The Rhythm of the August Rain (37 page)

Bathed, dressed, and blindfolded, Shad was now led by the elbow onto the verandah and down the steps. He could hear a car driving toward them on the dirt road, stopping in front of the house.

He heard, in an English accent, “Your chauffeur is here!” It was Danny Caines's girlfriend, Sarah. Shad pictured her, with her bright red hair and pretty mouth, calling out.

Frank guided him into the backseat and got in beside him.

“Where you taking me?”

“You'll find out soon enough,” Danny said from the front.

The car drove to the left when they got to the main road, away from the church.

“Something going on at the bar, I know,” Shad guessed, cocking his head to one side. He only got a
hmmm
from Sarah.

The sound of waves hitting the cliff beneath the bar came and went. Seconds later, the vehicle bumped over rough ground and came to a stop. Frank pulled on Shad's elbow again, and he felt his way out of the car, the smell of fresh-turned earth telling him exactly where he was.

“I can take it off now?” Frank asked someone.

The blindfold was removed and Shad rubbed his hand over his eyes. He was on the very spot where they'd held the groundbreaking that morning, but the tent and the chairs were gone. Frank turned him around to face a wall of people, a grinning firing squad between him and the sea. They were all dressed up: Danny in a casual suit, Sarah wearing a green gown, Jennifer in a wide hat, Lambert in a safari suit. Eric was in his good pants again, this time with a long-sleeved shirt and holding the guitar, his arm around Simone in a blue dress. Beside the petite woman sat a little dog, guarding her. It was Cammy, the little brown mutt everyone in the village (except Eric) knew belonged to the obeah man, the dog that
the doctor
had sent over to the island to protect Simone.

“What going on?” Shad protested.

“You ready to do this, bud?” Eric asked.

“Don't give him a choice, Eric,” Jennifer upbraided him, “not after all my work.”

“Do what?” Shad squeaked.

“Get married,” Frank said. “Is your last chance to run.”

“I can't get married.”

“Why not?” Jennifer said.

“The church lock up and Pastor gone—”

“You don't have to worry about that,” Danny put in.

“—and Beth—”

“Taken care of,” Jennifer said.

“—and I don't have the ring with me.”

Simone stepped forward. She held out a small, black box and opened it. “What about these?”

Shad examined the contents and looked up at her, the look they exchanged carrying the memory of last summer, when he'd rowed her groceries out to the island every week and heaved them up the cliff, and when he'd saved her from the clutches of Tiger and Sharpie. “Is
your
wedding rings?”

“I'm not using them.” She laughed, all her pretty teeth showing. “And any man who wants to marry me will buy me a new set, anyway.” Behind her, the boss's black eyebrows rose and fell in a flash.

Shad took the box from her and ran his finger around the square diamond of the engagement ring, over the gold band with its tiny scratches. “I can't pay you for this, you know.”

“You paid me already, Shad.”

“Come on, sport, let's get this show on the road,” Eric said.

“Yes,” the groom said, taking a deep breath, “I ready.”

The wall parted to make way for him. Below them, the large white tent now sat on the beach, the silver balloons from the party blowing from its posts.

“But Beth, she know—?”

“We've been working on this since Monday,” Jennifer said, linking arms with him, making sure he wouldn't run away. “She's part of the plot.”

Frank put his arm around his shoulder. “Is hell to pay for us men in Largo, but if you going to do it, best to get it over.”

The tent's roof flapped a welcome as they descended to the beach. Inside were rows of chairs, the same folding chairs from the groundbreaking. The people in the chairs looked up at him, everyone smiling, and he could make out a red carpet at one end, and on it the hem of Beth's white wedding dress and the shoes her sister had loaned her. Rickia popped out of the tent in her blue bridesmaid dress, waving him inside with her bouquet.

Shad clapped his hands. “Well, boy, you give me a shock now. How come nobody say nothing all week?”

“Because Jennifer would have killed them if they had,” Lambert answered, and guffawed.

As they walked down to the beach on the slope of earth stripped and waiting for construction to start on Monday for the Largo Bay Grand, Shad felt a chill run down his spine. He remembered how God liked to spin people around and watch them after, and he walked as straight as he could, with a cool smile. He walked as if he weren't surprised by anything—that he was going to be a partner in a hotel, going to be a
busha
, going to be a married man. When they got to the beach, he took his time, trying not to get sand in his shoes, touching the ring box in his pocket next to his good-luck charm, the bag with Granny's grave dirt.

His woman, his Beth, was waiting for him, and she wasn't vexed with him, but looking beautiful in the long dress she'd been sewing all year, sheer lace covering the strapless top, right up to her neck and wrists. From her head flowed a veil that fell behind her to her waist, and in her hands she held a bouquet of the purple orchids that Lambert grew in his greenhouse. She was wearing the mischievous smile she kept for their special times, her eyes sparkling with happiness. Next to her, Joella was holding her own orchids, and between them was the pastor from Port Antonio who had prayed over the groundbreaking, this time in a long, black robe.

Almost all the folding chairs were filled, some people sitting in the restaurant's chairs at the back. Lambert and the others walked to the few empty seats left—except for Eric, who took up his position at the front, a teenage grin on his face, ready to play something on the guitar. Sitting in the front row were Beth's sister, eyebrows raised, and her husband and family. Miss Mac (Ashante holding on to her skirt), Tri and his woman, Solomon and Maisie (Joshua in her arms), and Old Man Job were in the second row. Carlton and Winston sat behind them, along with half of Largo, everybody happy, sharing their weeklong secret.

“Who did all this?” Shad whispered to Jennifer under her big hat.

“The people who love you,” she whispered back, before handing him over to Beth.

In the summer of 1989, I was the associate producer for a BBC documentary that was being filmed in Jamaica about the remnants of African culture in the Caribbean. The island's Rastafarian community was included in the film, and my memories of our visit to a Nyabinghi camp and our conversations with its leaders have never left me.

I had no idea then that my intense experience would culminate in a work of fiction, but here it is. Another contributing factor to this novel has been my growing respect for the Rastafarian lifestyle, which started long before the word
organic
became a buzzword, and for the conscious lyrics of Rastafarian singers—a refreshing alternative to some of the not-so-conscious dancehall songs.

While writing this book, I have tried to be as authentic as possible, although I have employed the more accessible acrolect form of Jamaican dialect because of the diversity of my readers. Several people and literary works have given me a better understanding of the movement. Ras Yasus Afari, dub poet, musician, and author, became my friend at a book festival in Anguilla a few years ago, and I am grateful for our friendship. Additionally, his book,
Overstanding Rastafari: Jamaica's Gift to the World
, gave me a clear explanation of his people's philosophy and language.

Another invaluable resource was the late scholar Dr. Barry Chevannes's
Rastafari: Roots and Ideology
, which traces the history of Rastafari back to the nineteenth century. Others have been
The Kebra Nagast: The Lost Bible of Rastafarian Wisdom and Faith
by Gerald Hausman, and Tracy Nicholas's
Rastafari: A Way of Life.
Leonard Barrett's
The Rastafarians
provided me with the real-life Nyabinghi scene in the novel. For Internet language resources, I used
www.jumieka.com
, created by Larry Chang, and so many other online Rasta dictionaries that I won't begin to list them.

It takes a village to birth a novel as much as a child, because a novelist works with the assistance and forgiveness of many, many people. I have had no greater support than from my colleagues at the University of the Virgin Islands, including President David Hall and his wife, Marilyn, Provost Camille McKayle-Stolz, former dean Simon Jones-Hendrickson, and my chairman, Dr. Alex Randall. They have done everything in their power to allow me to write, and they continue to make my teaching experience at UVI a delightful one.

Additionally, I had the great fortune of being invited back to Jamaica for five weeks, which inspired me as I completed this novel. For that invitation I thank Valerie Facey, who took care of my every need while I was on the island editing a memoir. Working in Jamaica, living in both Kingston and on a farm, not only assisted me in making the final touches to my own manuscript, but inspired my thoughts about the next.

The team who is always behind me continues to offer their support. Eric Peterson, my reader, I thank for his sage and gentle advice. Maria and Larry Earl, part of my Atlanta family, offered their home yet again, and my daughter, Lauren, boosted my spirits and pushed me onward whenever I needed it. To Malaika Adero, my former editor, who continued to believe in me through thick and thin, I owe such a debt of gratitude that it will never be repaid. I also wish to thank my new editor, Sarah Branham, who valiantly took me on as one of her authors, giving me great advice in her editing and making the transition as seamless as possible.