“I told Bernard to keep my presence a secret. I aimed to surprise you.”
“And you’ve done just that,” I respond.
“Katherine, it’s wonderful to see you as well.” He tries to hug her, but she greets him with a stiffly extended arm forcing him into a handshake. I regret not doing the same.
The other three men are introduced, but I barely catch their names as my anger consumes me.
As we enter the dining room, I discover there is a seatingarrangement. I am to sit with my father on my left and one of the two white men on my right.
“Are you sure we can’t leave?” I ask no one in particular.
“No, you can’t,” Katherine says haughtily. “I want to see what these men are up to.”
“Did you catch the name of the other man?” I ask.
“Tony Schaefer.”
He is already seated and quickly begins downing a tumbler of rum. I assume it’s rum; after all, we’re on a sugarcane plantation with a rum distillery.
I sit and take a moment of silence to quell my anger. I notice the men—even my father—are stylishly attired in linen Panama suits with wide shoulders, long lapels, and high-waisted, pleated trousers tapered at the ankles. They look like members of a band or a street gang.
The rest of the party finds their spots at the dining table. Byron, Zinzi, Katherine, and Tully are seated across from Othella, my father, Tony, Robbie, and me. Mr. Tynesdale is at the head of the table, with his son to his right.
“So, Mrs. Hartfield, how are you finding Accompong?”
I glance at Tony Schaefer. His strong South Side Chicago accent makes him sound out of place. “How do you know Mr. Tynesdale?” Normally, I wouldn’t speak so bluntly to a white man, but something about Schaefer suggests my tone won’t matter.
“We’re business associates. I’m a partner in his rum enterprise.”
“Then how do you know my father?”
His lip curls in an unappealing manner. “He’s one of our partners, too.”
I glance frantically at Tully across the table. He’s looking at me, but I can’t tell if he caught what this man just said.
“Father, is this the business venture you have in Jamaica? Rum and sugarcane?”
“It’s not illegal, Vivi.”
The waiters pause our conversation as soup bowls are placed before the guests. There are more servers in the room than guests. After the soup is ladled into our bowls, I don’t bother to lift my spoon before I interrupt Tony’s slurping to ask him, “How long have you known my father?”
Tony looks past me and smiles at my father. “Shall I tell her, Lenny?”
“Go ahead, Tony. My daughter deserves the truth.” My father’s voice sounds resigned, almost defeated.
Tony wipes his mouth with his napkin. “We both worked for Mr. Tynesdale during Prohibition, smuggling rum into Chicago.”
I look across the table at Tully, who hasn’t touched his soup either. I don’t have to wonder if he heard Tony this time. I can see it on his face.
“Are you suggesting my father was a bootlegger?” I raise my voice so the entire table can hear.
“A former bootlegger,” Tony replies. “Prohibition is behind us. Now we’re legitimate businessmen. Isn’t that right, Mr. Tynesdale?”
“What are you talking about, Tony?” Bernard Tynesdale responds. “This gathering is meant to honor Miss Dunham and her work in Accompong.” He turns to Katherine. “You’ve been here for nearly two months, correct?”
Katherine begins talking about the people we’ve interviewed, the history we’ve recorded, and the dancing we’ve watched, learned, and notated.
The soup bowls are cleared away, and the next course—a salad—is set before me. Once again, I don’t pick up a utensil. I keep my voice low to ask Tony a question: “You sound proud of your partnership with my father.”
