When the first cold days came . . .

In those years the first snows would generally fall toward the end of September, at least in New England. It used to get colder than it does now, and it was in the season of those snows that we said good-bye to the Russian wolfhound, and to the cats, who were undoubtedly all called "Kitty-Cat," and to neighbor lady who would take care of them while we were gone. The house we commended to the great white birch that rose, firm and watchful, at the end of the driveway.

These adieux heralded series of metamorphoses. The birch tree would become a palm, tall and slender; the white mantle of snow that draped the frozen earth, gentle waves drinking the sands. My brother Michael and I would exchange our companions in parkas and waterproof boots for others, black and barefoot. The cold, shiny white Formica desks disappeared, and in their place was a lone, wide, old-fashioned dark wood table. Our Bostonian-sounding English gradually faded into the background, hidden behind gentle, rhythmic accent in keeping with that of our West Indian companions. The yellow school bus that picked us up daily was replaced by a gray donkey that we got up on in turn--Michael, Sammy the son of Polly the cook, and I. It always seemed redundant to me that the donkey was named Donkey, like the cats we had left in the care of the neighbor.

Three years had already gone by since our father began working on the book on the West Indies, three years during which we rented a house on the beach in Jamaica with Polly, her son Sammy and her brother Sunshine. Polly took charge of the whole house--of us, the kitchen and the marketing. One day I heard my father complain about her petty theft, and ask my mother to talk to her. But Ma never did it. Sunshine took care of the garden, Donkey and the two roosters. He was a young man, black, as was the entire native population, muscular, and as we were to discover, possessive. There was no doubt that Sunshine was industrious, and was recompensed, in addition to his salary, by the product of the second henhouse, to which he was in the habit of referring to as his own.

The routine of morning toilette in which Polly insisted in combing our hair was the only storm cloud over the horizon of our island life. First it was Michael's turn--a useless task, because his blond hair always looked as if it had been startled into disarray. Then she braided my skimpy blond hair and tied them with a ribbon that matched my blouse, choosing the right color from an endless collection of ribbons she kept in the buffet drawer. And last of all came her own son Sammy. I never understood why she went to the trouble, since his close-cropped hair looked like a black scouring pad.

The daily routine seemed to us less routine than pure entertainment. Especially compared to our life during the rest of the year. After that process was over, we would get on Donkey’s back in strict order and ride to the school, which was in an old English quarter a couple of kilometers from the house. The forty of us kids sat on both sides of the wooden table, grouped by ages in just one room, with just one teacher. We all went barefoot at the insistence of our mother, who did not want us to stick out. Naturally we stuck out anyway.

We would go home on Donkey, too, but with different turns. Polly always had a salad and exotic fruits prepared, because she had her own theory about meat. She said meat should only be eaten (in any form) with special meals, for example on Sundays, birthdays, weddings or national holidays.

One of the many games we thought up was to see who could swim the farthest out from the beach. Polly would watch from the terrace of the second floor to see whether any sharks were coming—although Ma had already told us that if we ran into a shark we were supposed to punch it in the nose, and it would go away peacefully. But Polly insisted that if she saw any sharks she would warn us by signaling from the terrace, and I always felt safer seeing her there.

We didn’t have to wait long to celebrate one of those dinners Polly considered worthy of serving meat with (in this case, chicken). All Jamaica was turned out it in festive attire. It was more than a national holiday. Princess Margaret was making an official visit to the islands. Our teacher limited himself to the teaching of the history of Great Britain, and particularly to the Jamaica’s responsibility toward the Crown. It seemed to us a bit exaggerated, all the fuss, but we were the only whites, the chosen ones to present the wreaths of flowers to the Princess. This sort of festivity ends up spreading to everyone, willy-nilly, and in the end it even made us think we were witnessing a great historical moment, but we were more impressed by the filming of From Russia with Love, which was being shot on the beaches of St. Ann’s Bay, and included in Princess Margaret’s official itinerary.

The entire island was attired for the grand gala occasion. White figures adorned with black heads floated down all the island streets. British flags lapped around the crowds. Endless calypsos were composed about the Princess and her visit. Government House sported a special guard in full regalia, in imitation of the guard at Buckingham Palace.

Everything went according to plan, with the exception of the theft of the teapot from Government House, which inspired even more calypsos. Polly, true to her manias, served us a delicious chicken on the final night of festivities: chicken cooked with tropical fruits, which we were to remember the rest of our lives.

When we got back home the next day, festive colors had faded into the gray penumbra of an American film noir. An old model black Buick with a siren on top completed the picture. Sunshine did not come out looking for Donkey, because the assistant police chief was taking his deposition in the kitchen. On the black and white tile floor a corpse lay sprawled, covered with a blanket. Mother, whining, was sitting next to the chief inspector, both warning us to no avail not to come into the kitchen. We could hear Sunshine telling the police that he killed his sister Polly because she had stolen a chicken from his henhouse. Despite the voices and sobbing, you could hear the silence.

Sammy ran to the arms of our mother, and Michael and I went running out to the beach where we sat cross-legged for a long time looking out over the ocean.

Sharon Smith-Hernandez