A Trip to the Beach (19 page)

The staff was still cleaning up at the restaurant, so I raced back to tell them what had happened. My mind replayed the people who had visited the house recently. Did someone know Bob was away? Had they been watching me? I knew I couldn't sleep there that night. Maybe I would never sleep there again. I wanted Bob.

Shabby, Clinton, Lowell, Bug, Ozzie, Alwyn, Miguel, and Garrilin were gathered in my yard in a matter of minutes. As Ozzie called the police for me, the whole crew began to investigate the evidence. The police arrived forty-five minutes later, and when they did, they ordered my staff to leave. They couldn't have so many people at the crime scene, they said. I insisted I wasn't staying there without my staff, and I explained that my husband was off island and they were there only for my support. Once the officers realized I was serious, they pulled out their fingerprint kit and went to work.

The break-in was a little crime, nothing serious. Anguilla has almost no crime whatsoever, and I knew that this incident was probably just some kids fooling around. Oh, there are crimes of passion in Anguilla—lovers gone astray, husbands not behaving. But crimes affecting strangers are essentially unheard of. Not much was missing, but without Bob I was uneasy. When he heard the news, of course, he wanted to skip Miami and come straight home, but we agreed it wouldn't do much good at that point. We also really needed a truck and couldn't find one in Anguilla. Anyone with a pickup that ran was not interested in selling. Miami was our only shot.

I spent the night at Malliouhana, and the next day Clinton and Lowell replaced the sliders with secure doors on hinges. “You safe now, Mel,” Clinton assured me. “Nobody gonna bother you again. I talk to Bennie, and he comin' down to see you. He angry, man. He gonna teach whoever did this a lesson.”

Bennie arrived now in the role of my guardian angel. “Anguilla has no crime, and we need to keep it that way,” he roared. He began work on a secret weapon, pounding hundreds of nails furiously through a sheet of plywood. He turned the wood upside-down and placed it nail points facing up, inside our patio fence where the intruder had climbed into the yard. “If he come here again, he gonna get two feet full of nails. I already alerted the hospital,” he said. “If anybody show up with nail holes in his feet, we got 'em.”

After that, Bennie escorted me home from work every night and then sat in the shadows, watching my house. Determined to catch the thief, he spent his evenings parked in the bushes, waiting. In the end, it was the police who nabbed the culprits, and sure enough, they turned out to be more pranksters than criminals. They were sent to jail until a trial could be held by a judge who travels throughout the British Caribbean territories.

Bob found, bought, and set up delivery of a great little Nissan pickup in Miami and returned on the afternoon American Eagle flight carrying a gift for Bennie. We drove from the airport directly to Blowing Point. Bennie was backing out of his driveway but pulled in again when he saw us coming.

“Bennie,” Bob said, “we can't thank you enough for all you did while I was away.”

“No problem. You would have done the same for my wife if the situation was reversed.”

“We brought you a little gift,” I said, handing over the box. Bennie tore into the package like a little kid; smiling, he handed the wrapping paper to Janet, his wife, for safekeeping. He admired the handsome briefcase, running his hand over the soft Coach leather.

“You really made Melinda feel safe,” Bob said. “She wouldn't have gone back to the house if you hadn't been keeping an eye on her. Do you know the guys who did it?”

“Not really,” Bennie said. “I know their families. Rest assured, though, they'll be locked up for a long time. Anguilla doesn't take this sort of thing lightly. We need to make an example out of this.”

We agreed, said goodbye, and left Bennie holding his briefcase next to Janet, who was trying to smooth out the crumpled wrapping paper.

“Let's look for a different place to live,” I said on the way back to the house. “There has to be someplace nicer—and now I can't walk into the living room without seeing everything strewn all over the floor.”

“We'll put the word out that we're looking,” Bob agreed. “Maybe one of the staff knows of something.”

The restaurant seemed painfully slow after the intensity of the holiday season, and when Frankie Connor called from his ferry one night to book a table of sixteen, we all were thrilled. Bug even did a little jig in front of his sink, singing, “Sixteen people comin', yes, yes, yes. Plenty people fo' true.”

Frankie's voice had been cool on the phone, but I could tell he was excited about something. “Where are these people coming from?” I asked him.

“You know they been shootin' a movie on St. Martin, right?” Frankie asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well, this is who's doing it.” He paused, hoping I would catch on, but finally whispered, “It Sandra Bullock and the film crew. And she want lobsters on the beach. Can you set up a big table right on the sand?”

“No problem. How soon will you be here?”

“I just leaving Marigot now,” Frankie answered. “You got plenty of lobster?”

“We've got plenty,” I said. “See you in half an hour or so.”

We sprang into action. “Lowell and Miguel, you get the tables lined up and leveled on the beach,” I said. “Let's put them as close to the water as possible.

“Ozzie,” I continued, “you go up to Christine's and get twenty-five of those little brown paper bags that she uses for candy. We'll put sand in the bottom and candles inside. They'll look great on the beach all around the table.”

Shabby cleaned sixteen lobsters, each of them weighing a hefty two pounds. Alwyn lugged chairs down our path to the beach, and I arranged flowers for the table.

“Who Sandra Bullet be, anyhow?” Bug asked.

“Sandra
Bullock,
Bug. You know her,” Clinton said. “She was in
Speed,
that movie 'bout the bus that were outta control. Now they makin' the sequel over in St. Martin 'bout a boat outta control.”

“I ain' seen it,” Bug said. “What else she be in?”

“Bug,” I said, “did you ever see the movie called
While You Were Sleeping
? It's where the guy is in a coma after getting hit by a train, and then the woman falls in love with the man's brother.”

“Yeah, man. I see that. I cry long tears when I see that movie,” he said. “That the lady who want the lobster on the beach?”

“Yeah, Bug,” Shabby said. “You wanna see 'er?”

“Yeah, man. Maybe I can help carry out the plates.”

Frankie arrived on schedule to a beach setting that was itself like a scene in a movie. The white tablecloths ruffled gently in the breeze, candles flickered from the little bags scattered on the sand, and the crystal clear sky was jammed with twinkling stars. The diners had lobsters and good wine, and waves lapped only three feet away. As Bob poured them some rum at the end of the evening, he looked up and saw Bug motioning him feverishly from the edge of our path. Wearing his blue apron and yellow rubber gloves, he asked Bob in a whisper, “Which one she be? Which one Sandra Bullet be?”

Chapter 11

We'd gone from serving almost a hundred dinners a night all the way down to twenty or twenty-five if we were lucky. Time slowed down, and we returned to the unhurried pace that had lured us here in the first place. One particularly slow evening Shabby asked to speak with Bob and me privately. Outside, behind the kitchen, Shabby's bulk all of a sudden seemed smaller. He sat on a wobbly step stool and hung his head low.

“I gotta leave,” he said meekly.

“Leave where?” I asked.

“Blanchard's.”

“You're leaving us? Why? Is something wrong? I thought you liked it here.” Questions tumbled out from us before he could answer.

“You know I loves it at Blanchard's,” Shabby finally said. “You people come to me like family. But I gotta spend more time at home. I work construction all day, rush to the house, take a shower, and then I here till midnight. I gotta see my wife an' kids more. My two little girls, man, they gettin' so big, an' I always at work.”

Bob almost cried, remembering lassoing for lobsters with Shabby when we'd first arrived. He could still see him in his black wet suit gliding like a giant fish along the bottom of the sea. For me, the kitchen wouldn't be the same. We'd worked side by side and now knew each other's moves without thinking. Shabby had perfected the job as grill cook and was a vital part of our success. His size-fourteen shoes would be hard to fill.

The next morning I called Lowell and asked how we should go about finding a replacement for Shabby. Lowell understood completely that a job at Blanchard's was not an ordinary position. We were a small, tight group and didn't want a newcomer who would rock our equilibrium. We needed someone willing to learn our way of doing things on the grill but also eager to become part of the team.

Lowell told me to sit tight. “Don' make a move,” he said. “I find someone right away. I don' wan' you puttin' an ad on the radio. If the word get out on the street, Blanchard's would have people line up down the road for a job. Lemme do it my way.”

One hour later Lowell pulled up in front of our house and tooted his horn. “Mel. Bob. Come,” he yelled.

We walked out on the balcony, and Lowell introduced a young man. The two of them were beaming. “Melinda and Bob Blanchard, meet Huegel Hughes. He wanna be our new grill cook.”

“That was fast,” I said.

“I tell you it wouln' be hard. Hughes here work Malliouhana, but he like the idea a workin' somewhere small. He aks me 'bout a job a few months ago, so I go find him as soon as you call.”

“Huegel,” I started, “what is your job now?”

Lowell answered. “You can call him Hughes. He name Huegel, but we all call him Hughes. He work in the kitchen Malliouhana four years—since he sixteen. Up there they do everything, so he know how run the grill.”

Hughes was a skinny, shy young man with an irresistible twinkle in his big eyes. His hair was tied in a dozen short braids sticking out in all directions. “I would like to work Blanchard's,” he said. “Tonight's my night off Malliouhana. Could I come watch and see what it like?”

I was impressed already. He wasn't going to jump in blindly. “Sure, why not? Come by around five so you can see what Shabby does before dinner as well.”

“My hair a problem?” Hughes asked.

“No,” Bob said. “Why?”

“Some people think 'cause I plat my hair that I use drugs, but that ain' true. I ain' no Rasta.”

Lowell nodded at me as if to say,
Would
I
bring you someone who would cause trouble?

Hughes came to observe for the night, and just about everyone on our staff knew him; it was as if he'd been in the kitchen from the beginning. He was a worker too. Shabby showed him what to do, and he went right to it. His idea of observing was a lot more active than I'd expected. Shabby approved of Hughes, said he would be a good replacement, and agreed to stay the two weeks until he could begin work.

Shabby's last night was slow. With only twenty dinners to serve, we had extra time on our hands in the kitchen, and he asked me if he could make some pap for everyone.

“Pap?”

“Corn pap,” he said. “You ain' try it yet?”

“I've never even heard of it, but I like the name. Pap.”

Clinton said, “Mel, pap like hot cereal. We does eat it in the morning, but it good anytime. Leave Shabby make you some.”

Shabby gathered together cornmeal, milk, sugar, butter, and cinnamon and simmered it all in a big pot on the stove. He spooned the mixture into bowls and put out some brown sugar for people to sprinkle on top. It was heavy, warm, and sweet—like a sugared polenta. It was comforting. I gave Shabby a big, tearful hug, Bob shook his hand, and everyone watched from the back door as he drove away—but not before I made him promise to come back for a visit and make us more pap.

At six o'clock one morning we were awakened by a tooting horn, rather than our usual reliable rooster. Whoever was outside was insistent, and the honking continued until we opened the door. It was Lowell with urgent information.

“I got big news. Big news,” he called from his jeep.

“Are you and Stacy getting married?” I asked.

“No, man. This different kind a news. But it big.”

Bob doesn't focus well without coffee, so he just sat down on the front steps. “Lowell,” I urged, “what's the news?”

“Follow me” was all he said.

“Now? In the car? Do you know what time it is?” Bob asked.

“Yeah, man. Follow me. I got somethin' to show you.”

Bob and I trailed the jeep over the dirt road to Long Bay village, past Christine's shop, then by Lowell's house, where his mother was hanging clothes. She hailed us with a cheerful “Good morning.” The road curved around several bends, and palm trees lined the edges as it dropped down toward the sea. Lowell pulled over alongside some men working on an unfinished building. He saw me looking at the spectacular view and said, “It yours if you wannit.”

“Mine?”

“Bob and Melinda Blanchard, meet my cousin's husband, Charles Richardson. He name really Cricket, though.”

We shook hands, speechless. “You like this house?” Cricket asked. “There are three floors, each with its own apartment. Lowell say you might be interested in renting.”

We were stunned. Lowell hadn't even hinted at what he was up to. Cricket's apartment building was perched twenty-five feet above Long Bay with an uninterrupted view of the water—so close that we could hear even the smallest waves break against the shore.

“Well, yes,” Bob said finally. “Could we look around?”

Lowell and Cricket gave us a tour, and our house with a view of the Shell station was history. The apartment was smaller, but our balcony overlooked one of the most beautiful bays in the Caribbean. Lowell knew we loved Anguilla but had been so disappointed with our living situation. He'd been planning this for a while, waiting until construction on the building was almost finished.

The move changed our life. We became official members of the Long Bay community and were within walking distance of Christine's shop and Blanchard's. We bought lounge chairs for the balcony, and as the sun rose behind me each morning, I'd sit outside, watching the water change from green to blue and back again. An occasional cruise ship would pass on its way to or from St. Martin, and a handful of small sailboats glided by from time to time. We could see picturesque little Sandy Island and, farther out, Anguilla's two uninhabited cays, Prickly Pear and Dog Island—which always made me smile as I pictured Jerry Gumbs turning down Castro's offer to buy it. Other than that, there was nothing but blues and greens out to the horizon.

At night, after work, we'd go outside and gaze at the stars over the water. I wished I knew the names, but the Big Dipper and Orion's belt were the only constellations I could ever remember. Still, I loved seeing the very same stars in Anguilla that were twinkling back home in Vermont.
How can two such different worlds be so connected?
I'd wonder.
How can this balmy, blue-green water be part of the same icy ocean that crashes against the Maine coast?

We could follow a footpath down to the sea. Long Bay was heavenly. The beach was almost a mile long, and we rarely saw another soul on it. At sunset the sand turned a pale shade of coral. There was a rocky point at one end, ideal for long hours of contemplation, and the water was always warm and gentle.

I loved coming and going along the palm-lined road, because of the view, but also because I got to pass by Lowell's house. His sister Angela was always happy to see us. “Good night, good night,” she'd say, poking her head out a window as we'd drive home. “Okay, okay,” Lowell's mother called out to us every morning. There were always nieces and nephews playing around their house. Just like Joshua and Evelyn's, the family extended over three generations, and the children barely differentiated among parents, aunts, uncles, grandfathers, and grandmothers. Family was family.

When I had time on Sunday afternoons, I'd often take Roxana out to the local ice cream parlor in The Valley. Owned and operated by an Anguillian couple that had lived in Italy for a while, it served over twenty flavors of homemade gelato. One Sunday I went to North Hill to pick up Roxana at her uncle Mac's house, and nobody was inside. I wandered out back to see if maybe they were hanging clothes on the line and found Mac's mother fanning herself from the heat that was pouring out of her old stone oven.

“I makin' potato puddin', Mel,” she said. “Come.”

The oven was ancient. Made mostly of rocks, it had an arch of bricks at the top that sloped upward in the front, allowing the smoke to roll out and away. The cooking level was waist high, with a thick, hot bed of ashes and coals on the bottom; extra bags of local charcoal were leaning on a table nearby, ready for refueling.

“I sells puddin' to the bakeries,” she explained as she slid a large flat pan of the brown mixture onto the coals. “Roxana waitin' fo' you over there.” She pointed past a pomegranate tree in the yard to where Roxana was playing with a new puppy.

As I walked over she jumped up and gave me a hug. “Ready for ice cream?” I asked. “I waitin' on you,” she said. “Garrilin comin' with us; that okay?”

Every time I saw Roxana her hair was styled differently. That day it was parted into a dozen or so squares, each one centered by a long braid tied off with a different color plastic bead. On our way to the ice cream shop Roxana discussed the flavors she would order. When we finally got there, Garrilin had coconut and cream, I had guava, and Roxana, being the smallest, had kiwi, chocolate, vanilla, and lime. We talked mostly about school, and Roxana pulled out from her pocket her latest report card. She showed me a list of A's, and then grabbed it back when I started to read the teacher's comments.

“Mel, I ain' think you wanna see that,” she said.

I stuck out my bottom lip in a pout, and she slid it back across the table reluctantly. I read it out loud. “‘Roxana is an excellent student, but she chat too much in the classroom.' Good work on the A's,” I said.

“Thanks, Mel.” She sighed, relieved that I hadn't scolded her about the chatting.

Roxana asked if we could drive around a little before going home, so we turned east past The Valley, and Garrilin and Roxana shared the role of tour guide.

“See that place there?” Garrilin said as we passed a little shack on the outskirts of town. “Them wild in there. They got girls dancin' with their titties out.” Roxana covered her mouth, pretending to be shocked.

“That St. Barts over there, ya know,” Roxana said, pointing out past St. Martin.

“An' this furniture shop belong to Mac uncle,” Garrilin continued.

We circled the island, the two of them taking turns filling me in on who did what, with whom, and where. The smells changed every mile along the way: intoxicating clusters of fragrant agatha, the aroma of banana bread drifting from an open window, a smoky coal keel, the scent of fresh lime from a recently pruned tree, and the pungent curry from the Roti Hut. We passed a house in East End village where a little girl about Roxana's age was swirling a purple Hula-Hoop around her waist. Two other children sat on the front steps watching and waiting for a turn.

The vegetation changed noticeably in the east. The white cedars, neem trees, and palms of the western end of the island disappeared. Instead, we saw hundreds of frangipani trees with their long, skinny leaves and white flowers at the end of each branch. There were cacti everywhere, and Garrilin helped me identify the different kinds.

As we entered Garrilin's village of North Hill again, she and Roxana pointed out two new benches that the neighborhood had chipped in to buy for the little park along the main road. They were painted yellow and white to match the telephone poles and trash barrels in the village. By the time we returned to Garrilin's house, Mac was just pulling into the yard.