw their curious eyes in the light of the kerosene lantern. Tired from her trek, she lay down and clutched her letter to her chest.

The sounds ended in her mother’s wail. Then silence. Lenny came out, buttoning his drawers. He knelt beside Rosalind and touched her cheek with sweaty fingers. When she rolled away from him, he chuckled.

Lenny bring sweet juicy orange for you, he said.

Don’t want no orange.

He put it beside her and left. Lorna came out, bent down and took it.

Where you was so late today, child?

Rosalind held up her letter. Lorna grabbed it and took it to the light.

Such a pretty photo of you and Annie. But him say here, don’t know when him will come back, maybe never.

If him don’t come, me feel me will die, Rosalind said. What me must do? Call him on the telephone?

Good Lawd, cannot be in such a rush. Men don’t like a lady which catch easy. Now think. What will a rich man in America want with poor ignorant child like you?

Do anything him want me do.

But, sweetie, him have all kind of white ladies in USA do that for him. What you got, they don’t?

Black cherry.

Lorna laughed deeply from her belly, like the rain that thundered on the tin roof then suddenly stopped.

For true? You ain’t never spoilt by no boy? But you soon sixteen. And that Marlow boy been coming ‘round on his motorbike.

Me save it for Mister Right. Have a dream someday my Prince will come.

Rosie, honey, the Good Lawd provide no prince for such as we, except Prince Jesus when we get to heaven. No, Mr. Webber ain’t no prince. But him the goose can lay the golden egg. Way too soon for call him, though. No, Rosie, write him a letter, once again. Come, me help you write it, like before.

3

It was the end of a long day, and Glenn looked it. He sat at his studio desk, leaning back, rubbing his fingers through his thinning hair. Before him lay a wrinkled piece of notebook paper.

mos honorable Mr. Glenn Webber photographer

all good blessing to you and yore famly. thank you for yore mos beauful pho so of me and my cuzzin Annie. me give one to her and she like it very mucht. everythin fine here in Jamaica we wait for you come bak soon take more pictures. thank you for inviting me and Annie for luncht. that wood be just lovly. me recall wen you by me cold ginger beer. You are so kind. Yes, we can sho you many nice places for photos. yore good fren and yore Jamaica sweethart Miss Rosalind Juliet Mitchell.

The ginger beer reference told him it was the taller of the two who was writing to him, a surprise because of her silence during the brief ride he’d given them. But when he stopped to buy them all sodas from a roadside stand, it was the silent, watchful one who’d asked for a ginger beer.

Andy poked his head in the doorway. Hey, boss, I got an idea.

That sounds dangerous.

There’s a couple who want a wedding. They’re not on our client list, and on the request form they checked the where-did-you-hear-about-us box, from the Yellow Pages. They’re students over at the college.

Yes, so?

So, they don’t know you from anyone. Let me do this one.

I don’t know about that.

Come on, dude, you gotta trust me one of these days.

If I do, they might soon be asking for you instead of me.

You know that won’t happen, but this place is getting too big for you alone. You look worn out, if you want my honest opinion. And we gotta get into the digital stuff. It’s here, whether you like it or not. Let me show you. Give me a shot.

Let me think about it.

Okay, but if you don’t give me a chance soon, I’ll …

I said I’ll think about it.

4

The Black Cherry Nite Club was a low wooden compound surrounded by a barbed wire fence strung with blinking lights. It sat along a road in the hills above Lucea, about five miles from Rosalind’s home. She walked there sometimes to watch the activity and listen to the music. She’d never been inside. She liked to see the dancers come and go in their glamorous costumes. They arrived with their boyfriends on motorcycles or in cars.

She craned from the roadside to see them enter. Dancehall reggae thundered from inside. A tough-looking guy with corn-rowed hair stood guard at the entrance. Cars were parked along the road where other onlookers had gathered. There were makeshift stands with beads and wood carvings for sale. She was startled by a rough tap on her shoulder.

She turned to see a young Jamaican man in a chauffeur’s uniform.

My name is Rupert. I drive for Mr. Armand. He wishes the pleasure of speaking to you.

Me don’t know such a person.

You will soon.

What for him want to speak to me?

Come along and ask him.

Rupert strolled away. Rosalind waited a moment then followed. The windows of the big Ford were tinted black. Rupert opened a rear door, revealing Mr. Armand, a white man with a gray beard and beady eyes. He was smoking a ganja cigarette. He leaned to look out at Rosalind.

Come in, little girl, I will not bite.

Rosalind had no intention of getting into the stranger’s car. Rupert nudged her forward.

Get in, Armand said, so we can talk in private.

A group of nosy people had already congregated to look into the fine automobile.

I won’t hurt you, Armand said. Let us have a little chat, shall we?

With another shove, Rosalind got into the back seat. The door closed behind her. Armand clicked on an amber-colored light and smiled. His teeth were stained, his beard grizzled. His eyes gleamed like black beans.

I would like to make you an offer, he said. So pretty, so sexy. I have seen you here before, no?

Sometime me come here to watch.

Do you know what a voyeur is?

When he leaned toward her, she grasped for the door handle. He sat back again so she waited, poised to escape.

I sense you are unfamiliar with the term. A voyeur is someone like me, a harmless old man who loves to watch young black girls take off their clothes and caress themselves intimately. Do you ever do that?—Caress yourself, at home where you sleep?

Must go now. Mama think me visit with my cousin.

She tried to open the door. Armand grabbed her wrist, held her fast.

Pardon, but please hear me out. Then you may go if you wish. Do not be afraid. I am utterly harmless, I assure you. Just listen to me before you run away.

She cowered into the corner. He released her wrist and settled back. The car was thick with smoke.

I will give you one thousand dollars if you merely come to my villa and allow me to watch you disrobe and caress yourself. I will not be inside the room. I will observe from a special window so you will not even be aware anyone is there. Afterwards, my driver will bring you home.

He crushed out his cigarette.

I am so weary of the same whores with their wigs, tattoos and absurd attire. But you … you are something Gauguin might have painted, a natural, primitive beauty. The payment I offer is a handsome one, no?

You won’t touch me, you say? Not a’tal?

Only observe from behind dark glass.

But … me must have one hundred—American.

Oh-ho, a business woman! Your demand is quite a bit for the modest services I seek—three times my offer. You will have to give me quite a show.

But … me frightened you won’t bring me back. And … how me know you will pay?

Armand grinned. To demonstrate my good will, here is an advance. He took a fine-looking wallet from his pocket. I carry little U.S. cash, but here is a twenty. Take it now and run away, or come with me and receive the full amount.

But you must never tell my mama.

Or she will demand a percentage, no? Is that what worries you?

He patted her knee and tapped the window. His black-bean eyes twinkled. Rupert opened the door and peered in, as did the curious onlookers. Marlow was among them, on his motorbike, scowling.

As they rode, the night was too dark for her to see anything outside, but after a while they arrived at a gate with a guard who nodded toward Rupert in the headlights and opened a barrier. On a gravel road they wound up a hillside to a villa of stone and brick. Barking, several huge, scary dogs ran across the lawn. Inside, the place was lovely, with black leather furniture which might have come from an American western movie. She'd seen several reruns of Ponderosa on her Auntie May's television. Rupert went to a bar and poured some liquor in two large glasses.

Cognac, Armand said. The best, over eighty years old. Sniff it first, then take small sips and taste it on your tongue before you swallow. It will warm you, make you nice and sexy.

Rupert led her into a small bedroom with a canopy bed and lace sheets, the lights brightly on and classical music playing, the kind she'd learned about in school, with fiddles and oboes and harps.

Do you understand what he wants? Rupert asked.

Will you take me home, sure?

"Don’t worry. See that mirror? You must look toward it, very important. And make sure to take off everything, completely.

Not my panties, no.

He won’t pay if you don’t. And you must show everything, no hiding. Toward the mirror, show all, completely for a long time, not just a quick peek. Give him time to enjoy the show. Understand?

Me must have the money for a special spell, she explained.

Try to enjoy yourself, for real. If you climax for real, he’ll pay extra.

Rupert left. In two large swallows, she finished her drink, wincing, fortifying herself for an ordeal.

5

With a cat purring on his lap, Glenn sat on a sofa in Trish Sutton’s living room. It had a rustic décor with abstract paintings and an abundance of house plants. In a long sweatshirt and tights, Trish lounged on floor pillows. Both sipped beer from bottles as a Willy Nelson album played on the stereo. Trish owned a plant store down the street from Glenn’s studio. They had a business alliance in which each referred wedding clients to the other. Trish lived on a hundred-acre farm along the Ephrata Pike.

Great lamb, he said. Thanks for the invite. I’d forgotten how good a cook you are.

It’s been too long since we talked. I miss it. But don’t get it into your head I’m trying to start things up again.

I won’t. That one’s a wrap as they say in the movie business.

Good. So, how is your love life, anyway?

Null and void at the moment.

You? Celibate? Hard to believe.

After my last couple involvements, I’ve been thinking it’s time to get out of the fray. Things are getting crazy out there. Desperation is beginning to take over. And you?

Two of my daughter’s college friends want to take me camping.

Boys?

Yes boys. What do you think I am?

Are you actually considering it?

Well … not seriously.

Did you ever do that? Two at a time?

It’s not as great as it sounds. You have to think too much. How ‘bout you, with all those models.

I’m keeping my hands off the eye-candy. Times have changed. Everything must be chaperoned. Privacy can be lethal.

Poor Webb.

Anyway, forty-eight is too old for that sort of thing. It’s … unseemly. I am going back to Jamaica, though. Andy threatened me into letting him shoot a wedding on his own, which gives me a rare free weekend.

I love that place. The weed is out of this world. And those Rasta guys with the smell of it in their dreadlocks. Wow!

It’s a visual paradise, isn’t it? I was tied up at the wedding conference but on my one free day the guy who managed the hotel beach took me into the back country. You have to see the shots I took. It got my blood up, my old taste for fine art. I’ve got to go back with nothing to do but shoot, shoot, shoot.

Sounds like a plan.

The cat wriggled out of Glenn’s lap and strolled off. Trish got up and turned down the music. Look, Webb, I kinda invited you out here for a reason. I need your advice.

Glenn swirled his beer and finished it off. If it’s about relationships, I’m sure you know it’ll be the blind leading the blind.

No, I wouldn’t ask you about that. But you’re a good businessman. I’ve always barely stumbled along when it comes to money matters. But a guy from a land development company came into the shop the other day. They want to make an offer on this farm. You know, since my divorce and the kids in college, I can’t really run it. But I hate to see all this gorgeous land turned into a housing development.

It seems to be happening all over the area. Good farms turning into shopping malls.

I know. I hate it. What do you think I should do?

How much is the offer?

He didn’t say. One thing for sure, it would have to be a helluva lot. What would you do?

It could put you on easy street. What about the greenhouse? Would you close the shop, travel around the world?

I can’t imagine life without the store. Maybe I could keep the house and the greenhouse, sell the rest. Easy street sounds nice.

So, in spite of your dedication to protecting the landscape, it comes down to the price. Is that right?

And not having to run the place. Do you think I should sell?

Here’s what I think. If you’re willing to do it, make sure you get competitive bids. Make them pay through the nose. Hold out. Be tough. If you let it go for too little, you’ll never forgive yourself. If you sell, you’ll have regrets but at least you’ll be able to say they gave you an offer you couldn’t refuse.

6

Rosalind trudged home from the river with a load of wash and saw Lenny's burrow tied to the cabin porch. Several burlap bags filled with fruit lay in the shade. The house was shaking like in a storm. Rosalind was afraid it might fall over. Rather than venture in, she put the wash basket in back and took refuge from the heat in a cave-like nook in the bamboo just behind her mother's tomato plants, her private hideaway.

It was nice when Lenny came because he put her mother in a better mood. Her being with him behind the curtain made her gentle and kind. Also, he always brought food he’d gathered in the forest to sell to grocery shops—bananas, breadfruit, sometimes even papaya. But he only stayed long enough to be in her mama's bed for a few hours. Then he moved on, and her mama would sleep for a while and come out and hug her children and talk to them.

Like a secretive bird in its nest Rosalind sat on her haunches in her hideaway. Tomorrow, if it ever came, Mr. Glenn Webber would arrive in Negril, and she would take the bus there and call him on the telephone. At last, she would see her imagined lover again. He said in his letter he would buy her and Annie lunch, but of course Annie had to go to school.

Tonight Annie would paint Rosalind’s nails with glittery polish and tie her hair back. With Mr. Armand’s extra tip she’d bought some lipstick, a pair of underpants, a tee shirt, some hair ribbon, perfume, and bright orange laces for the shoes she would borrow from Annie. Jacqueline next door had made a pretty dress with a scooped neckline. Rosalind tried it on and after numerous adjustments it fit just right.

Lorna and Auntie May had told her how to act and what to do, the principal point being to make sure she told him she was eighteen. They even calculated the year Rosalind would have been born and made her memorize it as if it were her real birthday. To make her look more mature, Lorna insisted she wear a wristwatch, even though it didn't work, and a pair of glasses, which blurred her vision.

Also, her aunt had a neighbor who did massages at a hotel in Montego Bay. She showed Rosalind how to give a man a rub-down with aloe oil and rubbing alcohol, though Rosalind refused to practice on her younger brothers.

But she knew her mother was missing the real point. The real point was, tomorrow at long last, she was going to see the man she loved. She would get up before the sun rose, walk down the mountain into Lucea and take the bus to Negril with all the hotel workers. Then she would call Mr. Glenn Webber at the Negril Springs Resort.

As she sat in her jungle nest, it was his eyes she remembered, a clear blue-green, like the sea on those days when the sky is just a bit cloudy and the water tosses easily against the lava rocks and you can see down into it deeply. And the smile in his eyes, like she'd never seen before, of gentleness, of kindness, of humor, like an invitation to a ball, the kind of ball her teacher in school used to read about at the end of the day just before everyone left to go home, a ball where a poor girl all dressed up went and met Prince Charming. Mr. Glenn Webber's wonderful blue-green eyes had held an invitation in them like the deep, quiet water, like a smile of love.

These were the thoughts she had, sitting perfectly still in the darkness of her forest nest, quiet as a bird resting on its eggs.

From her shady cavern she watched the house shake. The boys were still at the waterfall. She heard her mother cry out several times, then things quieted down. In a little while the back door of the house opened and Lenny stepped out, naked. Rosalind couldn’t stop her eyes from becoming riveted on the sight of his huge penis. Still in partial erection it hung in front of him, heavy, bowed slightly, arched like the enormous seed-stem on a banana tree. It had the same purple-black hue. The thought of it going into her mama filled her with terror, awe and involuntary fascination.

Lenny stretched his massive chest. He was smoking a cigarette. His cock bounced as he stepped from the house to the ground. He strolled to the rusted oil drum used as a rainwater cistern. Because the container hid him partially, Rosalind crept from the bamboo into the tomato patch to get a better view.

He threw handfuls of water onto his shoulders and chest. His powerful muscles glistened in the late afternoon sun. He dipped his head into the cistern, moved it around, stood up and shook it like a dog, spraying diamonds of water everywhere. His hair glittered like it had beads all over it. Then he took both hands, scooped out some water and splashed it on his thing. He repeated the process several times, then rolled it in his hands to clean it.

When she moved closer still, she bumped a tomato stake. He looked up and saw her. For a horrifying moment, their eyes locked. She could not release hers from his, which were surprised yet calmly acknowledging her presence. He smiled and walked toward her. She ducked. He went to where she cowered in the garden.

What for you hide in here, honey bee?

She couldn’t utter a word.

You want look at Lenny, yeh? Watch him take a bath?

She hid her face in her hands.

Don’t be fright, little honey bee. Me never harm. Come, look at me. Don’t hide your pretty face, look in my eye. His voice was gentle, fatherly, forgiving. Come, honey bee, give Lenny look in his eye.

She turned her head upward. He stooped down, face to face. He placed a finger under her chin and made her look at him.

Don’t be scared Lenny gonna do harm. He looked right into her eyes with a soft, kind expression. Why you hide, watch Lenny? Never see no man before without no clothes?

Only my brothers.

He grinned. You no, never? How old you is, honey?

Sixteen.

Never has no boy?

No, sar.

My, my. What for you hold back so long? He laughed. Here. Lenny give you nice, good look. Look what you want to see.

He stood up in front of her. It was right in front of her face; the slit at the end seemed to stare at her.

See your nice dolly?

It was more rigid than before.

Go look, now.

He lifted it so his scrotum was fully exposed, a dark purple-black sack covered with coarse hairs. She didn’t know what to do. He stood not a foot away, stroking it for her to see.

Go touch, he said.

She backed into a stake. He stepped closer.

Don’t be fright. You watch Lenny bath. Want to see, don’t? Me never harm my honey bee. He bent, lifted her arm and laid her hand between it and his bristly belly. Take hold. Your dolly like you. Go now, feel how your dolly like you. He placed her fingers around it. It was so big and thick she couldn’t reach all the way around. Don’t fear you mama. She sleep deep. Always do when Lenny fuck her.

Me must go to Annie’s now.

No, you don’t want to go ’way from Lenny. You watch him bath. Want to see him. Come now, take hold. Play with dolly. Him like your little hand ’pon him. Dolly like him honey bee. Come reach hold, nice tight, up, down. No, don’t look away. Look ’pon your dolly. Dolly love you. Hold tight. Here, me show you.

No.

See what dolly like? See how dolly love his honey bee?

No. Me want to go to Annie’s now.

Come play with your dolly. Watch him. You mama don’t finish work she do. Now, little honey bee have chance for play. Hold tight. Squeeze your dolly.

No!

He smacked her cheek with force. She recoiled and held her face.

Play with dolly. Then you go to Annie’s.

No.

He hit her again, harder. She fell. He knelt above her.

Now you do what Lenny say, yes?

Y-Yes. Please don’t hit me more. It hurt me.

Go on, you know how to play with baby doll. Make him sing and dance.

Me never do before.

For true? Here, Lenny show you how. He forced her hand around it again. It stuck up like a post. He moved her hand up and down on it. Come, now. That so good, honey bee. Keep, keep. Lead on. Tight, tight.

She pumped him as hard as she could, waving it around, tugging and yanking, until suddenly it squirted white stuff at her and she rolled and cried out in terror, and he took it in his own hand and shot white sauce all over the tomato plants. She was on the ground as he pumped on his huge root, shooting, spraying, groaning. Then he slowed down and squeezed it to the tip so some final ooze came out, clung a moment and dropped off. With his thumb he wiped some white stuff from her cheek.

See? Dolly give his honey bee a sweet rain bath. He chuckled. Your mama don’t want for you to play with Lenny, so you don’t tell her, hear? If you tell, me say you come to me when me take bath, want to steal me away. She beat you then. Me beat you too. So be quiet, hear?

He sniggered again.

You are my little honey bee. Me come again for play with you. You will dream about your Lenny, just like your mama does.

He went back to the cistern and washed. He splashed water all over himself, his shoulders, chest, belly, muscled flanks and thighs. And he washed his thing, now loose and long and heavy. He waved it at her, laughing, flashing his ragged teeth, and walked back into the house.

His sticky rain clung to the tomato leaves. She wiped her throat and rubbed her hands in the soil. Her cheek stung, her ear ringing from his slaps. Her tooth throbbed. She ran along the path and through the cane field to the river.

Only Mr. Glenn Webber could save her now. He would be there tomorrow. He was such a nice man. He would protect her. She would get clean for him, wash away Lenny's stains and be new for him. He would love her and care for her. No, she would never be Lenny's girl. He was a bad man for making her do such a nasty thing. Mr. Glenn Webber, with his sea-green eyes, would heal her and make her nice again. For him she felt real love, the way love should feel, nothing dirty, everything right.

It was growing dark when she reached the waterfall. Everyone had gone home, and an oval moon hung above the mountain's brim with one star glimmering just near it. Her jaw ached. The sound of the water soothed her. She took off her dress and laid it carefully on a boulder. Wearing only her panties, she stepped into the pool and shivered as the cool water caressed her thighs. Under the falls, she felt the stream wash over her neck and shoulders, down over her breasts and belly. She scrubbed Lenny's mess from her arm, pulling her fingers through her thick hair, cleansing her scalp.

Then she slipped out of her underpants, washed them several times and rung them out, using them to cleanse her crotch, scrubbing all over her body to get pure and clean for Mr. Glenn Webber. She would not let Lenny ruin her for the man she loved. She did not want Lenny. She did not want what he did. He had forced her. She would not let such a wicked man spoil her for her true love. She stayed in the water, shivering, chilled, shaking under the cascade, hoping the coldness, the torrent, would wash all Lenny's nastiness away forever.

The night was all around her now, the water numbing her, the stars twinkling high above. Was God there? Watching? Laughing at her? Was He punishing her for the obeah? Why had this happened with Lenny? Had she wanted to do something bad? Had it been her fault for wanting to watch? Or was it bad to love Mr. Glenn Webber instead of one of her own kind? Was he an evil snake like her older brother Horace had told her? Was she a whore to want him?

No. Thanks to God, to the Good Lord Above, Mr. Glenn Webber was coming tomorrow. And thanks to God, Lenny had not spoiled her, had just wanted to play with her and not do the real thing. He would have ripped her apart. But what if he came again as he said he would? No, she was not his girl. Maybe he thought she was his girl because she had watched him, maybe he thought she liked him.

She did not like him. She was still pure for her lover. She would give herself to him tomorrow, and he would love her and save her.

7

Greetings, sar," the bellman said, opening the car door for Glenn.

Hello, Glenn answered, I'm here for a week. He got out of the car and stretched in the hot sun.

Open your trunk, then, sar. Me bring your things while you sign the book. Me name Ivan. Here to help you whatever you want. Anything, just ask.

Glenn let the old fellow heave the suitcase from the car and lug it toward the lobby. Behind the desk stood a neat uniformed woman with a pencil behind her ear. There were freckles in her cocoa-colored skin, and her hair was pulled back into a little bun.

You must be Mr. Webber, she said. We've had several phone calls for you this morning.

Phone calls?

A girl, won't leave her name. Speaks with a country accent. Called for you four times already since eight o'clock now. The look in her eyes seemed to say she was confused, even worried, why a girl with a country accent would be calling him.

Soon he was sitting with Ivan on a golf cart being driven down a garden path through tropical foliage around a vast swimming pool. Bathers played water volleyball and several women, topless, speaking German, lounged on deck chairs, their pale skin gleaming with oil. Ivan skidded to a stop in front of a two-story bungalow. Refusing Glenn's offer of assistance, he struggled with the suitcase up the curved steps to the second floor. Inside, he marched across the gleaming tile floor and parted the latticed doors to the balcony, showing a view of the sea. He proudly turned on the TV (CNN was playing) and stood back, grinning.

Glenn gave him a hundred Jamaican dollars and thanked him. Alone in the room, he turned off the TV and went onto the balcony. The tops of two coconut palms framed the view, the young fruit clustered like large green eggs. A flamboyant iguana sat on the trunk, still and poised, its nose pointed toward the ground. Beyond more of the garden lay a terrace of flat beige rock which dropped off to a fifteen foot cliff, beyond which the turquoise water churned and undulated, glimmering to the horizon. Under the searing sun a group of sunbathers lay on white chairs. Far out, a few sailboats moved slowly and, in the distance, just a spot of color in the azure sky, a para-sailer drifted downward.

His room phone chimed. He picked up. Yes?

Mr. Glenn Webbeh. This Rosalind call.

Yes, Rosalind. How are you?

Me here in Negril. Call for you, like you want for me to do.

I just now got in, Rosalind. Getting settled.

Want to have luncht with me now? Her voice seemed tiny, helpless. Like you say in letter?

Well, all right. Ah, let's see. Where are you?

Negril. She spoke as if he were an ignoramus.

He laughed. Yes, but where exactly?

Telephone booth, front of Scotia Bank. Me wait all mornin’, like you say in your letter.

I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. I'll see you in ten minutes, okay?

She hung up. He used the toilet, brushed his teeth, changed into tee shirt and shorts. Back in the lobby, car keys in hand, Glenn asked the clerk if lunch was still being served.

We have a lunch buffet, she said. Are you intending to bring a local girl here?

Why not?

Our facilities are for our guests.

Are you saying I can’t bring a friend for lunch?

The woman took the pencil from behind her ear and twiddled it, a tiny baton. Of course you may have a guest, sir, a tourist, but for security purposes we do not allow locals on the premises.

Well, he said, articulating each word, I am your guest and I am bringing a friend who happens to be a local. He turned to Ivan as though to confirm the legitimacy of this intention, but Ivan was peering out toward a parked car. Ivan, could you tell me where the Scotia Bank is?

As Glenn was unlocking the wrong side of the car, Ivan approached.

See, sar, local people cannot go here. This place for guests, like you.

Glenn realized he was about to get into the passenger seat, the car having been designed British style. He slammed the door. Today you'll make an exception. This girl is my guest, you'll treat her accordingly and life will go on, hopefully without an international incident. Once in the vehicle, he drove out of the gravel lot, spraying stones behind him.

Extremely narrow at points, the road wound down the hill to the village. As he drove around a tight turn, he almost ran over a goat. When he swerved, he nearly hit a young couple on a motor bike. He watched for a phone booth with a slender, wide-eyed girl nearby.

She was sitting on the curb at a run-down shopping plaza, staring at the ground, not appearing to be watching for him. But even with her eyes averted and even though she was wearing glasses, he knew it was Rosalind. She wore a flowered dress of yellows and reds, and a pair of black high-topped sneakers with fluorescent orange laces. Her hair was pulled back with a piece of purple yarn across her brow. Beside her was a worn, child’s backpack. She cradled her cheek in her hand as if she had a toothache.

He pulled to a stop beside her. She still hadn't looked up. Leaning toward the passenger window, he said her name. Slowly, looking very tired, she glanced up at him, removed her glasses and looked again.

Mr. Glenn Webbeh!

He smiled. Hello, Rosalind. Come on. We'll have lunch. He pushed open the door. She rose slowly, lifted her book bag and got in, leaving the door open so that he had to reach over and yank it closed. As he pulled onto the street, she stared straight ahead.

You must be hungry, he said.

Oh, sure. Her voice was disconcertingly matter-of-fact.

Busy avoiding potholes and ambling pedestrians, Glenn drove on. It's nice to see you, Rosalind.

Nice a see you, Mr. Glenn Webbeh.

Please, call me Glenn. I enjoyed your letters. Thank you for writing. It was a nice surprise.

Me enjoy your letters too.

How’s Annette? Where is she today? I was expecting both of you.

Annie in school. Can’t come.

I see. You should be in school too, shouldn’t you?

Me no longer go to school. Stopped fourth level.

She was staring out her window so that when he glanced at her, he saw only the back of her head. Her left hand was clutching her right cheek. She seemed very different from his impression of her. He'd remembered her as being avidly observant of him, as though soaking up the world with her eyes. Was she actually miffed at him for having made her wait all morning? He panicked suddenly about having enough to say to her through lunch.

When he pulled into the parking lot, Ivan rose and disappeared into the garden. Glenn got out, walked around the car and opened the door. Her eyes strangely sad, Rosalind looked up at him.

Is something wrong, Rosalind?

Me never go eat in such a fine place before.

Don't be nervous. It’s just like anyplace else.

Don’t want to look a fool.

It's just food. You put it in your mouth, chew, swallow. Pretty basic.

Moving slowly, gripping her cheek, she got out of the car and took her book bag.

You can leave your things here.

Don’t want no one lift them.

I'll lock up.

When they walked into the lobby, the clerk looked upward, trying, perhaps, to locate a bird's nest in the high beams. Glenn made a point of saying, This is Miss Mitchell, my guest for lunch.

They followed the winding walkway through the shrubbery around the pool to the open air restaurant. It faced a terrace where sunbathers lay on chairs under red and white striped umbrellas.

Waiting to be seated, Glenn stood with Rosalind as the waitresses, clad in black uniforms with white aprons, bustled about in the nearly empty place; apparently every salt shaker suddenly needing to be filled. He finally escorted Rosalind to a table with a nice view, helped her into the rattan chair and sat down across from her. Rosalind's hand seemed glued to her cheek. She stared out at the porch. Glenn rose.

Where you go? she cried.

To get us some drinks. Don't worry. I'll be right back.

He went to the bar. The bow-tied bartender was polishing the shot nozzles on the liquor bottles. In a voice not to be ignored, Glenn ordered a Red Stripe beer and a ginger ale. Without eye contact, the bartender filled a tall glass with ice, opened a bottle of soda, poured it over the cubes, added a pineapple garnish, and popped a cap off a beer bottle.

Will a waitress serve us here?

The barman looked at his watch. Lunch finished, I think.

At the luxurious lunch buffet, steam rose from a cauldron of conch soup, fruit slices were piled high, and pizza slices lay under warming lights.

See here, Glenn said, I'm paying damned good money to stay in this fucking place. Now you get service for us or I'm going to have a word with the manager about what's going on here.

He carried the drinks back to the table where Rosalind was peering about, squinting through her spectacles. He placed her drink beside her folded napkin. The waitresses were still occupied with other duties. Glenn had a swig of beer from the bottle. Rosalind sipped her drink from a straw.

Well, so, Rosalind. How've you been?

Me good.

Great. That's great. Nice day today, huh?

Too hot.

That's why we Americans come here, isn't it? For the sun? He looked around for a waitress, two of whom were cleaning away the buffet. Excuse me, he said loudly. Could we have some service here?

The two women looked at each other. One of them said, Lunch time over at two, sar.

Glenn looked at his watch—2:10. We were here at two. Excuse me, Rosalind. He rose, strode to the buffet table, the two waitresses fleeing in different directions. What the hell is wrong with you people? he said to a potted palm. He grabbed a dish and dipped out some rice with beans in it, placed a cabbage salad beside it, added two slices of pizza, and carried the plate to his guest, who was watching him with a shocked expression.

But they say luncht over, don’t?

It's not over until we eat. Wait, I'll be right back. You know, Rosalind, I'm going to have a talk with the manager of this place. This is very rude behavior.

They don’t like for me to be here, she said, taking off her glasses.

Well that's not right, is it? For one thing, you're my guest and I'm paying a small fortune to stay here. For another, you're a human being, no less of a human being than they, or than I. I thought this sort of thing went out in Mississippi in the sixties.

He walked back and grabbed a few slices of pizza and some pineapple wedges for himself.

There. Dig in, Rosalind.

She picked the beans out of the rice and chewed on them half-heartedly.

Don't like pizza?

Don’t never eat it before.

You're kidding.

Don’t care for it.

What would you like?

Beans good. Cabbage good.

Glenn was famished. He munched his pizza. For a while they said nothing. The waitresses cleared away the buffet.

I'm sorry they treated us this way, Rosalind. You don't seem very hungry.

Me want fry fish.

Fried fish? Okay, I'm sure they have some. I'll get someone to . . .

From Edward.

Edward? Oh? You mean another place? Yes, I don't blame you, Rosalind. We haven't exactly been guests of honor around here, have we? Edward's, eh? Okay. Fine. We'll get some fried fish at Edward's. Come on, then.

As they passed the bar, Glenn said to the bartender, If you think I'm paying a red cent for that lunch, you're crazy. You can put the drinks on my room bill. And tell the manager I wish to speak to him.

But the bartender was intent on slicing a lemon.

8

In the car Glenn said, Onward to Edward's. Which way?

In Lucie.

Right or left?

She pointed to the left. Glenn pulled onto the busy road down the hill toward the village. At the traffic circle he became confused. Which way? he said, surrounded by vehicles going in all directions.

Lucie, she said.

Lucie? Lucie? Which way is Lucie?

That way. There.

Trying to follow the direction her finger was pointed, he went around the eroded monument in the center of the circle several times before she got him on the road along the beach.

He was sweating. Christ! That was scary!

Drive careful, she told him.

We were almost killed back there. Tell me when we get to Lucie’s. I thought you said Edward's. I'm confused.

Edward in Lucie. Town. She pointed ahead.

You mean Lucea? Are we going all the way to Lucea?

We say ‘Lucie.’

Do you mean we have to go all the way to Lucea for fried fish?

Sure.

It's an hour away.

Sure. Okay.

Isn’t there a place here to get fish?

Me want to be with you, Glenn Webber.

Glenn glanced at her. With her glasses off she was looking at him with the bright, absorbing eyes he remembered.

Understand? she added.

He slowed suddenly for a cow grazing along the road with its rump on the pavement.

Don’t slow down for no cow, Rosalind said.

What, should I hit him?

Cow knows when to get out the way.

Rosalind rode with a satisfied silence. Something had apparently happened to allow her to relax. She slouched in her seat and laid her head back. Glenn drove on toward the town of Lucea. For a while they were out in the country, grassland and trees, a few muddy lanes going off toward the coast. Then into a small village crowded with school children walking on the roadway. Did they, like cows, know when to get out of the way? They seemed to be staring at the unlikely couple in the car. Some were hitchhiking.

Stop, Rosalind said suddenly. Pick them up, don’t?

Really?

Sure. Them need a ride. Never enough taxi.

Glenn stopped and picked up five kids who were probably in junior high. They all got into the back. Not a word was spoken. After about five miles, one of them said, Here, and Glenn pulled over by a Texaco station and let them off. Alone with Rosalind again, he passed the bar shack where he’d bought Rosalind and Annette drinks when he picked them up last trip.

Remember this place? he asked.

You remember? Oh, my God!

I bought you a ginger ale.

They drove on. And here's where I took your picture. He pulled around a tight bend and over a low bridge at a pretty cove. Those are the same canoes.

Rosalind laughed quietly. Oh, God, you recall ‘bout me?

Eventually they arrived at Lucea. The road from Negril came to a stop at a sea wall where they turned right, then into the center of town to a busy market in the square. Rosalind sat up in her seat.

Stop!

There were people, cars, trucks, kids and animals everywhere, no place to stop.

Stop! Here!

I can't stop here. Where's Edward’s?

There. She pointed.

There were only market booths and a few shacks. In a moment they’d gone past.

I didn't see a restaurant. He drove along a narrow street lined with shabby-looking shops.

Go back, she said, exasperated. Me will show you.

He drove all the way to the small circle where he'd let the two girls off last time. He did a three-sixty and headed back into town. At the market Rosalind pointed out a spot where he could pull over. She immediately opened the door and got out, walking away, stumbling a