Just Talking

Just Talking

The morning dishes were done and the porch was set for lunch. Except for Marlene padding around the kitchen, the house was quiet. Mr. Grund was relaxing in the family room and Mrs. Grund was still sleeping, having not made it down for breakfast at all. There had been a doosie of a fight the afternoon before, and although Marlene had rushed Miiga off to her room as soon as they stumbled into the kitchen, she knew it was a bad one. Later in the evening the Grunds were having guests, and to shake off the bad vibes before they had to entertain, both of them had self-medicated themselves to a comfortably numb level. Miiga marveled a little at the degree to which the Grunds could maintain their composure when they were clearly Red, a Jamaican red for flat-out drunk.

“Now might be a good time to get that list of things Mrs. Grund wanted,” said Marlene. “Besides, it’s probably not a good idea to be around when she wakes up. She’s liable to tear into him again, especially with no social engagements to temper her anger. Since I have to be around for lunch, at least one of us can be spared. Go on, now.”

This suited Miiga just fine, since it was about an hour away from lunch and this errand run would mean she’d get to see her friend. He seemed so grateful for even the smallest morsel of food and it was a pleasure to talk to him. Her secret friend; she liked the sound of that. She wrapped up a very large chunk of the ginger cake Marlene had made from her mother’s recipe and put it in her bag for him. She had her list of chores from Mrs. Grund, and a shopping list from Marlene. She didn’t have to be back until 2 or 3, so she grabbed her book, too.

“If you don’ need me, then I’ll have my lunch break downtown, too. Be back at t’ree?”

“Fine. No hurry,” said Marlene.

On the way out, she doubled back to her room to grab some keepsakes to show to Henry. She had been talking about her upbringing back in Jamaica and describing the reef where she lived, and he wanted to see pictures. She didn’t have many, given that she tried always to fit her things in a single large suitcase for the four months she would be on the island, but she always tucked a few of the important ones in her bag every year. She opened bedside table drawer where she kept most of them and selected a few choice photographs from it. The picture of her mother that was wedged between the bureau mirror and its frame she carefully removed and added it to the selection, then slid them between the pages of her books so they would stay flat. Then, she headed over to the Dome to see if there were any leftovers that Henry might like; he seemed so grateful for even the smallest morsel of food.

Although around the Grund household things were a little tense, no one took anything out on Miiga. Mr. Grund mostly lounged around the house with his friends or went to the golf course, and largely ignored her and Marlene. At night, he either joined his wife and her friends on the porch or watched television. He tended to leave a mess in his wake, so Miiga had to work a little harder to keep the house tidy, but other than that, it was work as usual. She felt Mrs. Grund had always been kind to her, though when she was on edge she tended to get very nitpicky about her things being just so. Still, there was an energy about the house that was decided not Irie, and as Jamaicans like to stay Irie, it was nice to refuel with some good vibes. A quiet afternoon shopping for the house and reading would be welcome, and if Henry stopped by, well, all the better.

It had been a rough week, she thought, winding her way over to the other side of the island. Marlene had been especially bossy last night, or perhaps a better word was tense, because of the fight. It was the fighting, she knew, that upset Marlene. Marlene didn’t want Miiga to witness the two of them going at it, and frankly, she didn’t want to be there.

All of the craziness did give her a chance to spend more time at the Dom and on the library deck, however, so despite the slight discomfort of being ordered around more than usual, Mr. Grund’s presence afforded her more off-campus freedom. The past few evenings, after dinner when Miiga usually helped with the dishes, Marlene had told her to go out and have a good time. A colossal fight, three or four glasses of wine at dinner – plus an pre-dinner cocktail -- generally meant that if anything could go wrong it would happen just after she served dessert, so Miiga hightailed it out of there with Marlene’s blessing just as soon as the bouddha bleu was scooped into the pot.

Yesterday’s fight was bad. She knew the police had been called, and part of her had wanted to see if Henry would show, but Marlene, as usual, sent her to her room as she was making the call, and Miiga, not wanting to hear the shouting and terrible insults the Grunds hurled at each other, had turned up her headphones on her old Walkman stereo once she was in her room. She thought she might ask him if he were at the library today, but then thought the better of it. He would tell her if he wanted to. It wasn’t her place to ask.

At the Dome, she found some sorrel soda in the refrigerator, some of which she transferred to a mayonnaise jar so he could try it. She also found, some saltfish that had been leftover from the night before, and wrapped it in foil. The callaloo, as always, was gone, but there were some pigeon peas in the fridge, which she heated in the microwave and then wrapped them in foil so they’d stay warm. She realized she didn’t have a plastic fork for him to eat the peas, so she grabbed one of the forks lifted from the Grand and shoved it in the bag. No one would miss it, least of all, not the Grand, and she certainly couldn’t expect Henry to eat with his hands.

Her talks with Henry became a highlight in her day. Henry made her feel interesting and smart, like what she had to say was worth hearing. He seemed never to tire of her stories about Jamaica. He seemed always to love the food she brought. He was so kind. He felt that he listened to her and saw her with a different spirit than most on the island, and a curiousity that was more genuine than voyeuristic.

She had always felt loved and needed and respected by Stedley and her father, but she couldn’t teach them anything, like she could Henry. She talked about food or travel or working on the island, all of which were new to him. And he taught her little things, about white people. He didn’t call them white people when he talked about them, and perhaps he didn’t even realize that’s what he was doing when he spoke about the islanders. But of course, that’s what he meant without knowing it.

Meeting Henry gave her a purpose of sorts, and it felt good to know things that the other Jamaicans might not. She had not yet shared any of her knowledge with them, because she was worried that the stink of Babylon might be on her and they wouldn’t let her hang out at the Dome. Jamaicans were superstitious and, like any minority without power, insular. They didn’t like people knowing their business and they didn’t like any baldheads, what they called whites, using their culture against them. The distinction Miiga made, therefore, about the nature of Henry’s curiosity was significant; Henry’s goal was understanding, not – as the Jamaicans say – downpressing.

Miiga loaded her booty into a plastic grocery bag and turned to leave just as Jujee was heading in to the house. He looked to be in a hurry, and a little worried. Miiga slipped into her Jamaican patois.

“Wha’ Happenin’, Jujee. Long time we no touch base.”

“We chat bamba yay, lilly Miiga. Me got beenie trouble.”

Jujee seemed to be looking for something, so Miiga instinctively put down her bags and started looking too. “What we lookin’ for, Jujee.” She knew from the seriousness of his face that he was not happy.

“Me Bag, lilly Miiga. Me cyant find me bag.” He made an imaginary gesture on his chest to signify a bag.

Jujee always wore around his neck a small skin bag, filled with charms. The Obeah wore charms for different things: money, happiness, wealth, but generally for protection. Although she was Christian, she understood the importance of the bag to Jujee. Unlike Americans, the Jamaicans were not afraid to blend their beliefs. For them, it was neither disrespectful or blasphemous to one’s religion to credit another. They believed other religions merely provided depth to their own, a new perspective. So it was with the Obeah ritual of charms: they were no different that a Christan cross. Jujee’s charm was worn to ward off the evil spirits and keep him safe from harm. She worried that Jujee’s lost bag would signal something bad happening.

“Where ya leave it, Jujee. You take it off?”

“Dunno. I black up last night. Used the cutchee.”

Those who practiced Obeah “blacked up,” frequently. They used a cutchee, a communal pipe, when there were engaged in a ceremony, filled it with ganja, and communally smoked it. Although smoking marijuana was more of a rastafarian habit, smoking herb was said to allow one to better communicate with the spirits. This was not a regular ritual, so Miiga knew that something important in Jujee’s life was about to happen, or he was hoping something important would happen. As a Christian, she would not have been invited to participate in the ritual, but she generally knew when there was a big event for which one would engage in a ritual.
“What goin’ down, Jujee?” she asked, wanting to know why he had a ceremony. Although prayers and incantations were said on a regular basis, one could do so without removing one’s charms. Typically, during a special ceremony, an Obeah priest would remove his charms and place them on an altar either for ritualistic purposes, or to infuse more potency in them. This was done for special occasions. It was unusual to misplace them.

“Boat races,” said Jujee. He appeared to be satisfied that the charm was not in the dome and motioned Miiga to stop looking. “You find it, you tell me?” he asked, still looking worried.

“Jujee, don’ brindle!” She did not like to see him upset. “We find it.”

He kissed the top of her head and smiled. “Nah, maybe. But me cook and curry, Miiga. Go’n now. Me find it. Stay irie.”

“Here, take me rag, for good luck.” Miiga took off the pink kerchief she had tied to her purse. It had been her mother’s kerchief and it was a sign of good luck for her, which Jujee know. To the Jamaicans, giving up a charm that represented good luck was a powerful gesture, and Jujee knew it. He kissed her again and promised to take care of it. They were heading out to the outlets today, he said, and he would not let it out of his sight.

Miiga left him to search further, but she was concerned. Charms were important and they could foretell disaster. She was quite sure that Jujee was not cook and curry. Later, when she got off work, she would go visit him over at the Grand and see if he found it. If not, she would offer to make a bag for him. Because she was not Obeah, she couldn’t bless the charms, but she could make a bag. That might help.

She headed out of the dome and down toward the Library to meet her friend. He might like to know about Obeah, too. Maybe she would tell him about it. Truth was, she didn’t know much herself. Back on the island, Stedley and her father had steered her away from it, though always with a healthy respect. It was against the law to practice Obeah in Jamaica. The law itself was a leftover from colonial rule of the island and although the ban was never enforced, it was prudent to stay away from such things. Authorities could, and certainly might, drag up one’s history and use it to deny access to a program or some other privilege.

When she arrived at the llibrary deck, Henry was already waiting. He removed his book from the empty chair so she could sit. “Here, I saved it for you,” he said smiling. She sat down. It was nice to be there.

“And I brought somet’ing for you,” she said, handing him the bag. “You should start with da saltfish – you might not like it, but you c’yan wash it down with pigeon peas,” she said. “Oh, an dat’s my favorite, sorrel soda. Nex’ time I bring you some ginger beer, too, but we don’t have any today. Milly make some fresh tomorrow, maybe.”

“Wow, what largess,” said Henry, pulling the jar and each of the packages out of the bag. “This one’s still warm.” Henry reached in and pulled out the final package. “And what’s this?”

“Ginger cake soak-in-rum. Bring it home and have it for dessert tonight wit’ your wife, yeah. She’ll like it, too.”

“I don’t know what to say. You shouldn’t have brought all this, but I am sure glad you did. Wow. Start with the saltfish, you say?”

“Yes, I t’ink so.”

Miiga watched Henry take a bit of the saltfish and roll his eyes back as if it were manna.

“Mmmmm, oh, Miiga, this is absolutely delicious. What is that fruity topping? That is so good. Did you make this yourself?”

“Nah, I got it at da dome. It’s a place where we, you know, Jamaicans hang out together an’ cook and play cards. My uncle lives in da dome in summers with lotsa people who cook,” she said. “Somebody, probably Stella, made it. She’s a real good cook. Da ginger cake, dat’s my mama’s recipe.” She was happy that he was enjoying the food and pointed to the fruit he had asked her about to describe it. “The fruit is called Ackee. Saltfish and Ackee is Jamaica’s national dish, you know.”

“I didn’t know that, actually. I’m pretty ignorant about your country and I’m completely useless in the kitchen, which reminds me, whoever did make it, please send them my compliments. It’s terrific, and it sure beats the hell out of this ham sandwich I packed. With all these fabulous cooks on the island, I can’t understand why we can’t have good food here,” he said, pointing his fork down on the open foil balanced on his lap. “I just don’t understand it.”

“Most Americans don’ like Jamaican food, I don’ t’ink,” she said, thinking that she would not send Stella his compliments.

“Most Americans have never tried Jamaican food, Miiga. This is amazing.” He opened up the pouch of pigeon peas and savored them with accolades similar to those he had for the saltfish. “I don’t get it; if they only knew.”

“Well, we have another t’ing we say,” said Miiga. “This time I’ll say it in English, though,” she said, remembering the last time she told him a Jamaican proverb. “Potatoes have eyes but it doesn’t mean they can see. It means you can’t tell the heart of something by the fact that they have one. Maybe Mackinac island people don’t want to taste new things.”

“You could be right, this is a strange place. Well, it’s their loss, Miiga. Truly. I know it would be a big hit back in Detroit, where I’m from. People there are much more . . . more . . . adventurous.” he said, taking another mouthful. “This fish is great, very fresh. I imagine you eat a lot of fish in Jamaica.”

“Well, my father is a fisherman, so yes, I eat a lot of fish, but ocean fish, not lake fish, like here. We eat what he can’t sell most days. Lot of fish beside saltfish. Blue marlin, white marlin, mahi mahi, wahoo, black-finned tuna, yellow-finned tuna, skipjack, kingfish, mackerel, and sailfish. We eat a lot of marlin durin’ da tourist season because da tourist like to catch marlin but only like to eat Tuna. And only da locals eat saltfish.”

“I never heard of saltfish and I’ve never heard of Ackee,” said Henry. I guess they go by another name in the states, because the fish is obviously fresh.”

“Well, dat’s steelhead from da lake what you’re eatin’, but saltfish, I t’ink dey call it ‘salt cod’ here, an’ it come from da saltwater,” Miiga said. “An’ the Ackee we bring from Jamaica in da can. Same as da pigeon peas, only we bring it dry in bags. I don’ t’ink you can get pigeon peas in America.”

“Amazing,” he said, trying to think of anyone he knew who would go to the trouble of making sure they had staples. “You mean you bring your own food from Jamaica so you’ll have it here?” Henry laughed.

Miiga told him about the old ladies and sons who stuff or had stuffed for them, suitcases full of the essentials: grated dry coconut, cans of ackee, curry powder, grey salt, dried mango, scotch bonnet peppers, jars of raisins soaking in rum, salt peter for curing, you name it. Anything that wouldn’t go bad during the flight, they’d bring. Some women even brought fresh fruit, like plantains and miniature bananas, wrapped up in black shirts so they wouldn’t ripen in the suitcase. Just about everyone participated in the food pilgrimage. Food was part of life, something to celebrate, and years ago, they had figured out that the pickings around the island were slim.

“Wow, the dome must be jam-packed with food ,” said Henry. “I’m surprised you don’t get rodents, you know, like rats and things.”

In fact, all the food wasn’t stored in the dome at all. There’s no way it could all have fit. With almost 200 Jamaicans arriving on the island, all with great packages and sometimes even whole suitcases, of food with them, they would have had to clean out a bedroom to fit it all, which would have been a colossal waste of space. Instead, they had converted what was an old garden equipment shed just behind the Dom, into a make-shift pantry. Some years ago they had cleaned and painted the inside, built shelving, and generally shored up the walls. Any staple food that was not liable deteriorate or in some way succumb to the heat, was stored there and rationed out to last the entire summer. Most of the food was in cans, but there were grains and dried beans and spices, too, all of which were tasty calling cards for the mice and other animals on the island.

“Stedley sprinkles rat poison around da shed, and dat keeps the food. The rats don’t come in,” said Miiga.

“Blech,” said Henry. “Sounds like a dodgy proposition. I don’t think I’d like that job. What do you do? Open the boxes up? Because I don’t think you can buy rat poison just loose in this country any more – it has to be in traps, I think.”

“Oh no! I t’ink da ladies bring dat, too. Is dat against the law?” Miiga was worried something like this was going to happen; that’s why she never told anyone at the dome that she was visiting with one of the police officers on the island. Now she’d done it. Gone and said something that could get the whole group in trouble.

“Well, I don’t think it’s a big deal,” said Henry. “I mean, it’s probably pretty safe back there. It’s not like you’re bringing in AK-47’s or Cuban cigars. I’m sure customs doesn’t much care.”

This was a relief. She knew the dangers in talking to people you shouldn’t, who weren’t in your tribe: you didn’t know what you might say that would trigger something you didn’t know about. She would remember to be careful what she said from now on.

“I guess rodents must be a big problem in Jamaica, too, if the older women know to bring rat poison.”

“Yes, I guess they’re everywhere. Especially in Jamaica,” she said.

“Well, I’m glad you accounted for that nuisance or else they instead of me would have been them eating this fantastic food .”

While Henry ate, Miiga talked. He kept her busy with a constant stream of questions. In between, when she needed a rest, she asked him about things, too. She learned about his wife’s dislike of the island and how she was uncomfortable with the racial disparity between the vacationers and the workers. Miiga didn’t think it was particularly unusual. Her images of the United States were exactly that: white people seemed to have all the money and black people seemed to do all the work?

“Wow, is that what it looks like to you? I guess we haven’t come as far as we think we have,” said Henry, when she had shared her sentiment the last time they were together. They had touched only lightly on the subject. There were more pleasant things to talk about in Miiga’s mind and besides, she really didn’t have a lot of experience with American blacks. There were the occasional workers on the island who liked to hang out at the dome, one or two a year at most. They were there for the ganja and the bid whist. The passing references they made to the white man were typically at the butt of a joke. It only reinforced her thoughts.

She had befriended one woman, a waitress at the Chippewa Hotel restaurant. There was little connection between them save their age and their skin color. She was fair, with curly hair, like Miiga. Miiga had hoped to forge a friendship with her so they might discuss what it was like in her world, generally, and how her own community of people treated her because of her skin color. In the end, they had enjoyed each other’s company, but the woman didn’t have any particular insights on the color issue, save that white and black people treated her better than her brown-skinned counterparts. Miiga had not had that experience. Indeed, she tried desperately to darken her skin, spending hours in the sun, so she would blend in. For a Jamaican woman, her skin color was her mother’s scarlet letter.

In addition to the few blacks she met on the island, there were the tourists who came to Jamaica on vacation. Plenty of blacks got married or spent an anniversary or a girls’ week in Negril or Kingston. But they were on the island to vacation, so Miiga found it hard to get a real flavor for what their life was like in America. In Jamaica, they were welcomed as any tourist would be, with a keen eye toward their pocketbook. If they took the irie friendliness as camaraderie, so much the better, but it didn’t get her any closer to understanding the relationship between blacks and whites in the U.S. She had decided to trust her own instincts until she could learn more.

Henry had asked about her family on his last visit, so she took out the pictures she brought and described each of the people in them. She took her time, not wanting to leave anything important out of her descriptions, as if so doing would diminish their significance in her own life. She took particular time describing Stedley.

He had been working on the island almost 40 years, she explained. He was not her real uncle, but it didn’t matter to her, she said but she was proud to call Stedley family.

“He works at da Jockey Club, as a manager,” said Miiga, hoping to impress upon Henry the significance of such a position for a Jamaican. Most restaurants employed white help for managerial and host positions. “He is so good at drink mixing that during da boat races, he schedules himself so he only works days at the Jockey Club and then spends the evenings doing private parties. Everyone loves Stedley,” she said. “They call him by name, you know.”

“He sounds like a wonderful man. He really takes care of you,” said Henry, looking at the pictures. There were several of Stedley in the group, with various other members of her family, including her dad back in Jamaica and her mother.

“He does take care o’ me. An’ everybody love Stedley. Even da white folks. He makes us feel like maybe we’re not invisible here,” said Miiga, referring to the feeling of generic interchangeability she felt among her fellow seasonals. She wondered, sometimes, whether any of the white people on the island would be able to pick her out of a line-up. She fantasized about switching places with her girlfriend Rhoda, just too see if Mrs. Grund would even notice. Certainly Marlene would, but most folks, forget it. They eve joked about it, sometimes at the dome. If one of them got left shopping at the outlets, another could just show up in her uniform and no one would know the difference.

But Stedley, people knew him, waved to him from across the way. They came to the Jockey Club just to see him and say hello, as if their vacation on Mackinac wouldn’t start until they could see him again.

“Do you really think that’s true, Miiga? Do you really think that we don’t see you? I mean, you know, islanders?” asked Henry.

“Well, I’m t’ink you maybe are different,” said Miiga. “You maybe are new here so you don’t see what I see. But I been here t’ree years an’ nobody ever spoke to me before you. And you’re Babylon. I mean, police.”

“Babylon? That’s what you call policemen or white people?” asked Henry.

“Police,” she said. “It . . . it isn’t bad, or anyt’ing. It’s just a name,” she lied. In fact, it referred to one who is confused and was meant to describe the police as misunderstanding the people their serve. By and large, Miiga felt that description was accurate, especially in Mackinac, but really anywhere, including Jamaica. But Henry, he was trying to learn about things ant trying to understand her world.

“Well, if you keep bringing me wonderful food like this, you can call me anything you want,” said Henry. “But I will tell you one thing; I know enough about the bible to know ‘Babylon’ certainly is not just a name,” he smiled and winked at her, and washed down the last of the food with the sorrel soda she had brought him. “Let me see the pictures again,” he asked.

“Well, you are the spitting image of your mother, Miiga,” he said after staring at the photograph for awhile. She saw him looking at the photos of her father, switching back and forth between them. “Yes, you really favor her. She was quite a beautiful woman,” he said. She sat quietly, savoring the words, missing her mother just a little, but thankful that she carried the legacy of Vanessa in herself, and that Henry could see it.

“Genetics is a funny thing, isn’t it?” said Henry. “I mean, both your parents are so very dark. Your dad is almost black and yet you -- ” he stopped abruptly and paused for a moment. It was an awkward pause; the kind that happens when both participants know what the other knows and are weighing ever briefly whether to proceed along the same path or let the awkwardness pass and move on. Henry handed the shots back to her and smiled. “Lovely. Thank you for sharing them with me.”

Miiga wanted to let the moment pass. She didn’t want to bring it up, and she convinced herself that the moment would pass. She took the pictures back and returned the smile, but she felt hot, nervous, like she ought to explain things. She took her time putting the photographs back, hoping that the time would make her relax again and enjoy the summer air, the deck, and the company of her friend.

She watched him reach down toward the last foil pouch and pick it up. He had apparently gotten over it, but she had not. It was something she felt she should say and yet wasn’t sure quite how to broach it. In fact, she realized in this instant that she had never shared this with anyone in Mackinac, including the other Jamaicans. They knew, of course, but it just wasn’t spoken about, probably because Stedley had run interference for her all these years.

Back home when she was young, kids would ask her why she was so meager brown when her parents weren’t, but nothing came of it. Tacitly, black folks knew without knowing. White folks never bothered to ask. And Henry, he was the first person who ever bothered with her at all. It felt a little like a betrayal to be silent, but she wasn’t sure what to say or how to say it. She looked up at him as he peeked in the foil.

“Well, what do we have here? Wow, I can really smell the --” she interrupted him.

“I was conceived on the island,” she said. “Johnny, my dad, is not my real dad.” She looked at him expectantly, hoping that she would not lose his approval, his friendship.

“Oh, well, yes, I guess I was wondering about that when you showed me the picture,” he said, smiling back at her. “But you know, if it doesn’t matter to you, then it doesn’t matter to me.” He looked down in the foil and started his sentence again. “The smell of this cake is tremendous, Miiga. It looks like chocolate, but the ginger and rum are really strong. I know I should bring it home tonight, but I just want a quick bite.”

“I . . . I don’t know who my father is; my birth father,” she said, stumbling over the words. “My mother never told me.” Surely this would shock him.

“Well, Miiga, I guess she had a good reason, eh?” he said in response. “It sounds like between your mother and Johnny, you did pretty well. Your dad sure does love you, and your mom does, too. I suspect that’s all you really need in life, Miiga.”

“Maybe it does matter to me,” she said. Now that her mother was dead and it couldn’t hurt her, she wanted to know. She deserved to know. She knew that Stedley and Vanessa meant well not telling her, but she suspected all this time that they both knew. Stedley had always maintained a loyalty to Vanessa that could not be broken by Miiga. In fact, she wasn’t even sure he knew the whole story, since he had never actually admitted it, but something told her that he did. And it did matter.

No one who protected her from whatever was the truth really understood what it was like to be connected to someone you did not know. She had tried to view it from the vantage point that her father had never tried to be part of her life and so it was best not to know him. In the good moments, the high moments, such a perspective was effective. In the low moments, it was not.

She had fantasies about him that varied with her mood. Sometimes he was a wealthy home owner who had fallen in love with Vanessa and they had a single night of passion that could never be publicly consummated. They went their separate ways, but sometime Vanessa would be remembered in his will and Miiga would inherit the island or a hotel or some such other thing. Sometimes he was a wild college boy who had a summer romance and never returned to the island. Sometimes he was a fellow fair-skinned Jamaican who couldn’t marry Vanessa because he was already married to someone else. Maybe he lived just down the street back home and they could only nod to one another. There were other stories, all equally plausible or not plausible.

Over the years, she had dropped an occasional hint to Stedley in hopes that he might come forth with something, some little piece of information to keep her going. He didn’t. His silence, she figured, was designed to keep her proud, but it had the opposite effect. Instead, she was always ashamed of who she was. Had she known her story, her father, she might be able to move on emotionally: know him and forget him. But as it was, she didn’t know any details of the story except that sometime in July (if menstrual cycles are to be believed), her mother got pregnant with her and it happened in America, most likely on the island.

“Miiga, you certainly deserve to know. If it matters to you, then you should try to find out if you can. You deserve to be happy. The thing is, I’m just not sure how you would go about such a thing. So maybe you should try to let it go,” said Henry. “And there may be some wisdom to your mother not telling you. Sleeping dogs lie and all.”

“Sleeping dogs lie?” she asked. She’d never heard such a term. He laughed.

“Oh, it just means that it is sometimes better not to open doors when you don’t know what’s behind them and they have the potential to hurt you. Maybe your mother knew something you didn’t. Still, it’s your right to know. At least in this country.”

I don’t know where to start,” said Miiga. “I don’t even know if it was on the island,” said Miiga. Then she got a brilliant idea. ‘Maybe you can help me?!”

“Well, I’d love to help you, Miiga, but you weren’t adopted, right? There wouldn’t be any records, and your birth was in Jamaica. Have you checked there? Maybe your mom listed your father’s name on the birth certificate.”

Miiga had never checked back home, but she had seen her birth certificate. Johnny was listed as the father. She was suddenly ashamed of her own curiosity and embarrassed that she had mentioned it to Henry. How must he think of her? Certainly he thought ill of her mother.

“I . . . I shouldn’t have tol’ you, Henry. You must t’ink me very ungrateful and my mother a chip. I’m sorry to tell you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”


“Oh, No, Miiga. Don’t be sorry,” he said, leaning over to touch her shoulder briefly. “It’s nothing at all to be ashamed of and you have every right to know your heritage. He grabbed her chin and looked at her. She tried hard to blink back tears. “You are a beautiful girl, Miiga. You’re beautiful and you’re kind and you’re smart. I know Johnny loves you like you were his own and any man would be proud to call you his daughter. I know I would.”

It was only at this moment that Miiga realized that she had begun to think of Henry as more than a friend, but certainly not as a father. It was at this same moment that she realized he viewed her only as a daughter. She pulled away and started to pack up. It was time to go, anyway, and she wasn’t sure that these meetings were a good idea anymore. There were too many cats out of the bag right now and she needed to get away, back to the safety of her room, to Marlene, and to Mr. and Mrs. Grund.

“I . . . I have to go, Henry. I got my chores to do. Thank you for a wonderful time,” she said, gathering her things.

“Wait. Wait, Miiga. Will I see you again? I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

“I don’ remember my schedule, Henry. Maybe not.”

“Maybe I could, you know, just check around. Maybe the clinic here has a record or maybe someone might know something in passing. I . . . I would be happy to do that for you. You know, just look around a bit. I’m new here, so I don’t know a lot of people. It might take time, but if you really want help, maybe I could help you. Please. Sit. Let’s talk awhile. I promise if you stay I’ll save the rest of the cake for my wife, like you told me to.” He held the cake out to her as ransom.

Miiga stopped and looked at the face that was smiling at her. She smiled back. Was this man actually trying to get her to stay? She put her bag down and sat still. He held the cake out at her.

“One bite? Just one bite, OK?”

“Mmmm, where have you been all my life,” he said, looking at the cake, which made her laugh. “ I will be a good boy and, like you say, wait until I get home for the rest of this. But we’ve got time and there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. The last time we were here, you were going to tell me about this crazy crate that you all get. This I gotta hear.”