Bermuda Schwartz Read Free Page A

Trula.
    â€œWell, that’s probably because they’re tied up and laying on the ground. Wait until we get them planted, then I think you’ll like them just fine.”
    â€œI don’t think so,” she says. “They aren’t as tall as you led me to believe.”
    I look at Barbara. The way she wrinkles her eyebrows is barely perceptible, but it conveys boundless sympathy. It also conveys an unmistakable amusement. I am on my own here. I forge ahead.
    â€œIt was never my intention to mislead you,” I say. “Those Bismarcks are at least sixty or seventy feet tall, and that’s just about as tall as the species gets.”
    Aunt Trula makes a face.
    â€œDisappointing,” she says.
    She reaches for one of the cucumber thingies. She removes the salmon from it and takes a small bite of cucumber, studying me while she chews.
    â€œDon’t worry,” I say. “You’re in luck.”
    â€œHow’s that?” says Aunt Trula.
    â€œI brought a palm stretcher with me.”
    â€œA palm stretcher?”
    â€œUh-huh. We can hook it up and get another twenty feet out of each of those palms, no problem.”
    Aunt Trula considers me. She purses her lips while she does it.
    â€œYou are jesting,” she says.
    â€œI am,” I say.
    Aunt Trula says nothing. I get the distinct feeling that she is not someone who appreciates a good jesting.
    I reach for the watercress sandwiches and dispatch with two of them in rapid order. Enough to fuel a hummingbird for maybe fifteen minutes.
    Aunt Trula says, “My niece tells me that you were once an athlete, Mr. Chasteen. Football, was it?”
    â€œIt was.”
    â€œRather a brutish sport, in my opinion.”
    â€œIn mine, too.”
    It gets a raised eyebrow from Aunt Trula.
    â€œThen why, Mr. Chasteen, did you play?”
    â€œBecause I’m a brute.”
    Barbara covers her mouth, stifling a laugh. Aunt Trula scrunches her lips some more, then unscrunches them to sip some tea.
    We turn our attention back to the lawn. Boggy puts down the shovel. He kneels by the shallow hole he’s dug and reaches into it.
    â€œYour man there,” says Aunt Trula. “What did you say his name is?”
    I start to tell her that Boggy is neither my man, nor anyone else’s. But I catch a look from Barbara. Behave, it says.
    â€œHis full name is Cachique Baugtanaxata,” I say. “That’s why we call him Boggy.”
    â€œAnd what is he exactly?”
    â€œHe’s my associate,” I say.
    â€œNo, no, I meant what
is
he?”
    â€œWell, he’s an aggravation sometimes, I can tell you that. A damn aggravation.”
    â€œMr. Chasteen,” she says, “I mean … where does he come from?”
    I know what she means. I’m just not having any part of it.
    â€œHe’s from Hispaniola,” I finally say. “The Dominican Republic side.”
    â€œHe doesn’t look Hispanic.”
    â€œHe’s not.”
    â€œAnd he’s not a Negro.”
    â€œNo, he’s not.”
    â€œAnd he’s no Chinaman.”
    I don’t reply to that.
    â€œSo what is he exactly?”
    â€œHe’s Taino,” I say.
    â€œTie what?”
    â€œTaino. They lived in the Caribbean long before any Europeans made it there.”
    â€œAh, I see,” says Aunt Trula. “He’s an Indian fellow.”
    â€œNo,” I say. “He’s Taino. Indians are what the Europeans called them. Because they had their heads up their asses about where they were.”
    If I sound a little testy it’s only because I am.
    Cue, Barbara.
    â€œTiti,” she says, reaching for her aunt’s arm, “why don’t we take a stroll?”
    â€œSplendid idea,” says Aunt Trula. “I could use the fresh air.”
    And she gives me a smile even thinner than the one before.

4
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    I follow Barbara and Aunt Trula off the terrace. They go their way—to