Hogwater

“Well, I mean, people t’ink dis place the most beautiful place inna world, so I don’t know what I can say to you ‘bout Negril,” said Miiga to the cop sitting next to her on the library porch. He had just asked her about Jamaica. She didn’t want to offend him if his people were from here. She placed her book down on the ground. Except for Mrs. Grund, who was generally in some form of altered state when she engaged Miiga in conversation, and the Grund’s cook, with whom she shared the gossip of the family, no one on the island – well, no one white, that is – had ever engaged her in conversation, or much cared what she thought. Certainly people had stopped her for directions or asked her where the nearest bathroom was, or whether she would be interested in babysitting, but someone who wanted to know something about her, well, it just didn’t happen.

“Mackinac is lovely,” Henry said. “But believe me, I am not among those followers who think it’s the most beautiful place in the world. I bet more people think that Jamaica is beautiful, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’ know, really. I know I do. And Negril is my home, so I love it.” She was thoughtful for a moment. Henry nodded and seemed to want her to continue. “Well, you see how the beach here is rocky?” she said, pointing to the shore just below the deck on which they were sitting. “Is all white sand, in Negril, which is at da tip of Seven-Mile Beach. You hearda Seven Mile Beach?” He shook his head.

“Tell me about it,” he said.

“It’s just peaceful, an’ beautiful. And god, he surely does come visit us every night at sunset and every mornin’. You should see da color,” she said, leaning back in the Adirondack chair and imagining her father, bringing in fish from his boats, waving frantically at her as she ran down to meet him. “An the flowers, heli-heli and ‘biscus, dey color da whole island like red paint and smell like homemade perfume inna morning. Orchids, dey grow like wild. White an’ purple an’ pink an’ yellow.”

“Sounds very beautiful, Miiga. Seems like you wouldn’t want to leave to come here.”

“I don’ like to leave my father, no, but, we say in Jamaica, “Hog say, di fus water im cetch, im walla.” Henry looked at her with a confused look, and she laughed. “I’m sorry, that’s the way we say it in Jamaica.” She tried to speak more American style now, keeping her t’s hard and ending her words instead of relaxing them away. “You would say, “The hog wallows in the first water he finds.” She looked over at Henry to see if he understood. Still nothing. He looked at her and shook his head.

“I’m sorry. I’m just dumb. I don’t understand,” he said to her.

“It means that we Jamaicans seize every opportunity we can, dat’s all. I mean, that’s all. I don’ want to leave Negril, but it’s an opportunity to make sure money. Since my mother died, I take care of my father and he take care of me. Mackinac is my hogwater.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “She must have died young?”

“Thank you. Yes, she was only 42. Cancer. Liver. But it was t’ree year-ago, she die. I miss her, but I know I’ll be OK. An’ she’s around, you know, in spirit. Watching me.”

Henry smiled and looked away. She was so young to lose her mother. He wished he could do something for her in that moment to make it just a little better. He couldn’t imagine losing his own mother, even at his age. Such a young thing. He was at a loss for words just now. “Well, you have a very grown up perspective for such a young woman.” She smiled back at him.

Do you work for the Grand Hotel? I think that’s where I ran into you,” asked Henry.

“No, I’m in private service up the Grund Mansion. Dey pay a little better an’ it’s easy work,” she said. “I don’ have to work inna garden or inna back of a kitchen all day. Miz Grund, she nice. Mr. Grund, he not home much.” Looking at her watch, she realized that she had to get back to work. In fact, Mr. Grund was coming home and Mrs. Grund had given her a list of things she wanted done before he arrived that evening.

“I’m sorry, Officer, uh, Henry,” she said, getting up. “I jus’ realize I have to go or I’ll be late.” Henry got up, too.

“Look at the time,” he said. “I have to go to, too, but I enjoyed our talk. I do hope I will see you here again, Miiga. It was nice to meet you. Maybe you can teach me a little about this island, too. I’m new here and it would be nice to have an insider to help me out. Maybe you can teach me another proverb or two.”

“Yes, of course. I come hear a lot to read. You ask me anyt’ing. If I don’t know it, Stedley will. He’s my uncle and work da island 38 years.” She gathered herself together and stepped off the porch to the rocky shore. “Goodbye.”

“Nice to meet you,” the policeman called back to her.

Miiga removed her shopping list from her bag and ran her finger down what was left on it. First, to Ryba’s for some strawberry fudge for Mr. Grund, then the market for some dinner supplies, and the bookstore for a list of books and CDs that Mrs. Grund had requested. The advantage of a small town was that locals rarely had to carry cash. Merchants recognized Miiga as working for Mrs. Grund and gave her what she requested, usually without any problems. From time to time, the lady at the mercantile would call up to the house to confirm the order, especially if it contained alcohol. It was a little humiliating for Miiga to hold up the line while the store clerk called in a verification, but she had nothing to hide. Besides, she didn’t drink. All that liquor was going to the Grunds. And since Mr. Grund was coming home, Margaret was stocking up, though it was unclear who would be taking greater advantage of the stock.

Her chores completed, Miiga loaded her booty into the rolling cart that she used to market, and started the trek back to the Grund Mansion. On the way, she thought about her experience earlier with Henry. In three years, he was the first white person who had wanted to listen. And he was Babylon. Not that she was afraid of him or hated him because he was a cop, like Jujee might, but policemen were not known to be kind to the Jamaicans. They weren’t mean, exactly, just strict. Maybe just a little stricter with them than with the tourists, moving them along if they dallied too long on a street corner, or questioning them about whether they had someplace to be.

It was the little things she noticed, that made her realize she was a second class citizen. Not just because she was a housekeeper, but because she was a black housekeeper. The cops on the island didn’t really acknowledge them. For instance, they didn’t pay much attention to those Jamaican women who would complain about being hit by a boyfriend or other man. “Oh, he’ll cool off,” they’d say. “You Jamaicans are hot heads. Go on home and stop drinking so much.” Sometimes a Jamaican would be stopped on his bicycle and questioned about where he worked or where he got the bike. He would be told to slow down while the white kids would be ignored. From time to time, they would be told to move along if too many of them congregated somewhere that made other white folks nervous. They were little things; things it was hard to complain about in the acute sense, but were nonetheless tiring. .So it was unexpected that this man would want to talk.

Certainly she couldn’t tell anyone about this meeting. In the first, place, she wasn’t sure she was ready to share her secret spot with her friends. The library back porch had only two chairs and she wanted always to be assured of having one of them. In the second, place, well, it just wasn’t done on the island, making friends with bald-heads, what they called the white man when he wasn’t around.

Back on the porch, she had been so surprised that he had spoken that Miiga was somewhat at a loss for what she could tell him about her beloved Negril, but now the memories came back in a flood: The “watch night” celebration on New Year’s Eve; “Mango Days” where the rain would fall so hard, you could hear the mangos falling off the trees in her backyard. She wanted to tell him about the spring water ponds in the hill area, far away from the tourist, where she would go to wash her hair and it would turn to silk.

And the food! Saltfish fritters and tamarind chicken and jerk and curried goat, and callaloo were just the beginning. She could tell him a lot. Maybe he could tell her some things. Maybe she would never see him again. That would be fine, too, she thought. She was perfectly happy to have her outdoor reading room reserved for herself alone.

Miiga rolled her cart to the back door, and hauled the groceries and treats up the stairs to the kitchen entrance. There was no proscription on coming in through the front, but coming through the kitchen allowed Miiga to slip into the house quietly, and get the scoop from the cook about the state of the household affairs. Besides, she genuinely liked Marlene, who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind and who treated her like a human being. Mrs. Grund had always been nice to Miiga, but boundary lines were clear. Marlene prided herself on being just plain folk.

She might even go so far as to say Marlene was a friend. Marlene and Miiga’s mother had worked together 22 years in the Bontemps home (Margaret had married Dick 15 years ago and changed her name to Grund, but those around town still called it the Bontemps home). Marlene had always spoken highly of Vanessa, Miiga’s mother, and when Marlene heard the news that she had died, she had written a long condolence letter and sent a King James Bible to Miiga’s dad.

The two often ate together in the kitchen, and though her manner was a little gruff at times, Miiga could see that Marlene had a good heart. At the end of Miiga’s stay on the island in September, Marlene would always send a package of clothing home with Miiga. “Here,” she would shove a paper or plastic bag at Miiga filled with clothes. “These are a few things my daughter was going to give away anyway – got fat, you know. Maybe you can use them.” In fact the clothing was new, though Marlene had gone to great pains to cut off the tags and toss them into the bag unfolded. And no one is too fat for a shawl. Last year Marlene remembered Miiga saying she was going to a wedding in January and needed a wrap.

And Miiga had helped Marlene get over her issue with her eldest son, who had recently married a woman from Mexico and was planning to raise his children to speak Spanish and English. “I’m not a racist, I’m a nationalist,” Marlene had said, defending her position steadfastly against the unholy union. “We – you and I – we work together just fine. Racist people couldn’t do that.” Over the last summer, Miiga had slowly helped her to realize that her decision to cut off her son for his decision to marry a Mexican only hurt Marlene in the long run; she would surely lose a son before he would lose a wife. That winter, Miiga got a card with a picture of the three of them smiling in Cabo San Lucas.

Marlene, being white, knew things Miiga didn’t, and Miiga, being black, knew things Marlene didn’t. Together they had the goings on around the island fairly wrapped up, at least in circles were service people traveled. And being in the same house day in and day out, they talked. Michiganders like Marlene didn’t gossip of course; such behavior was unseemly, and in any case, would have required Marlene to put more money in the collection plate on Sundays. Stating one’s opinions out loud to no one in particular could not actually be considered gossip, though, so when Marlene did have an opinion on something – which was often -- well, it was good to be in the room, because one could learn a lot.

With Mr. Grund coming home for a few days, it was always anyone’s guess how steeped in Valium or booze or both Mrs. Grund would be and what particular insanity she was spouting would directly depend on which self-medicating cocktail she had chosen to greet her husband with.

“She’s a mess, poor dear” whispered Marlene with a stern tone, staring into her bowl of brown colored batter and stirring briskly. Miiga had given her the recipe for Jamaican gingerbread and it had become a household favorite. “Not sure how many pills she swallowed, but she’s carrying around that travel mug again and it’s filled with her buddy Jack. Daniels.” Marlene clicked her teeth more out of pity than disgust. “Poor thing thinks she’s fooling everyone, walking around with that cover on it. Her breath alone could start a bonfire. And I hope she hasn’t gotten into Mr. Grund’s stash, because there will surely be hell to pay if she has.”

“No worry,” said Miiga. "I went down ta market an’ got some extra just dis afternoon. I t’ink we’re good for the weekend. She set the bags on the counter." Putting away the groceries was Marlene’s charge, but Miiga had dusted and cleaned and had nothing else to do. Besides, if Mrs. Grund was as bad off as Marlene said, it was probably best to stay out of her way.

“Reinforcements, huh? It’s hardly enough for him but it might be enough for us,” Marlene said bitterly. “You know how he is,” said Marlene, her voice still low as if she were talking to herself. “We’ll need it by the time he leaves. I hear he’s in town for the whole week, too. Then in another two weeks, he be back here for the Race to Mac.

“I have never understood why she married that man,” said Marlene, still whispering. “At least not completely. I know I’d be drinking again, too, if I had to sleep in the bed with him. Some folks on the island say the whole marriage was arranged. They say there was even money involved. They say that Mrs. Grund actually gave the Bontemps the Grund Mansion as part of the deal.” Marlene shook her head.

“Really. I wonder why,” said Miiga, flatly. Not that she cared. Mr. Grund barely looked at her when he was around, although he and his cronies did know how to call her to clean up their messes. During the boat races last year, she and Marlene spent the entire weekend catering to him and the souses he called buddies. Margaret had stayed around for a day, but had gone over to stay with her family at the old Grund Mansion when it was clear that her husband had planned a week of debauchery that didn’t include her. They had been like fraternity boys that weekend, drinking themselves into a state, demanding more food from Marlene and more booze from Miiga. One of them even slapped Miiga on her bottom when she and Marlene went in to the tv room to clear the dirty dishes, but Marlene put a sure stop to that, pushing the man so hard with a stiff lower palm to the forehead, that he fell back over his chair. “Do that again and I’ll call the police myself,” she said. They laughed but her message clearly had been heard.

Later, when they were back in the kitchen and she could see that Marlene was still angry by the way she was slamming down plates into the dishwasher, she said, “It’s OK, Marlene. I wasn’t hurt. I t’ink he was drunk, dat’s all.”

“Miiga. You don’t know what I know. You stay out of that room for the rest of the night. I’ll clean up the dishes. One of them would touch me just once. Just once.” She whirled around to Miiga and pointed an angry finger at her. “And you lock your door every night. I mean it.”

I’m OK, Marlene; it was not’ing.”

“I mean it! Promise me.”

“OK, I promise.”

“Every night.”

“Every night.” Miiga couldn’t understand her worry, but decided it would certainly not hurt to lock the door at night. She had locked her door that night and every night through the end of her tenure. Though it would be a couple weeks before the boat races came through this summer, Miiga had locked her door the minute she arrived on the island. After she told Stedley the story, he agreed that it was a good idea.

“Well, I guess I’ll never really understand why people do anything, and I’m not one to gossip, of course, but I know one thing for sure. Even if it did have to do with money, My Molly did love him. At least at one time she did.” Miiga saw Marlene pause for a moment and blink hard, as if she was forcing back tears. Then she regained her composure, poured the well-stirred batter into two round cake pans and carefully put each into the oven. One would be dusted with powdered sugar and served to the Grunds for dinner. The other would be cut into slices and reserved for Miiga and Marlene to nibble on throughout the week. Back home in Jamaica, they would wrap the finished cake with several thicknesses of cheesecloth soaked in rum and let the cake sit for a week in a dark room, rewetting the cheesecloth every other day with more rum. Marlene quite rightly determined that neither Grund was in need of any extra alcohol, though she had long stopped trying to hide if from them.


Marlene made it clear, at least in the confines of the kitchen, that Dick Grund – the entire Grund family in fact – were unwelcome leaches to the Bontemps fortune. She had not liked Dick or his mother from the beginning, and had only quieted her tongue when Margaret had announced that she was getting married to Dick. She had seemed so happy during that time, Marlene once confided to Miiga, and Marlene had wanted Margaret to be happy. Though she thought from the start that the marriage would be a disaster, Marlene had hoped that it would be a new beginning for Margaret. Miiga suspected that Marlene’s hatred for Mr. Grund had only grown, given his propensity for wild parties, unfaithfulness, and squandering the Bontemps’ fortune.

Miiga knew that Marlene thought of Margaret Bontemps as her own child. It’s why, when Mrs. Grund moved out of the big Grund Mansion and the Bontemps took it over, Marlene had stayed on with Margaret, or Molly, as she called her favorite of the Bontemps children. Marlene had been with the Bontemps family for 35 years and had shared a good deal of history with them. She started working for them when Margaret was 10 and through the bits and pieces that Miiga picked up now and again, Marlene told a story that was not to be envied. She had seen the family through some tough times. Financially, it seemed, they were quite stable, but this had never translated into emotional health, at least for Margaret.

Margaret, had her share of difficulties in this life and had even done a couple of stints in a rehab clinic in Minnesota. And there was a pregnancy. Miiga had never gotten for sure whether the baby had been adopted or the pregnancy had been terminated, but through Marlene’s mumbles, she understood that everyone knew the child was a bad idea, so it was gone. Then she had married Dick Grund, which, on a number of levels, had benefited only the Grund side.

Although the Bontemps and the Grunds were both well-known and wealthy Mackinac families, the Bontemps had maintained a home on the island since 1928; what the Beacon Hill gentry refer to as old money, while the Grunds were just rich. They paid top dollar for one of the larger historic properties in 1978. In circles like those in which Miiga and Marlene traveled, such class distinctions were – if worth noting at all – merely academic. Around the Michigan country club scene, however, these nuances were important, like the difference between Head Royce and Sidwell Friends.

There was no question that this trade-up opportunity for her son had not been lost on Mrs. Grund, and, as far as Marlene was concerned, it was mom who had orchestrated a relationship between her own troubled party-boy son and Margaret. Such a union would mean a significant elevation in status for the Grund clan, particularly in light of her only son’s multiple transgressions. Getting into the Bontemps family would mean that Dicky would be financially secure even if he squandered the wealth her father-in-law had built, which most family members suspected Dick would do.

The Bontemps were always well situated financially, having diversified their portfolio of businesses to withstand any market condition years ago, and seeming to have a dollar-green thumb when it came to sniffing out companies with potential. The money the family had made in the early years of mining was spent wisely. In 1885, the family incorporated the first Michigan insurance company, the Michigan Mutual Tornado Cyclone and Windstorm Company, which still survives today as Hastings Mutual. In 1893, the Bontemps family and Francis Emmendorfer founded the Pontiac buggy company, which they later sold to the Oakland Motor Company (subsequently renamed General Motors) in 1906. That same year, it ventured with a sanitarium operator named Will Kellogg, who had patented a corn cereal flake, to open the WK Kellogg Company in Battle Creek. Today, much of their multi-million dollar portfolio is managed outside the family, although Margaret’s brothers continue to invest wisely in new businesses, including the private placement acquisition of a sizeable portion of Microsoft stock in 1985, and an investment in eBay some years later.

The Grund fortune, though well-earned, came with the hard work and vision of a former biology professor from Ann Arbor. Their Michigan roots were undeniable, and Grund Optical had certainly become a household name over the past 50 years, but any sort of longstanding reputation the Grund family had came from their academic achievements. Most people might be particularly proud of such a thing, but Mr. Grund had always been a day late and dollar short of Bohemian Club status and Mrs. Grund seemed to resent him for it. When an opportunity arose for her son to maneuver into a more comfortable life, Mrs. Grund may have given just a little push of encouragement.

Mr. Grund had run a tight ship and was a frugal, sensible man. His son that followed him had developed a taste for something a little more regal than a 7 bedroom Portage home, even if it was on the lake. In 1978, they had purchased the summer place on Mackinac after his father died. It had been his hope that this place would be a legacy that Dick Sr. could pass on to his family forever. In 1978, Dick – or Dicky, as he was known back then – was 24.

“They met at Hazelton,” Marlene said to Miiga one afternoon two years ago, when she saw Miiga pick up a picture of the Bontemps-Grund Wedding to dust the frame. Marlene’s tone was flat, almost one of disgust.

“Hazelton?” Miiga asked.

“It’s one of those rehab places folks send their family members to dry out. Far enough away that they won’t have to run into anyone they know.”

“Rehab? For drugs?” Miiga whispered it.

“Um hmmm,” said Marlene and disappeared into the kitchen. Miiga grabbed a half-filled bottle of Windex so she’d have an excuse to get a refill in the kitchen and continue her conversation.

“What kinda drugs?”

“Cocaine. Don’t know about him. Never knew. Don’t care. But I’ve seen the medicine in the cabinet and he’s got Hepatitis B, so it was probably something you put in your arm. Course, they did travel a bit, so it could have been he got that from something else – maybe raw shellfish, but I doubt it.”

“So dey don’t meet on the island? But it’s so small.” Miiga pretended to have trouble getting off the cap to the refill of window cleaner so she could stay longer. If Marlene were in a mood to chat, one could learn a great deal.

“Well, it’s a sure bet they must have known each other. But no, I think they were both too old to hang out like teenagers do. Let’s see,” Marlene said, thinking back. “Molly would have been about 17 which would have made Mr. Grund 24 or so, when they bought that monstrosity of a house. Such excess!” said Marlene, and then continued. “I’m sure they knew each other, but they didn’t start seeing each other until Hazelton, which was probably about 10 years later, something like that.”

“My momma worked for dem. Dat was her first job here on the island, she told me. Then she come an’ work for the Bontemps here, right?” Miiga said. Marlene whirled around from the sink where she was peeling potatoes.

“Vanessa told you that? Your mother told you that she worked for the Grunds.” Marlene asked. “What exactly did she say?” Marlene’s tone was stern enough to frighten Miiga just a little.

“N . . .Nothing,” said Miiga, thinking back to her conversations with her mother about the island, which were few. “She jus’ say she mostly worked here, with you. But two years she didn’t. That’s all. Why? She do something wrong?”

“NO! And don’t you ever say that. Your mother was a saint. A saint pure and simple, God rest her soul. And she suffered like a saint. Don’t let anyone tell you she didn’t. She should be livin’ in that old Grund Mansion herself. She was a good chaste woman. Don’t ever let anyone tell you different, you hear?”

“You talkin’ about me.” Miiga said, looking down. The conversation had taken a very unexpected turn. “June 1980. I can do the math.” It would be the first and last time Marlene would ever give Miiga a hug. She embraced her in the kitchen, saying nothing for a few seconds, then started talking.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of. Your mother raised a good daughter and I’ll tell you something. Vanessa was a God-fearing woman who never got her due in this life. I’ll tell you something else. Any relatives you have who you don’t know, there’s a reason, and you don’t want to know them. Believe me.”


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