Poison

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Roberto pulled the bags from Lindsey’s room and stowed them into the back of an ancient Mercedes. It looked as if the car had rolled off the assembly line back in Germany during the late’30s, but the black paint glistened in the tropical sun through a heavy layer of wax and Lindsey thought she could have used the rear bumper as a bathroom mirror. Roberto was a methodical and careful driver, much to the consternation of the young Dominican bucks who forced their way around the dowager Mercedes on the narrow streets. Lindsey was soon joking and laughing with Muriel at the impatience of the other drivers. They ignored the rude sound from their horns.

Roberto took the coastal highway, east out of town. The dusty industrial zone quickly evaporated into hills and valleys lush with palm, sea grape, casuarina and banana groves. From time to time the vista to the north opened to reveal the sea, lineal waves as far as the horizon rolled down onto the rugged coastline; sacrificing themselves on the rocky headlands in plumes of sudsy spume. Roberto handled the car smoothly through a turn and Lindsey saw they were headed south, away from the coast, accelerating up into the highlands. The road narrowed and they passed farmers mounted on horseback who crowded their meager herds along the track. Thatched huts peeked out from under the palms and naked children played aimlessly in the sand.

As they drove higher, the air cooled and freshened. Lindsey rolled the side window down and breathed deeply; each lung full seemed to rejuvenate her soul and the stress of Miami seemed a million miles away. She could think of no place she would rather be than in this car, seated beside this secretive woman and on her way to the historic plantation house: Ojo de Agua ...Tears!

Lindsey thrilled when she saw it for the first time.

Roberto turned the wheel of the Mercedes and they were jarred as the car bounced over a shallow ditch then climbed the driveway, crunching along pristine white gravel. The house was a low-slung, two-story, built of stone with a slate roof. A bleak looking structure, foreboding with its vacant windows. It stood heavily anchored to the earth by two massive stone chimneys, one at either end. There was a dark veranda that ran the length of the lower floor with a balcony above. But, as if in an effort to save face, the gardens were glorious.

“Oh, Muriel. This is magnificent,” Lindsey said, spellbound at the sight of bougainvillea, banana palm, citrus, ginger and hibiscus splashing color outrageously from every corner of the yard. One side of the driveway was coarse manicured grass and on her left, a narrow garden with a half-dozen men working among the pumpkin vines; their hunched backs glistened with sweat in the late afternoon sun.

Lindsey watched, fascinated as the car rolled to a stop. The fieldworkers were black; not Dominicans. Haitians, Lindsey thought. Brought here from the neighboring country to do the grunt work for the wealthy landowners. As she watched, one man stood. He was young, in his early-twenties, Lindsey supposed. He was lean and hard and as beautiful a boy as she had ever laid eyes upon. Standing tall, he stared silently out toward the horizon; not turning to study the car or its occupants, nor respond to the bellow that came from the far end of the field.

Lindsey heard the deep heated brawl as: “To-san... to-san!” and she mistakenly thought the Dominican Overseer, who was mounting the fence at the end of the garden, was ordering the Haitian back to work in the sandy soil. Muriel corrected her with a light curse.

“He is the worker, Toussaint. He is...ah... troublesome,” she sneered.

“Toussaint,” Lindsey repeated to herself. It was French... Haitian French... and the ‘tee’ at the end of his name was silent. She looked back to where he stood, still motionless in the field, a lone sentinel, taking no notion of the Overseer who struggled in the soft earth, to reach him, a cane held above his head. The rest of the field hands, eyes diverted, appeared to be working all the harder.

“Pay no attention,” Muriel breathed from behind. “I am sorry for the intrusion. He will be punished.” Lindsey turned momentarily to study Muriel’s eyes but when she looked back to the field, expecting to see the worker being struck down under the bamboo cane, was surprised to see the Overseer frozen in his tracks. Looking to where Toussaint stood, Lindsey saw a woman by his side. Hell, where did she come from, Lindsey marveled. It was as if the woman had sprouted abruptly from the earth, like a stalk of corn, and was standing, ready to defend the boy. The woman was perhaps forty-five or fifty... she seemed timeless, dressed in silk scarves and a bellowing skirt. She reminded Lindsey of a gypsy soothsayer; wide tight belt, a necklace of shells and ribbons woven into the thick locks of her glossy black hair.

Lindsey turned back to Muriel. “Who?” she asked. Muriel shook her head and looked off in the opposite direction, disgust curling her lip. And in that short interval... by the time Lindsey had craned her neck back toward the field, everything had changed... seemingly, inexplicably, back to normal: The woman had mysteriously disappeared and Toussaint’s back was arched against the sky. The Overseer was steadily trudging away, eyeing the other workers with contempt, his cane tapping against the side of his high leather boot.

What the...? Then Lindsey’s view was blocked by a gray uniform. Roberto had come to her door.

He twisted the handle with a flourish and graciously offered her an arm. She swung her knees from the backseat, stood, and let him take the lead. He moved around the end of the car to where he could reach in and offer Muriel his hand. Still craning her neck back toward the field, Lindsey moved along the gravel path toward the veranda and the impressive double entrance-way; hand-carved from slabs of solid mahogany.

“This is my cook and housekeeper, Carmel...” Muriel introduced Lindsey to her house staff in the foyer of the family home. The large black woman grinned widely with a face-full of “Aunt Jemima” jollies.

“Hope you been savin’ your appetite, Miss... me fryin’ chick’n later...” Carmel laughed in a Caribbean lilt and curtsied.

“Thank you,” Lindsey returned. “I’ll be ready!” By the size of the woman, Lindsey guessed her to be an excellent cook.

“Dinner will be at seven,” Muriel interrupted. “You will want to rest before you enjoy your meal.” And then turning, she pointed out a frail young teen. “And this is my au pair girl, Shayla. She will be at your discretion while you are our guest.” Shayla was thin but quite lovely; smooth faultless skin, the color of Lindsey’s mom’s kitchen-made nugget, and with rich copper-colored hair. Some Caucasian blood runs in those veins, Lindsey supposed. Most of Shayla’s body seemed to be calves and thighs. She cracked a wide grin and bobbed slightly, “I’m so pleased to meet you, Lindsey” she said in letter-perfect English. “I am at your service... at anytime... day or night.” Shayla blushed lightly and lowered her eyes.

Odd choice of words, Lindsey thought, but dismissed it. “Thank you. That’s most kind.”

“And you have met Roberto... my driver.” Lindsey caught a hint of disdain in her voice as Muriel placed a hand mockingly on her chauffeur’s arm. He pulled away, avoiding her touch.

Lindsey ignored the theatrical interplay. “Yes. And thank you Roberto for your excellent driving on our way up the mountain road.”

“Ma’am.” He tilted his head to the side and, turning cold eyes from Muriel, touched his cap. “Dis car is at your disposal.”

The introductions complete, Muriel snapped instructions: “Carmel, please show Miss Rey to her room... Shayla? ...I need fresh clothing.”