Eden Burning (59 page)

“I should imagine. Did he have a good life, would you say?”

An odd question, Francis thought. What’s a good life?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Oh, was it all a dreadful struggle, did he fit in here after his English education, did he have enough money—”

“He never wanted very much. Yes, I’d say he got along all right. And he loved this place, he really did. I think he’d had a very healthy childhood here, in simple circumstances, and he was awfully fond of his mother. Some of these native women are so warm, the most extraordinary mothers, you know. And he had a good marriage. Désirée’s charming, you’ll see.”

It had showered on the other side of the island. A shine was on the leaves and the old stones when they drove into the churchyard. Kate, in pink, with a pink cap on her bright hair, was already there. She kissed Tee.

“I’m so glad you’re here. I know it can’t have been easy for you to see St. Felice again.”

“I wanted to come.” Tee laughed. “Besides, I’m afraid I shall never learn to say no to Francis.”

“Nor shall I.”

The two women stood a moment regarding each other and then each, as if content that her earlier estimation of the other had been correct, turned toward the door.

Désirée, with her daughters and their fiancés, followed by Kate’s cousins, went in with them. Désirée had brought a pink bouquet to place on the altar; except for it, the church was bare.

“We’re early,” Kate said. “Father Baker’s not here yet. I feel like Juliet eloping with Romeo to the friar’s cell.”

“Patrick and I were married here on a windy day just like this one,” Désirée remarked.

Kate was horrified. “I would never have done this to you if I’d known! I took for granted you were married in town.”

“It doesn’t matter. Look how beautiful it is!”

Through the open doors one could see a stretch of ocean and lines of speeding whitecaps.

“Isn’t this fascinating?” cried Laurine. “‘Here lie the remains of Pierre and Eleuthère François, infant sons of Eleuthère and Angélique François, died and entered into paradise … year of our Lord, seventeen hundred and two. Our tears shall water their grave.’ Fascinating!”

Father Baker had come in on rubber-soled feet. “If you look back far enough you’ll find that practically everybody on this island has the blood of a Da Cunha or a François or both in his veins.”

“I’d like to place a stone here in memory of Patrick,”
Désirée said. “I don’t know whose blood he had, but anyway—” Her voice trailed off.

Tee put her hand on Désirée’s shoulder.

“It would be very fitting for him to be remembered here,” she said gently. “Will you see Father Baker about it and let me make the contribution?”

Désirée began, “I don’t understand—”

“He was—they tell me he was—an unusual man. So I should like to do it in his memory. Please?”

“I thank you, then,” Désirée said simply. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes held bright tears and, to Francis’ astonishment, his mother’s eyes held them, too.

“Here’s Francis’ plaque.” Father Baker drew the group toward the new, white stone on the west wall, then read the sharp-cut lettering aloud.

“In loving memory of my father, Richard Luther—” The other half was blank.

“For me, when my time comes,” Tee said.

“Really?” Kate asked curiously.

“Why? I can’t live here. Still, I should like to lie here at the end, among my people.”

Francis glanced at his mother, his sensitive ear catching every nuance.
Can’t
live here? Not, I don’t
want
to or I wouldn’t
like
to, but
can’t.
And for the thousandth time, he wondered why, in spite of knowing her so well, there was still so much he did not know, and never would.

Laurine broke into the silence. She had a pretty voice, gay and a little husky.

“Enough of memorial stones! We’re here for a wedding.”

“You’re right,” Father Baker said. “Come.” And he opened his worn black book to begin.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here—”

The old words made music in Francis’ ears, but his mind was too full to grasp their meaning. His mind was searching
himself.
He had never thought of himself as a religious man,
and yet here in this moment it came to him that you had to have something strong to hold to if you were to survive. You had to believe that you were doing the best you could, whether it was ending a marriage that ought never to have taken place or beginning one that should have taken place long ago; whether it was caring for a needy child (and are not all children needy in one way or another?) or combatting evil men. If you were doing right, you would prevail. He had to believe that. Perhaps he was religious, after all.

And then it was over, and he kissed his wife, and they all went outside to stand looking at the ocean, as though they were reluctant to break the spell of the hour by parting.

“How happy Patrick would have been for you both today!” cried Désirée. “He loved you so much.”

“We loved him,” Kate replied. “Everyone did who knew him. I wish you could have known him,” she told Tee.

“I wish so, too,” Tee said.

The little party hesitated on the verge of separating. And Kate cried out, “Look, look! Up there!”

All followed her pointing hand. Through a palm grove in the rising jungle behind the church a gaudy stream of birds in raucous flight appeared and, as quickly, vanished.

“Parrots,” said Father Baker. “It’s deserted enough here for them to feel safe.”

“Lovely, lovely!” Désirée was entranced. “Do you know, I was born on this island and lived here all my life, but I’ve never seen parrots wild. Have you?” she asked Tee.

“Yes, once. A long time ago.”

Tee walked to the edge of the cliff. Now, as if by accord, all eyes followed her. Graceful, still young, she stood looking out to sea, shading her eyes from the light. Standing so, in her blown skirt, with her head high, standing strong and supple against the wind, she might have been carved on the prow of some old, proud ship.

“This must be the most beautiful place on earth,” she said at last. “Isn’t that what you always tell me, Francis?”

“But you’re leaving it,” Kate protested.

Again Tee smiled her slow, grave smile. “Yes, yes, I must.” She looked at her watch. “In an hour, as a matter of fact.”

Laurine and Franklin had arranged to take her to the airport so that Kate and Francis could go directly home.

“Be happy,” Tee said now, kissing Francis good-bye. “This time you will be. I knew that the first time I looked at her.”

He wanted to say so much, to say, I wish you could have had the same; to say, Maybe, do you think maybe, it’s not too late for you and you will find someone, too?

But he said only, “Bless you and thank you for coming, and safe journey home.”

Then she raised her hand in farewell and was gone.

When he took the wheel of their car, Kate covered his hand with hers.

“A very special woman, your mother.”

He nodded, too full for a moment to speak. “And you,” he said then. “A very special woman, too.”

It was Saturday market day in Covetown as they drove through. Heaps of silvery fish, alewives, sprat, and mullet lay in their baskets along the curb. A troop of Girl Guides, wearing the brown uniform of their English heritage, were lining up to see Da Cunha’s pictures.

“It hasn’t changed all that much,” Francis observed.

“Hasn’t it?”

“Oh, you know what I meant.” He leaned over to kiss her. “Yes, of course, everything changed just half an hour ago.”

They turned up the driveway to Eleuthera. “Home,” he said.

Osborne was waiting to welcome them. “I can’t tell you
how glad I am, how glad we all are, that you’re staying!” he exclaimed, pressing Francis’ hand. It was only the second time in their years together that he had revealed so much of himself.

Francis and Kate crossed the drive to the veranda, crunching on loose gravel.

“These heels!” she said.

He glanced down. “You have beautiful feet, my dear.”

“Beautiful feet? Is that all of me that you’ve got to admire on our wedding day—my feet?”

“The rest I’ll save till later,” he told her.

“Oh, look, that plane has just taken off! Do you suppose it’s Tee’s?”

The plane was still low enough for its windows to be seen from the ground. He wondered whether Tee might be looking down and if she would be seeing Père on the veranda and her old white horse in the paddock.

“Do you remember the day you brought me here?” he asked abruptly.

“I remember everything. The lizards and the goats and the silence and your face.”

“You still talk poetry.”

And they looked at one another. It was a long look, a trembling look, until she turned away and said something ordinary to stop the trembling.

“I’ll just go in a minute and see the dogs.”

He had to laugh.

“Don’t laugh! It will be quite an adjustment for them in a new place, they’ll be worried.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

And he watched her go through the door, into his house.

But he himself was too stirred to be shut inside just yet. He was a newborn man. He was Eleuthère François, standing on this spot for the first time. He was a man of tomorrow.

My God, it was a day to throw your head back and shout into the wind! There, down there, shout where the waves break on the rocks in smashing jubilant spray; shout where the Morne, rising tier upon tier and dark as dreams, spreads its multitudes of green; cry out where the clouds drift over the living land and on every side, far and away and as far as you can see, the moving water glimmers.