The Jumbee (10 page)

“That is not possible,” he ground out. “I’m not who you think I am.”

“And who do you think,” she asked evenly, “that I think you are?”

He didn’t answer.

“Tell me something else, then.” She didn’t let herself hesitate. “Why did Lucia think you knocked over that plywood tonight?”

“Lucia said that?” he asked.

“Not exactly.” Esti shrugged. “But she seemed to know
something.
And her mom wants to meet me.”

“I have never talked to Lucia Harris.” Alan cleared his throat. “I imagine Ma Harris will tell you to avoid me.”

“Why?” Esti carefully tucked one leg beneath the other, torn between her longing for Alan’s company and the increasing spookiness she couldn’t deny.

“She is quite superstitious,” Alan said. “Many West Indians on Cariba are, and they generally have little to do with Continentals.”

“Continentals?”

“People like you, who come here from the States.”

“Alan.” Esti paused. “I don’t care what people say.”

A very long silence followed.

“You, O you,” he finally said. “So perfect and so peerless, are created of every creature’s best.”

Warmth swept through her body as his voice deepened into a caress. “But I’m intimidated by my dad and by Danielle, and I can’t even—”

“Shhh.” She heard his smile. “Both truth and beauty on my love depends. So dost thou too, and therein dignified.” The words of the sonnet touched her like an exquisite, unexpected kiss.

“Alan,” she whispered. “I’m not making you up, right?” She reached futilely into the darkness again. “Right?”

She tried not to betray her frustration at the growing silence in the tiny room. “I thought we were working on Rosalind and Orlando tonight.” After a moment, she snorted and leaned back against her chair. “This disappearing routine is getting old,” she muttered.

The lights were off when she slipped through the front door of the house. Candles burned on the coffee table, and the place smelled strongly of incense. Esti tiptoed across the small living room to peek in the door of Aurora’s bedroom. Her mom wasn’t in there.

Sighing, Esti continued past the kitchen to the balcony. As she suspected, Aurora had fallen asleep in her patio chair, a book on her lap and a bottle of wine on the table. The wine had become quite a habit lately, Esti thought uneasily.

“Aurora.” She placed her hand on her mom’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

“What?” Aurora heaved herself upright. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m worried about you. You fell asleep outside again.”

“Oh, dear.” Her mom frowned at the wine bottle. “I’m probably covered with mosquito bites.”

Esti gave her a sympathetic nod. “Do you need help getting back inside?”

“Of course not. I’m fine.” Aurora stood up, clutching the book. “How was rehearsal?”

“The best one so far. Steve got expelled after they found drugs in his locker over the weekend.” Esti followed Aurora into the living room and pulled the balcony door closed. “And I finally had a chance to bring some real life to Lady Capulet. Even though it’s a tiny part, I think Dad might have been impressed.”

“Of course he would have been impressed. He was always impressed with you.”

Esti and her mother shared their first real smile in a long time. “What are you reading?” Esti asked after a pause.

“Caribbean history. I’d like to know this place better. This book is about their spiritual beliefs.” Aurora gave Esti a weak smile as she sank down to the couch. “I’ve been looking for insight into life and death, but we’ll see. Obeah. Voodoo. Jumbees. I know, it’s silly.”

“What have you heard about jumbees?”

“Some type of evil spirit.” Aurora thumbed through a couple of pages, then dropped the book into her lap.

“I’ve heard about them too.” Esti tried to laugh. “Manchicay School is supposed to be haunted. The other kids tease me whenever I practice by myself, and Carmen says I must be talking to a jumbee.”

“Carmen would say that.” Aurora smiled, and Esti nodded in relief.

“You know how Rodney brings in talent scouts for our performance at the end of each year?” Esti asked, casually sitting on the couch beside her mom.

“Mmm hmm.” Aurora stared at the flickering candles.

“Did you ever wonder if the scouts look for more than just that final performance? If someone were hired to root out hidden talent at Manchicay, beyond the leading roles?”

“Your father would approve of that.” Aurora closed her eyes. “He was a great champion of the underdog.” Then her voice broke. “Oh, Esti, I miss your father. I miss dancing with him and talking to him. I miss my life in Ashland. It’s so lonely here.” She dropped her head into her hands.

It was the most Aurora had said about Esti’s dad since his death, and a wave of guilt swept through Esti as her mom began crying. She had no right to feel this bizarre happiness tonight, when her mom still ached so deeply, and it was Esti’s needs that had brought them to Cariba.

She put an awkward arm around Aurora’s shoulders. She had often walked in on her parents dancing. They loved weird music, like rock and roll played on Celtic harps, or strange Elizabethan electric guitar solos. They had met at a Renaissance Faire, her dad instantly falling for the pretty girl who sang Bob Dylan lyrics to the sound of a lute and ate French fries with her honey mead. The girl who was more hippie than groupie, not letting anyone tell her who she should be. As her mom’s shoulder bone pressed sharply into her neck, Esti’s remorse grew stronger. She hadn’t even noticed that Aurora had lost weight.

“Do you remember when your dad hosted that monologue-othon last year?” Aurora finally said. “Before the diagnosis?”

The diagnosis
. The day the world stopped. “Monologue what?”

“Reciting monologues nonstop on television to create a national fund for disabled actors. I think he lasted fifty-seven hours before he fell asleep in the middle of a sentence.”

Esti honestly had no such recollection. “Oh, yeah,” she said uncertainly.

“He raised over a million dollars in less than three days,” Aurora muttered, without looking up. “By himself. He wanted everyone to have a chance.”

Esti felt the knives stabbing into her stomach again. She couldn’t remember anything at all about television monologues. What else had her dad done before he died? How many things had she ignored, she wondered, between the time of her performance with him as Juliet, and
the diagnosis?

She pulled her mom even tighter in a hug. The airlines never had found the box she’d brought with her, the one with her dad’s last autographed treatise in it. Now it was lost forever, along with so many other things.

“Oh, sweetie,” her mom whispered, lifting her head to look at Esti with red eyes. “I’m the mom; I’ve been trying so hard not to fall apart on you like this. I need to find a job, something to distract myself so I’m not alone all day. Rodney and Jayna come by every once in a while, but I know it’s not enough. I should go out there and get to know people, I just can’t make myself do it. I’m the one who’s supposed to be strong, and I’ve all but abandoned you lately.”

“Aurora, you haven’t,” Esti said. “I—I think I’d like to talk about Dad sometimes, but I’m
fine.
If you’re sad, though, maybe we should go back to Ash . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the word.

“Nonsense.” Aurora blew her nose. “Your only job is finishing school and making a name for yourself. We have enough money from your dad, and we’re not going back to Ashland yet, not if things are finally getting better for you here. If Manchicay launches your career, I’ll have done everything your dad wanted for you.” She wiped her eyes, then leaned back against the couch. “Now, what were you saying about Rodney’s talent scouts?”

Esti looked out the open window, avoiding Aurora’s eyes. “Just that it would be interesting if they had someone working behind the scenes for them. Like private tutoring or something.”

Aurora rubbed her temples, giving Esti a tired smile with a hint of her old impishness. “The talent scouts I’ve met don’t know how to act, they just recognize good acting when they see it. People like that are accustomed to getting any pretty young thing they want. That kind of private tutor might not be such a good idea.”

Esti spun away so that Aurora wouldn’t see her blush.

When she went to bed a few minutes later, Esti knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Pulling out her history book, she began scribbling notes about sugarcane, then finally tossed her notebook on the floor.

Depressing, that’s what it was. Lucia’s family had survived slavery, and so had Rodney Solomon’s. It was impossible for her to picture Manchicay School as a treeless plantation with naked, starving Africans toiling on the terraced hills. She didn’t want to know about the European nobles who couldn’t care less about millions of lives lost for the teaspoon of sugar they put in their tea. She didn’t want to think about the legends the locals had created to survive.

Esti turned off her light. Even worse than her studies of Cariba was the nagging knowledge that she’d completely missed the final year of her dad’s life. Those memories were as fleeting as the sunset, even less real than an invisible boy who spoke to her in sonnets. Alan certainly didn’t seem like the type who was used to getting all the pretty young things he wanted. He was as ethereal as Romeo, his existence seeming to revolve around her alone. And what was Esti giving in return—to him, to her mom, to anyone?

She pressed her aching forehead against the cool steel window frame to look out at the moonlit sea, as tiny coqui frogs filled the humid air with their endless chirping music. Manchineel Cay’s silhouette rose darkly from the sparkling waves, and Esti straightened in surprise. She had never seen a light on the little island before. Had some poor tourist missed the warning signs in the dark? Or maybe it was a local teenager acting on a dare.

She watched as the light wavered and appeared again. When it finally blinked out for good, she couldn’t help thinking that it might actually be possible to disappear out there, never to be found again. On Cariba, Esti was beginning to believe, almost anything was possible.

Act One. Scene Eight.

Esti studied the plantation diagram on the blackboard, leisurely stretching her legs under the table in an attempt to pay attention. As much as she liked her history class, she was having a hard time concentrating on anything but Alan. After his abrupt departure on the night of the tipped plywood set, something had changed. He’d relaxed somehow, and since that night they’d been together almost a dozen times. Esti was beginning to understand the dumb cliché about walking on clouds.

“First,” Miss Rupert said, “ripe sugarcane was cut short and fed into the grinders, powered by trade winds. Manchicay’s massive windmill stood in the round grass courtyard beyond the theater building. Since Elon Somand was known to force his own slaves into the grinders on occasion, the hateful windmill was destroyed by Cariban slaves after abolition. Cane juice was collected from the ground-up sugarcane into a large vessel.”

Miss Rupert swept her arm across the diagram. “The juice then ran along a great trough to the sugar factory, which is now Manchicay’s famous—if perhaps haunted—theater building.”

Esti barely heard the mutters sweeping the classroom as she let her eyes dreamily trace the route of the cane juice. Alan was the opposite of everything Somand represented. Besides his intelligence, he had the intriguing shyness of a boy who’d never had a girlfriend. If anything, it was Alan who was haunted—from the inside. Something kept him in hiding, and Esti had just about decided that this afternoon she’d finally make him tell her what it was.

“Manchicay could process more than a thousand gallons at a time,” Miss Rupert continued. “Slaves tended huge fires underneath the clarifying vessels to boil the juice and collect impurities on top. The juice was then transferred to enormous copper kettles, where slaves constantly fed fires to further clarify and evaporate the juice, continuing the process in smaller and smaller kettles until it became thick enough to crystallize. As it cooled, the resulting molasses was strained into large cisterns, leaving
muscovado
to be shipped either as brown sugar, or treated with clay to make white sugar.”

Squinting at the sugar production diagram, Esti was surprised to see no basements in the drawing.

“And, as you all know,” Miss Rupert added wryly, “you can’t produce sugar without making rum. Cariba has long been known for two things—our jumbees, and our rum.”

“How about a science experiment?” Lance suggested over the class snickers. “We could build a distiller.”

Miss Rupert raised one eyebrow, her accent growing stronger with her amusement. “You chat with Mr. Larson, eh? Let me know what he say. Don’t forget we have a long weekend for Hurricane Thanksgiving. I see you all next Monday.”

Esti waved back at Lance on the way out of class. He’d been much friendlier in the past month, since inheriting the role of Lord Capulet. Lucia had become friendlier too, and Esti was finally going to her house this weekend. Esti hummed as she approached the theater, happy that her luck was changing. Sometimes it was all she could do lately to keep herself from dancing with joy.