Adrift on St. John (31 page)

While connected governmentally to St. Thomas—and the oft-forgotten St. John—St. Croix looked and felt like a whole other country.

*    *    *

Charlie spun the wheel to turn the Jeep down the resort’s front drive as I snapped what remained of the passenger-side seat belt into its latch. He’d agreed to let me borrow his Jeep while he was away—if I dropped him off at the six a.m. ferry.

I tried to will myself awake with a second wide yawn. The early morning errand was a small price to pay for access to a set of wheels.

“Whatever you do, don’t let Manto near the Jeep,” Charlie admonished as I bounced along in the passenger seat, longing for a cup of coffee. “It took my guys three whole days to fix his rig.”

Charlie shook his head in consternation. “He tried to tell me that a
ghost
ran him off the road the other night. Some woman the locals call the Amina Slave Princess.”

I gripped the door handle as Charlie swerved around a pothole. Hannah, I reflected, had certainly been busy.

Charlie gave me a sideways glance and chuckled. “I don’t know why I think you’ll be a better driver,” he said sarcastically.

He lifted a hand from the wheel and pointed emphatically at the doorless opening beside him. “Just remember, Pen. Keep
left
.”

By the time we reached the outskirts of town, the sun was beginning to crack the horizon. As the clouds parted and light flickered across Charlie’s tense face, I could see the joking had been a cover for his growing apprehension.

He’d pulled out all the stops for this half-week experiment; he had numerous activities planned for the kids and had made reservations at the island’s best restaurants.

For his sake, I just hoped his family actually showed up.

“What are you going to do if…?” I asked as the Jeep pulled to a stop in front of the ferry building. There was no need to fill in the rest of the sentence.

Charlie hopped out and trotted around to the rear storage compartment to retrieve his luggage. I met him on the curb as he set his bag on the wet pavement.

He let out a volume of pent-up air, as if he’d spent the entire morning steeling himself for the possibility that this might end up being a solo excursion.

“Well, then I’ll have a big house party down on St. Croix,” he replied with forced optimism. “Don’t suppose you…?”

He cut short his offer with a flat smile that conveyed he was as yet unaware of Jeff’s sudden leave of absence.

“No, I guess you wouldn’t.”

Before I had time to correct him, he tossed his hands in the air and headed toward the ticket booth, his new shoes squeaking on the pavement as he walked.

40

I climbed through the Jeep’s open doorway and adjusted the seat to my slightly longer legs. Punching the release button on the gear handle, I shifted into drive and carefully began threading my way through the milling crowd of truck-taxi drivers, arriving day workers, and scurrying chickens.

It was a jumpy ride, and the steering wheel had a lot of extra play in it, but I wasn’t complaining. To have a vehicle on the island was an expensive luxury, one that I’d rarely indulged in.

By the time a car traversed all the water between Miami and St. John, it racked up several thousand dollars’ worth of transportation costs. On top of that, gas here was significantly more expensive than up in the States.

Like most of the other expats, most days, I got around just fine on foot, by truck taxi, or bumming rides from friends. But after four years of depending on others, I found it liberating to finally be piloting my own ship.

I’d only driven a few times during my years on the island, but the tales of my inability to stay on the left side of the
road had been widely circulated by the Dumpster table gang. I had, of course, protested that these stories were greatly exaggerated—but in the first hundred yards of manning Charlie’s Jeep that morning, I did little to put those rumors to rest.

Several well-intentioned honks, followed by energetic finger pointing greeted me as I merged onto the main thoroughfare. After a dicey turn through the island’s new roundabout—during which time I vowed I would never again make fun of another confused tourist—it was with great relief that I found myself back on the road to the resort.

The entrance to the resort’s U-shaped front drive was the only hurdle that remained. I slowed the Jeep as I neared the dual prongs of the turnoff, concentrating to ensure I wouldn’t end up on the wrong side of the loop.

Halfway up the drive, I realized I’d picked the wrong leg of the horseshoe. By that point, it was too late to back up. Best, I reasoned, to power through to the top of the circle and hopefully turn around before anyone caught sight of me.

I knew I wouldn’t be that lucky.

Vivian and Hamilton stood waiting for me out front of the reception area as I pulled up from the wrong direction.

Mother and child were dressed in clothes typically reserved as their Sunday best. Vivian had donned a linen dress that hugged her many curves, while Ham wore a starched white shirt, tan slacks, and dark green tie.

I had agreed to give the pair a ride to the Moravian church at the edge of Coral Bay on the far east end of the island. They would be joining the group marching to the old Danish fort, or Fortsberg, as it was officially called, later that morning for the annual commemoration of the 1733 Slave Revolt.

With all of its Native Rights undertones, this wasn’t the kind of event Vivian normally would have been caught dead at, but Ham had talked her into it. Several of the children from his school would be there, and he was eager to participate.

To Vivian’s chagrin, her son couldn’t stop talking about the Amina Slave Princess, who, it was rumored, would be making an appearance somewhere along the route.

I sat in the Jeep, waiting for the inevitable critique of my driving skills.

Vivian stared for a long moment at the vehicle, her eyes skeptically scanning its dented front bumper and missing driver’s-side door.

Then, she narrowed her focus on me. She crossed her arms in front of her body and shook her head dismissively, before striding purposefully to the doorless driver’s-side opening.

“Move over,” she said in a no-nonsense manner, hands firmly planted on her hips.

I strummed my fingers across the steering wheel’s sun-hardened plastic. “What’s wrong, Vivian?” I asked teasingly. “You don’t trust my driving?”

“No,” came her immediate response.

Vivian was nothing if not direct.

“Fine,” I said, winking at Ham as I unbuckled my seat belt. “Fine, fine, fine,” I grumbled loudly while walking around the dented front bumper to the opposite side.

Vivian helped Ham climb into the tiny back passenger area, then she settled into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine.

“As if I would let the likes of
you
drive
my
son,” she muttered under her breath.

I glanced over my left shoulder and shared a grin with Ham. The rant continued as we rumbled off.

“Smells like something died in here…”

41

The Amina Slave Princess woke to a light rain tapping against the canvas roof of her tent at the Maho Bay eco-resort. She rolled out from under the bedsheets, placed her bare feet on the tent’s wooden floor, and stretched her arms toward the ceiling. Her eyelashes fluttered in the predawn darkness, shaking loose the last remnants of a restful night’s sleep.

She dressed in a T-shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers, then she loaded her beaded vest, knee-length sarong, and wig of bouncing black curls into a small satchel. The residents of the eco-resort tended to be early risers, and she had almost been spotted leaving her tent several times over the past week. After a few close calls, she had taken to bringing her costume along with her, so that she could change in and out of it a safe distance from the eco-resort.

Pulling the plastic sheath of a disposable raincoat over her head, she slipped the satchel beneath it and looped the strap over her shoulder. Cautiously, she sneaked out the tent’s front door.

The dripping rain drowned out the light tread of her footsteps as the Princess disappeared into the darkness. She
made a quick stop to dig her spear out of the pile of leaves where she had hidden it the previous evening, then she trotted down the wooden walkway, ready to begin her daily explorations.

So far, all was quiet in the eco-resort, with snores still droning from several of the elevated units. The Princess climbed the short flight of stairs to the dry goods store, taking care not to wake any of the camp’s peaceful sleepers. Once there, she crossed the last of the elevated walkways and proceeded down a washed-out gravel road that served as the resort’s driveway.

By the time she reached the far edge of the grounds, her tennis shoes were soggy and her jeans were wet up to her knees. Her head, however, felt fresh and clear, invigorated by the cooling rain. She twirled the pole of her spear in her hands, eager to set off on her journey.

The Princess couldn’t say what compelled the direction she chose that particular morning. But, as she reached the pavement at the bottom of the dirt road, her feet turned, seemingly of their own volition, toward the east, down a paved artery that fed into the island’s main north shore thoroughfare.

Fifteen minutes later, the Princess had circled around the back side of Mary’s Point and picked up the shoreline on the opposite side of its bulge. A mile-long trek along the water led her to the curving beach that lined Waterlemon Bay. There, she veered inland on a dirt path leading up a steep, rocky incline.

The rising sun broke through the clouds to illuminate the muddy trail’s sharp twists and turns. Damp jungle moved in around the Princess as she climbed toward the summit, steadying her footing by wedging her spear into the thick roots that crisscrossed the ground.

What had started off as a cool, wet morning quickly transitioned into a daytime’s steam. Halfway to the trail’s summit, she had to remove the raincoat to keep from overheating.

It took some effort, but she finally cleared the crest. As a playful breeze brushed against her face, she had the sense that this morning’s excursion would be different from her previous outings.