My mother is very ill. Zinzi.
It’s all I write because otherwise, I might say too much.
A few days later, I leave the house early, wearing a loose-fitting cotton dress tied at the waist, socks on my feet, and thick-soled boots. My knapsack rests on my back and my machete in hand. I am ready to hike into the jungle. I follow a familiar path, the same trail I used to take with my father, searching for water, wild pears, or strawberry trees—the sweet fruit of my childhood.
Sunlight filters through the palm leaves. Branches graze against my arms and legs, but I continue for more than an hour until I reach the clearing. It is a beautiful, open area, a dry sinkhole, an old campsite of the Maroons where my father often visited as a child and brought me for picnics and swimming. Encircled by steep limestone ridges and enveloped in thick vegetation, my joy comes from the river, though that may be too strong a term for the stream of water that glimmers in the broken sunlight.
I unlace and remove my boots and socks, strip off my dress, and sink into the rippling water, floating on my back for a while and swimming until my body feels limp. I walk from the water onto the riverbank, open my knapsack, take out a folded cloth, and stretch it over the ground. Then I lie in the sunshine.
After a short time, a sound from the bushes draws my attention. I grab my dress and slip it over my head. A large creature moves through the dense forest. Not a mongoose or a crocodile. Still, I take one cautious step, but I’m not afraid. I know who I hope it might be. I told my mother where I’d be right after I received his telegram.
“Who’s there?”
“Zinzi. It’s me.” Byron steps through a tangle of bushes.
“My God, what are you doing here?” I say, smiling broadly because I know the answer. “How did you find me?”
He strides into the clearing, hatless, with disheveled hair, a sweat-soaked cotton shirt, and a knapsack slung over hisbroad shoulders. “You always ask so many questions. You knew I was coming.”
“Not true. I just hoped.” My tone is terse and teasing all at once. “After receiving your telegram, I told my mother where I’d be. All she had to do was give you directions.”
“She did a decent job, but I also know my way around the jungle. I was raised in the Cockpit. The Tynesdale plantation is not far from here. Besides, you left an easy enough trail to follow.”
He sweeps his hair back from his eyes. “It’s been four weeks and I needed to see you. Did you miss me?” He hooks his fingers on the belt of his pants, giving him a boyish air of uncertainty.
“I’m glad you came,” I reply.
“You are? I hoped you would be.”
I feel my dress clinging to my wet skin. I step closer to him. “Well, you’re right.”
“You should stop looking at me that way or I will want to make love to you again.”
“I can’t stop.” I slide my arms around his neck. “Kiss me.”
He does, and this clearing in the jungle becomes our refuge.
Our intimacy is rich in tenderness and emotion. I mirror Byron’s fervor, clinging to him as he clings to me, his fingers digging into my back, his muscles tense. I hold him in silence as we revel in each other’s touch, warmth, and comfort.
Our clothing came off so easily that it feels awkward to dress again in front of each other, especially with the jungle surrounding us. I pull on my socks and step into a boot, but there’s a change in Byron’s mood. His silence is sullen, his movements jerky, and the crease between his eyebrows has deepened. I brace myself for the conversation I know we need to have about Bernard Christian Tynesdale.
“My father has lost his mind.”
“What happened?”
We still sit on the cloth I stretched out on the ground. “He has a new policy. Any worker—man, woman, or child—who is found in attendance at a labor union rally will be fired.”
I sit upright. “My God, what is he thinking? Even with the awful conditions, people need to work in this economy. That’s monstrous,” I exclaim. “Who will he get to replace the field-workers he lets go? Will he put unskilled laborers in his sugarcane fields?”
Byron takes my hands in his. “It’s not just the Tynesdale Estate. He’s formed an alliance with six other sugar plantation owners in St. Elizabeth Parish. They’ve agreed to support him and one another in enforcing the policy. He claims they also provide financial backing to hire detectives and constables to monitor attendance at the movement’s activities. He even said he’ll hire scabs, strikebreakers, to do the work. He’ll even ship scabs here from Cuba.”
“Damn.”
“He wants me to stop playing around. No more labor union talk. No more dining in public with labor union activists.” He smiles. “I told him to go to hell.”
“Good for you, but how does that stop him from destroying lives?”
Byron runs his fingers through his hair, his eyes dark with rage. “I can’t let him get away with this.” He stands and paces. I rise, too, watching him as he stalks back and forth. But I can’t keep silent.
