The Jumbee (35 page)

“This will not happen again,” she said, her voice sounding husky and strange. “No more temper tantrums. No guilt trips or manipulation. If you want me to finish the play, you must stop.”

She twined her fingers into his necklace. “Leave everyone alone. Please leave me . . . alone.”

“Yes.” The cracked whisper barely brushed her ears, then was gone.

She looked out at Officer Wilmuth. “The jumbee is gone,” she forced out. “He won’t bother us anymore.”

He stared speechlessly at her, his dark face as rigid as stone.

She gestured the jandam forward. “Do whatever you need to,” she muttered.
You won’t find him. Please don’t find him.

As they fearfully made their way up to the stage, she turned to Frederick. His eyes were huge beneath a jaunty black beret.

“Can you get Ma Harris her job back?” she asked woodenly. “I need her help.”

The beret bobbed in a quick, jerky nod.

“She’s innocent,” Esti added.

“Of course, of course.” Despite the terror on his face, he nodded even more vigorously. Esti knew he would be able to talk Mr. Fleming into it.

“Quintin,” she said. “Do you think Lucia will come back?”

“I tell she,” Quintin said calmly. “She come back.”

“Danielle, I’m sorry.” Esti’s shaky legs finally gave out, and she sank down on the stage beside Danielle. “I’m so sorry.”

Two drama queens, she thought, both reduced to a quivering mess by the jumbee of Manchicay. For once, Danielle’s blue eyes held no hostility as she looked at Esti. Everyone else just stared in shock; even Carmen huddled fearfully into her seat.

“I’m finished with today’s drama queen scene.” Esti couldn’t meet Carmen’s eyes. “If we work all night, we should be able to fix the sets in time for tomorrow. I’m ready to get this showcase over with.”

“Of course, darling,” Frederick said weakly. He glanced nervously around the theater, then sighed and covered his eyes with pale, expressive hands. “I was about to say the same thing.”

Act Three. Scene Five.

It was two in the morning when cell phones started ringing again. Esti barely heard Rodney’s phone over the pounding of hammers on plywood. Dazed with exhaustion and paint fumes, Esti leaned against Rafe for a minute. Aurora wearily chatted with other parents in the rows of seats, her tense eyes never leaving Esti for more than a minute or two. Everyone was doing what they could to fix the damage, while a dozen jandam patrolled the theater. The sets were almost repaired.

Nearly every parent had shown up last night, after Esti suggested that Rodney call them all. If anyone could keep people from panicking right now, Rodney Solomon could do it.

She had made a point of deliberately tucking the necklace beneath her T-shirt while she hoped Alan watched. She couldn’t let Rafe know she wore it, but Alan needed to see that she hadn’t taken it off. The policemen were pointless, though, and the absurdity of the situation didn’t help her headache.

“What do you mean, a hurricane?” Rodney’s voice rose into a brief lull between hammering.

“Hurricane Alpha,” he said a few minutes later. The activity fell silent while everyone listened to him. “My wife said they’re calling it
Hurricane Impossible
on the weather station. It’s tripled in size since yesterday, and is headed toward Cariba.”

“When does it hit land?” Officer Wilmuth demanded.

“If it stays on this course, landfall tonight. Worst case, sometime around sunset.”

“That
is
impossible.” Frederick anxiously tapped his foot. “Hurricane season is long over.”

“Except this year,” Rafe said in amusement. “Ocean’s too warm, atmosphere too unsettled.”

“Too many jumbees around,” Carmen added, staring coolly at Esti. “They should call it Hurricane Elon.”

Esti forced a smile. She knew Carmen was still mad at her, but she didn’t know what to say. She deserved Carmen’s anger. She deserved everyone’s anger.

“We got sixteen hours before it hit,” Officer Wilmuth said flatly. “The play is now cancel. Everyone go home, be safe from the storm.”

“Absolutely not!” Frederick folded his arms across his chest. “I have too many friends who rearranged their busy schedules for this showcase. They don’t have the time for a tempest. The show will go on.”

“Don’t need no backchat from you, Mr. McKenzie,” Officer Wilmuth said. “’Tis God’s will, no matter if you, and you Yankee friends, don’t understand the danger.”

“Lester, I have live here long as you.” Rodney’s voice rose over Officer Wilmuth, his accent thick for once as he argued with the jandam. “De theater it have de best shelter on Cariba, have stood hurricane dem for two hundred fifty year, so don’t you go tell me we ain’t safe here.” He paused. “Long as you ain’t afraid of jumbee dem.”

Rafe grinned at his dad, then pulled Esti close to him. “Check this out,” he whispered, pointing at the ceiling. “I just noticed that round black thing up there.”

When she looked at the catwalk, he gently nudged her chin farther to the right. She tried to ignore the growing arguments around them, swirling like mini hurricanes across the stage.

“Looks like a satellite dish,” Rafe muttered into her ear, “painted black to blend into the ceiling.”

She squinted at the black ceiling, gradually making out a matte black circle among the black-painted pipes and wires and framing.

“It’s a parabolic reflector. We used those things in science class to make reflecting telescopes, parabolic microphones, car headlights, and . . .” Rafe paused with a grin. “Focusing a voice onto a precise location. Your jumbee’s pretty smart. He probably even controls the direction, aiming his voice anywhere onstage he wants to.”

Esti studied the thing in weary astonishment. Of course Alan would be capable of that.

“Yeah, mon, the building is safe,” Officer Wilmuth continued, “but—”

“Once it hit,” Rodney interrupted, “God Almighty know when de island does recover. You know how long it had take last time, Lester. Me and Frederick we got a lot does ride on this, mon.”

“I’m going up there right now to destroy that thing,” Rafe whispered. “If it
is
his, I ain’t about to let him use it on you again. I bet there’s speakers somewhere up there, too.”

Esti slowly nodded.

“Frederick have one show dis afternoon,” Rodney said. “We show off Esti Legard, and we all home safe before it hit. If it catch we early, we throw a big fête until it pass by. I bring party food and rum to stash under de desk.”

“I have a suggestion.” Everyone fell silent at Esti’s unexpected interruption.

Danielle had slumped against a plywood tree when Rodney said Esti’s name, and Esti couldn’t stand it. It was all so wrong.

“We’re
all
counting on this,” Esti said tiredly, ignoring Rafe as he made his way to the catwalk’s ladder. “We need two shows, just like we always planned. One this morning, and one this afternoon.”

“Excuse me, miss?” Officer Wilmuth glowered at her.

“Two shows.” Esti glanced at Frederick. “If Danielle doesn’t get a chance to prove herself in front of your friends, I won’t do it either.”

“Yes, my darling. Of course.” Frederick clasped his hands together, his eyes shiny with stress and exhaustion. “Two shows it is.”

At Danielle’s stunned look, Esti could only shrug. “Would you rather go first, or second?” she asked.

Danielle just stared at her. “Why?” she finally said.

“Because.” Esti shook her head, then glanced at Carmen. “It’s not all about my name.”

Carmen gave her a half smile. “Go, Jane Doe, go.”

“You’re brave,” Esti added sincerely to Danielle. “And you’re a good actress.”

To her surprise, Danielle shuddered. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t . . .” After a moment, she straightened and shook out her blond hair. “You’re an impossible act to follow. I’d better go first.”

“Brilliant,” Frederick said briskly. “It’s settled, then. The sets are good enough. You all go home and get five hours of beauty sleep. Everyone back here at eight o’clock sharp. First performance starts at ten. I’ll get the word around.”

“Wait jus’ a minute,” Officer Wilmuth snapped. “Hurricane does take preparation, and the kids need to help they family board up they house and—”

“No problem, mon,” Rodney said smoothly. “I think of no better job for de jandam dis morning.”

Officer Wilmuth slowly shook his head as he studied his friend. “You gon owe me big-time after this one.”

When the flawless first performance came to an end, Esti was impressed. For the first time, Danielle had allowed Greg’s Romeo to mold Juliet in subtle ways that made them both shine. Even if Esti matched her own Christmas performance, which was unlikely, she knew a couple of Broadway producers who wouldn’t easily forget Danielle.

As Frederick’s friends sampled rum in the courtyard during lunch, Rafe snuck into the dressing room.

“The bigwigs like it,” he said, with only a slightly lopsided grin. “My dad says their appetites are whetted.”

“Meaning they’ll eat Esti for lunch?” Carmen asked.

Rafe laughed. “She always makes
me
hungry.”

Esti winced, wondering if Alan was listening. When Rafe leered at her, she whacked him with Juliet’s cap, pretending to be more lighthearted than she felt. “What about the hurricane?”

“On course,” he said, growing serious. “The rain quit, but the clouds are looking scary.” He shrugged. “My dad was right, though. We’re in the safest shelter on Cariba. Standing room only, and it’s not just for the show. Word’s gotten around about our hurricane fête.”

Pushing back her exhaustion, Esti stared into the mirror. She just hoped Alan wouldn’t be stuck in the theater during her celebration party, brooding alone in his eternal solitary confinement

“If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims ready stand, to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

Esti stared at Romeo in wonder as his fingertips lightly brushed hers. Although his performance with Danielle had been perfect, Greg spoke even more beautifully now. She felt the magic growing, as it had during the Christmas shows. Despite herself, her Juliet automatically responded in delight.

“Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this.” She shyly turned away. “For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.”

“Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?” he asked softly.

“Ay, pilgrim.” Esti felt her body warming as she looked at him again. “Lips that they must use in prayer.”

“O then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do.”

The warmth in her body grew stronger, and she smiled in astonishment. Greg was beautifully controlling her mood, drawing her along with him.

He leaned forward, blue eyes gentle with love behind the masquerade disguise. “They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”

“Saints do not move, though grant . . .” Esti trailed off as her eyes flicked down to his gloved fingers, then back up again. Romeo’s mask was different this time, subtly covering his entire face. And Greg’s eyes weren’t blue.

She stepped back. The audience waited in silent anticipation, but the eyes had become wary. Alan knew she had recognized him. The show had to go on, she thought desperately. They were counting on Esti Legard to bring magic to the stage.
You’re in control, Esti.

“. . . though grant for prayer’s sake,” she whispered. Her throat closed around the words.

“Then move not,” Alan murmured, “while my prayer’s effect I take.”

His voice twined around her like the web of an exquisite spider, trapping her with a longing that wasn’t his alone. Juliet wanted to kiss Romeo, no matter who he was, how he looked, what his name might be. She had so often dreamed of playing Juliet to Alan’s Romeo. She couldn’t stop him now; she didn’t want to stop him.