Speaking of Summer. Kalisha Buckhanon
The estate manager greeted our Jeep at the gravel road where the driver pulled up. Chase stayed behind to tip the driver as I fluttered out into the sun. My water bottle drained, I was parched in just the two hours it took to go through customs, find our driver in the tiny airport, and drive there. But the manager, tagged OLIVIA, carried a tray: moist towels and cups of iced tea spiked with gutsy rum, as one sip told me. The laughter of the men behind me was dedicated to my figure, I guessed. It was the first time during the trek anyone saw Chase and me as a couple. Why wouldn’t we be? I had seen the obvious pairs myself. They walked with matching luggage and bags in the same color family, in perfect step or leaning behind one another on the automated airport walkways, their intimacies such that they turned pages of books and magazines as near choreography. They even dozed in time.
In all this time, I did not notice a strange man watching me, or feel like I had to watch myself lest I do anything to encourage a strange man to watch me (though it didn’t have to be much, as bending down or uncrossing my legs would do). Chase was a shield against the constant pressure of men’s flaming tongues, lusty eyes, and foul mouths.
After I quenched my thirst, I introduced myself.
“I’m Autumn Spencer, just here to help the man in charge.”
“And a handsome man he is,” Olivia said. “You’re lucky, my friend.”
“No, we’re friends,” I corrected. “I’m just here for support, and a needed break.”
“Oh,” she smiled. “I beg your pardon.”
“He still has good taste,” I laughed. “He belongs to my sister. She couldn’t make it.”
“Well, tell him to find his brother for you, my friend.” Then, she looked puzzled.
“Something wrong?” I asked
“No,” she said. “It’s just, I thought. I’ll have to . . . well, never mind.”
Chase walked into the warmth of our greeting.
“Chase Armstrong,” he said to Olivia. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
They hugged each other.
“Greetings, Mr. Armstrong,” Olivia said. She put a small towel and slick glass in his free hand. I lugged a Fairway tote, Times Square suitcase, and Nike duffel bag. I felt so oddly American.
“I hear you’re one of ours, yet your speech betrays us,” Olivia said.
“I haven’t lived here since I was a little boy,” he told her. “Yankee talk took over some time ago, but my heart lives in my country. It’s why I’m here.”
“Well, we are happy to have you anytime. You may now call this your home, too. Our door is always open to you for your lovely work on Mr. Johns. Shall we?”
I thought she would never ask if we could get out of the sun. Not all Black people love the sun. I was a Midwesterner, child of big oak tree shade and awnings and air conditioning four months out of the year. My overseas travel among the African diaspora was limited to a few Caribbean cruises. I was the color of copper, spared the undue humiliation of being called “black” and warnings to stay out of the sun. My desire to avoid a tan had nothing to do with self-hate or lack of pride, but the spoils of being an American.
Chase inserted the complication of a selfie in front of the estate landscape, an obligation to document every moment for SWAG’s social media feeds.
“If you don’t mind,” he smiled. “I’ll be sure to spell your name and title right.”
“No, I’m used to it,” Olivia said. “How funny your generation is. Everybody wants pictures here and pictures there, and with me—a total stranger except for a time. I’ve never been so popular.”
“But I’m sure you’ve always been so photogenic,” I said, as we squeezed in.
“You’re too kind,” she laughed.
Olivia guided us through a side door, straight to the kitchen. Two dark faces had bright teeth matching starched uniforms. They stood at a butcher’s table and butler’s pantry.
“Please use this entrance if you happen to come in and need a cold drink right away, or a stiff one,” Olivia offered. “Meet Damian and Delbert.”
The men appeared to re-polish surfaces absent of a fingerprint or smudge. They stopped to bow their heads to us with genuine sincerity and dutiful practice.
“They’ve been here with Mr. Johns for quite some time,” Olivia said.
“Forty years,” said the one called Damian. His face and voice seemed barely forty. “Since I was a fisher boy and Mr. Johns gave me coins for my catch.”
“He’s the boss,” the other man laughed.
My guess was the daily morning walks of these communities, as well as the dearth of cigarettes and abundance of good marijuana, protected youthful appearances. I speculated how old Miss Olivia was, her hair tousled into a girl child’s ponytail fastened only by her own hair. Her sundress fit for a woman just loosened from an athletic girlhood. She seemed completely comfortable with on-demand versatility.
A Keurig on the counter surprised me. I wondered how many Western products managed to invade the close-knit island. Olivia caught my eyes on it.
“Would you like some coffee or tea, Miss Spencer?” Olivia asked me.
“It should be about that time for her,” Chase chimed in.
“No,” I said. “I was just wondering how much American influence there is on Grenadan consumerism now, after our unfriendly invasions here in the 1980s?”
“More than we would like,” Olivia told me.
Behind her, out the back window, was an orchard of Gabriel Johns’s famed nutmeg trees, the culprit behind my sudden taste for vanilla ice cream. It smelled heavenly all around.
“But I believe our Queen’s head is probably bigger than your Statue of Liberty’s,” she continued. “We look to the British much more over here, but American interests and tourism are certainly not spurned.”
“I’m really grateful Mr. Johns agreed to this. We market to Europe, some parts of South America. We’re hoping to break Asia in a few years. So, this stay is nice of you.”
“Well, your colleague arrived this morning. A White man?”
“Uh, yes,” Chase stammered. “Is that a problem?”
“Oh, no, money has no color,” Olivia said. “I was just making sure you two were together as he said you would be. Since it seems I mixed some things up. I’m unsure if a proper room is prepared for both you and the lady.”
“Oh?” Chase asked. “I said I was bringing someone.”
“Yes, and I forgot this was business for you,” Olivia said. “The lady’s already clarified she’d prefer a private space.”
Chase looked at me oddly. But he kept to his word we would not mention any sadness back in Harlem.
“Well, I understand if she wants her space now. That’s hard to come by in New York City, so we’ll take it how we can get it. Give her what you have prepared. Sleeping in a hammock between nutmeg trees is a long-held fantasy of mine, a beautiful woman with me of course. But, we can’t have everything we want.”
“Oh, no,” Olivia laughed. “I will not have that. We have four rooms here, two on the upper floors, shared bath on each floor. The servants’ quarters are through that door right there. There’s no cellar, on account of the hurricanes and flood potential. I live in what used to be an unforgivable mess of an attic. If anything, I have relatives not far from here and you may have my separate apartment for your stay.”
“I couldn’t kick you out of your home . . .”