Receive Me Falling (27 page)

           
“Really?
 
What are you going to sing tonight?” asked
David.

           
“Ask me after a few more Caribs.”

           
The waiter brought over a round of
shots and told them they came from a friend.
 
As Gwen passed them around, Meg scanned the room until her eyes settled
on Desmond.
 
He smiled widely once she
noticed him, and proceeded over to the table.

           
Meg leaned in to the table and was
able to whisper “This is the guy I told you about earlier—the one from Grand
Star,” just as Desmond slid into the chair beside Meg.

           
“We keep running into each other,”
said Desmond.

           
“I was just saying that to my
friends,” said Meg.

           
Desmond was actually quite charming
that evening.
 
He bought drinks for
everyone, told stories of local island lore, and even sang a surprisingly good
rendition of
It Had to Be You
with a
reggae beat.
 

“Now I’ve heard everything,” said David.
 
“Reggae Frank Sinatra.”

“Have you heard that Eden’s haunted?” asked Desmond.

Meg gulped her drink and smiled sheepishly at the
table.

“Meg neglected to mention that,” said Gwen.

“That’s because there’s not much to mention,” said
Meg.
 
“Islanders say that the ghost of a
dead slave who threw herself over the cliff wanders the house, but I’ve never
seen her.”

“Maybe it’s the slave angel in the mural,” said
David.

“What mural?” asked Desmond.

Seeing that Meg was uncomfortable, and clearly
hadn’t wanted Desi to find out about the mural, Gwen said, “It’s your turn,” and
pushed Meg up to the DJ.
 

Meg didn’t know if she was drunk enough to sing
karaoke, but decided she would rather sing than discuss the property with
Desmond.
 
After a brief exchange, the
music began, and Meg began
Son of a
Preacher Man
.
 
She started out with a few sour notes, but
picked up steam as the song continued.
 
When it was over the crowd went wild.
 
Meg bowed and walked over to a standing ovation from her table.

After last call, David decided they should take a
taxi home since none of them were in any condition to drive.
 
The driver was named Allan, and he led them
all in Caribbean drinking songs as he drove.
 
Gwen and David were the first stop, and after
they left, the van became suddenly very quiet.

“Thanks for allowing me to hang out with you all
tonight,” said Desmond.
 
“My business
partner is not much fun, I’m afraid.”

“It was our pleasure,” said Meg, surprised that
she actually meant it.
 

“The island must be doing you good,” said Desmond.
 
“You seem much more relaxed since the last
time we met.”

“I feel more relaxed,” said Meg.
 
“Of course, the alcohol helps.”

Desmond laughed and the taxi pulled up to his
hotel.
 
He had to crawl over Meg to get
out.
 
Underneath the bar smoke, he
smelled good.

“Would you like to come up for a drink?”

Meg could see the taxi driver looking at her in
the rear view mirror with a smile on his face.
 
Desmond leaned against the edge of the van waiting for her reply.
 
She twisted her engagement ring on her finger
and thought of Brian.

“No thanks, Desi,” said Meg, putting her arms
around Allan from the back seat.
 
“My
date might get angry.”

Allan started to laugh, and Desmond smiled.
 
“Maybe next time.”
 
He closed the door and watched the van drive
off.
 

When they got to Havilla, Meg thanked Allan for
rescuing her, tipped him the cost of the fare, and stumbled into the villa
alone.
 

12

Of
all the insults to her body and soul, those miserable flies threatened to push
her over the edge.
 
With every flicking
thump against the thatched walls of her hut each morning, their buzz amplified
until she crawled right out of her skin and into the blistering sun.
 
Only hell could hum and drone worse than
those noisy fly-filled mornings with those little, winged demons—fresh from
rotten cane, sweating livestock, unidentified carrion, or human shit—thudding
into her face, and nauseating her.
 

           
Killing flies only seemed to beget
more, so she simply tried to ignore them, unless she found some maggot filled,
hollowed out piece of old fruit or dung pile.
 
Those she destroyed.
 
Creatures
born of shit should not have a place in the world.
 
Her thoughts would often turn to
Sarponte—that miserable, fiendish overseer—as she stamped out maggot
piles.
 
Though, wasn’t he more of a
snake?

Waking each morning sore from sleeping on hay,
weary from yesterday’s work, nauseous from hunger, and sick of her own filthy
stink to an army of flies did not start her days well.
 
Waiting on Catherine should have made it
worse.
 
It did on some levels, but mainly
she liked being with her.
 
They had
started their lives days apart, nursed from the same breast, sat at Esther’s
feet side by side as they grew, made mischief, explored, worked.
 
Catherine taught her to read.
 
She taught her to write her name: L-E-A-H.
 

           
After Esther had Leah, she was back
at work two days later with Leah tied in a sling around her waist.
 
But after Catherine’s mother died from a
hemorrhage, Esther had to care for Catherine as well. Master allowed Esther to
live in the house and gave her a room where Catherine and Leah slept. Catherine
had a cradle, but Leah slept with Esther in bed.
 
Esther said that Catherine used to cry all
night long, until she finally brought her into bed with her and Leah.
 
That made Catherine happy.
 
Esther would sleep with the girls tucked into
her—their tiny faces inches from each other breathing each other’s breath back
and forth.

           
When the girls turned one and no
longer needed to nurse, Catherine’s aunt, Elizabeth, sent Esther and Leah back
to the slave village.
 
Miss Elizabeth was
Master’s sister-in-law.
 
Her husband,
Master’s brother, died of yellow fever shortly after arriving on Nevis Island
in 1810, and left Master to build a plantation on his own.
 
She was jealous that she was never able to
become mistress of the house, jealous that Catherine loved Esther most.
 

           
Leah felt the brunt of that jealousy
when Elizabeth
was alive.
 
Elizabeth abused the child when others were
not around.
 
She beat her and belittled
her.
 
Elizabeth chastised Catherine for sharing so much
of her life with the slave child.
 
She
appointed Leah her personal servant, but was forever displeased with Leah’s
service.
 

           
Leah walked along the path to the
house.
 
It rose before her as it did
every morning.
 
She rubbed her back with
her rough hands and spat on the dirt.
 

Catherine
sat with her slave lists, updating births and deaths and writing detailed notes
about each man, woman, and child at Eden.
 
The Triannual Lists needed to be sent to England
to keep an accurate account of slave ownership.
 
Catherine knew these lists would be used if slavery was ever
banned.
 
The scribbled writing on the
list was troubling her.
 
Phinneas’ broken
and practically illegible handwriting had replaced that of her father’s.
 
Now that Phinneas oversaw the trade of the
Dall slaves, Catherine had lost a degree of control of the plantation.
 
New faces would appear and disappear from the
village each month, and the records did not reflect as much slave activity as
she was sure transpired.
 
Catherine did
not trust Phinneas, but was having difficulty convincing Cecil of this.
  

           
She scanned the list once she had
finished and counted 202 souls in all.
 
202 men, women, and children who were the property of Cecil Dall.
 
202 men, women, and children who labored
without compensation under extreme conditions for the profit and comfort of one
small family.
   

           
The sharp clash of shattering glass
pulled Catherine from her thoughts and into the hallway, where Leah knelt over
a pile of broken China.
 
Leah’s face fell when she saw Catherine
emerge from the study, and Leah began to fumble an apology.

           
“Are you all right?” asked
Catherine.

           
“I’m sorry.
 
I don’t know why I’ve been so clumsy.”

           
In spite of Leah’s protests,
Catherine knelt to help Leah collect the broken plates.

The girls worked in silence as they picked through
the broken shards of the plates.
 
It had
broken into large, easily handled pieces, but smaller fragments concealed within
the mess began to bite at the girls’ hands, causing small specks of blood to
stain the debris.
 

           
Catherine reached for Leah’s hand
and saw that it was not only Leah’s fingertips, but her own which were
wounded.
 
She turned over Leah’s callused
hand and pulled a small shard from her palm.
 
Leah looked down and pulled her hand away.

           
“I’ll get the rest.
 
Please leave me,” said Leah.

           
Catherine stood and watched Leah for
a moment.
 
Then she turned and left her.

“The
blaze consumed everything of value on the plantation, with the exception of the
house,” said Cecil.
 
“It won’t be long
before the Halls will be forced to leave the island.”

           
Albert and James looked at one
another with troubled expressions as Cecil prodded the soil along the edge of
the cane field with a large, cut stalk.
 
The wind was blowing strong which made it difficult to hear.

           
“Have they any notion of who would
do such a thing?” asked Albert.

           
“The most obvious suspect is the
small planter, Caleb Whitting.
 
He is
openly hostile to Mr. Hall and quite vocal about his anger over the Thatched House
Law. An investigation is already underway, but frankly, I don’t know how it
will turn up anything.”

           
The men looked down over the acres
of rustling cane.
 
The slaves toiled hard
amidst the crop, and their droning song could be heard behind the wind—low voices,
sorrowful voices, monotonous sounds.
 
An
old black man raising his voice above the others—eyes closed, face turned to
the sky—stood in the middle of the cane with his scythe high, then lowered it
back to its task.
 
A young woman shook
her head, sweating, singing along.
 
The
slice of the blades moved in concert with the weary chorus.
 

           
“My God, that sound depresses the
soul,” whispered James.

           
Cecil looked at him.
 
“They are singing.
 
That means they are happy.”

           
“A happy man doesn’t sing a song
like that.”

           
“Our slaves are the best kept on the
island,” said Cecil.
 
“Only days ago
Catherine finished sewing new dresses for all the women working the
fields.
 
They are all permitted to grow
small gardens on their plats to sell vegetables at the market.
 
The rod is spared in many cases, when it
should be used.”

           
“I’m sure we hope to model our
plantation after yours, Mr. Dall,” said Albert.
 
“My son and I, though in favor of using slave labor, are not in favor of
unusual cruelty toward them.
 
We shall
try to maintain a peaceful settlement in St. Christopher.”

           
“We find it helps keep everything
running smoothly if the slaves are well-treated.
 
Of course, it is sometimes necessary to set
an example.
 
But that is where Phinneas
comes in.
 
He is not afraid to use the
whip every now and again to show the others what will not be tolerated.”

           
The men looked at Phinneas on his
horse.
 
He weaved through the working
slaves issuing commands and overseeing the field hands.
 
When he saw that he was being watched, he
tipped his hat to the gentlemen.

“There is a lawful limit on the number of lashes
allowed, is there not?” asked James.

           
“Yes,” replied Cecil.
 
“About twenty years ago a planter on the
island had his slaves flogged at the market in Charlestown.
 
He was said to have whipped some of the slaves over 200 times.
 
One of the women died as a result of the
beating, but a jury found the planter innocent.
 
Shortly thereafter an amendment to the Melioration Act of 1798 passed
limiting the number of lashes on a slave to 39—but who’s counting,” laughed
Cecil.
 
“At any rate, you may feel free
to explore.
 
I must away to the house for
a bit of business.
 
Meet me in the parlor
at tea time for a bit of refreshment,” said Cecil.

           
James and Albert watched Cecil
stagger back toward the Great House, humming and swatting at the cane with his
cut stalk.