“Continue, Miss Green,” she instructs as the other woman looks awestruck but obeys, closing her gaping mouth.
“The Cockpit stretches across the center of the island and is full of sinkholes, dense forests, and caverns. There are plenty of tropical plants and plenty of tropical insects and other animals. It is the most dangerous region in Jamaica.” I pause for emphasis, and from the wide-eyed terror in the young girl’s eyes, I have one believer. “Your survival relies on you keeping aware of your surroundings. When we arrive in Maggotty, we’ll get our mules and set off for Accompong.”
“Mules?” the young girl inquires. “What is a mule?”
I hold my chuckle in my throat. “Your name is Othella, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“A mule is an animal that results from crossing a horse with a donkey, but it has a gentler nature,” I explain. “Now, let’s get ready. We have a three-hour train ride ahead.”
Suddenly, Mrs. Hartfield steps forward eagerly. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. I feel like I already know you.”
I look at her sideways. “What do you mean?”
“Your last name is Green,” Mrs. Hartfield says with a grin. “My maid is Maxi Green. She was raised in Accompong but moved to America in 1915. She arranged for you to be our guide.”
“Your maid?” I cross my arms over my chest, blocking a possible embrace I suspect from the way she leans toward me. “Mrs. Hartfield, I’m sorry, but I don’t know a Maxi Green. My mother asked me to do this.”
“Call me Vivian Jean,” she says. “But you’re too young to remember her. I’m sure your mother does. Can you believe Inever asked Maxi the name of the family members she reached out to?”
Getting a closer look at Vivian Jean, I see she is stylishly dressed in the latest riding pants fashion, but she’s as thin as a rail. I can guess it’s not because she starves herself. She is simply excitable, and she speaks quickly, like flames fleeing from a burning building.
“There are many Greens in Jamaica,” I say. “But I don’t know of a Maxi Green in my family.”
“Are you from Accompong?” Vivian Jean persists. “You see, she arranged for our guide—I mean, you—and she said it would be one of her relatives, or that’s what I thought she said. …” She grimaces with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, but she’s not only my maid.”
“I don’t know her,” I reply gruffly, then remember I should soften my tone. “When we get to Accompong, you can ask my mother if she does.”
A train whistle sounds, and a wave of anxiety settles in my stomach. My thoughts shift from Katherine Dunham, Vivian Jean Hartfield, and the other members of the Dunham expedition to the challenges of recent days. The last thing I want is to leave Kingston. The labor movement needs me, and I need it. Allan said he understood why I had to go, but do I?
The train whistle sounds again.
“Let’s move,” I say. “The train won’t wait forever.” I glance at the load bearers and urge them to hurry. I stay on the platform until everyone and everything that needs to board the train gets on the train. It takes a while because the expedition has many crates, boxes, and supplies. This isn’t merely a weekend excursion. Forget a month, they’ve brought enough provisions to stay in Accompong for a year. I wish them well, but if the spirits allow, I’ll return to Kingston before the expedition unpacks.
There is too much history for me in Accompong, and it’s not the kind you sing about around the firepit or recite in a ritual.
I’ll see my mother. She is ill, after all. I just can’t stay long—I can’t stay long at all.
CHAPTER 24
OTHELLA
Kingston-to-Montego-Bay Railway
Iread aloud from the United Fruit Company travel brochure:
“ ‘The main line of the Appleton Estate railway departs from Kingston at noon each day and travels west through Spanish Town, Old Harbour, and May Pen before continuing through Bal-la-cla-va.’ ”
“Balaclava, that’s it, Othella,” Robbie says supportively. “Keep it up.”
“Give me a minute.” I stare out the glassless train window, listening to the crunch of the wheels on the broken iron slats. Cackling chickens roam the train, competing with the braying beasts in the caboose. Seated across from me are partially clothed islanders smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and chewing on sliced fruit.
The clickety-clack noise grows louder as the train ascends on wobbly tracks, winding around hills and jagged cliffs, passing through valleys and swaying near limestone rocks and fields of banana trees. The air is filled with the scent ofripe fruit—bananas, mangoes, and coconuts. My mother once bought a coconut in Chicago—how it got there, I never knew—and we ate it in the kitchenette after she used a large knife to split it open. If this is to be my new home, knowing how to use a big knife seems smart because my switchblade is half the size of my mother’s coconut cutter.
It’s strange to think I can never go back to Chicago, not with blood on my hands. The train lurches to the side:What am I doing here?
This town, Accompong, is a village, and I have never seen a village before. It surely has no jazz music, dance halls, gin and tonics, or satin sheets. Not that I’d ever slept on satin sheets, but there was always a chance that might happen in Chicago.
