A Reason For Living: 2nd Edition

By Julian Jingles

It is the mid-1960s in Kingston, Jamaica, and the country is steeped in social, political, and economic inequities. Howard Baxter, the heir to a real estate empire, has no interest in seeking or managing wealth. Painting and deflowering Jamaican maidens are his passions. As he combs the streets looking f

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Oct 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781684863167

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A REASON FOR

LIVING

2

ND EDITION

JULIAN JINGLES

A Reason For Living

Copyright © 2022 by Julian Jingles. All rights reserved.

Author Credits: Raymond A. Julian Reynolds. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of URLink Print and Media.

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Published in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-68486-315-0 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68486-317-4 (Hardback)

ISBN 978-1-68486-316-7 (Digital)

19.10.22

To Beverly Andrade, Hillary Hall, and Beverly Dixon—their beauty, charm, grace, and exquisiteness inspired this novel.

To the American Black Power movement and its progenitors who enabled black people and unempowered people around the world to be proud of who we are and to struggle for equal rights and justice. To the Rastafari brethren and sistren whose beliefs in the integrity, spirituality, and originality of the black man and whose struggle against injustice and oppression have been an inspiration to me and to numerous others.

Who am I?

I know that. What am I?

I know that.

But Why do I? I know not.

—RAJR

Julian Jingles Reynolds aka Raymond Arthur Julian Reynolds, and pseudonym Julian Jingles is a writer, filmmaker, and entrepreneur and operates in New York, USA, and Kingston, Jamaica. He began his writing career in 1966 at 16 years old, writing A Reason For Living, a novel about a family caught up in a revolution in Jamaica in the mid-1960s. It was written in three drafts, and completed in 1968, at age 19.

He pursued a career in journalism at the Gleaner Company in Kingston, Jamaica beginning in 1967, writing extensively on the Jamaican music industry, cultural, and social issues. And at age 22 was a columnist writing Merry Go Round, and In the Saddle for the Gleaner, and Record Shop for the Star. He has published numerous articles, short stories, essays, and poems in Swing magazine (sometimes using the pseudonym Ray Upendo,) and Cooyah magazine, the Abeng, and Public Opinion newspapers, in Jamaica.

In 1972 he immigrated to the United States to write two screenplays, Half Breed, a western, and One Way Out, about the Jamaican-American drug trade of the 1970s. He has written for the New York Amsterdam News, the Jamaica Weekly Gleaner (NA), Everybody’s magazine, JET, the Daily Challenge, the New York Daily News, and the Carib News, and as New York foreign correspondent for the Gleaner in Jamaica. He wrote syndicated columns, Our Business Our World, Point Blank and In Silhouette in the 1990s and 2000s.

Having a great interest in film and television production, he received training in script writing, film, theater, and television directing and production, with the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences. He made three documentary films, Jamaican Gun Court (1974) as writer-associate producer, It All Started With The Drums (1987), and Jammin’ In Jamaica-With The Mystic Revelation of Rastafari (1996), as writer-producer-director. He has worked as production manager on several music videos with performers such as Kool & the Gang, the Main Ingredient, and Steel Pulse. He has produced several music concerts, and a stage play in the New York tri-state area, and Kingston.

From 1992 to 2016 he wrote in the In Focus section of the Jamaica Sunday Gleaner, and in the Jamaica Observer, The Herald, and Sunday Herald newspapers writing on socio-economic and cultural issues, and continues to contribute to The News, a community newspaper in Jamaica. He has been an entrepreneur throughout his professional life involved in agriculture and the importing, exporting and distribution of agro-products from Jamaica to the United States, and social enterprise projects.

He is associated since 1984 with the National Minority Business Council in New York, as a member and business consultant organizing several trade and investment missions to Jamaica, other Caribbean countries, South Africa, and England. He is married since 1972 to Charmaine. They have three children, and 11 grandchildren, and reside in the Bronx, New York.

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

BOOK I: THE ARTIST

BOOK II: THE PATRIOT

BOOK III: THE ORACLE

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am eternally indebted to my dear departed parents, Agatha Loretta Lewinson Reynolds and Edmund Arthur (RoyChurchill) Reynolds; my dear departed aunt and uncle, Ambrozine Anita Lewinson Laveist and Constantine Luciano (Sisto) Laveist; my cousin Rolando Marfel Juan Laveist; and my wife, Charmaine Jasmine.

I’m indebted also to my teachers, especially Ms. Homer, Ms. Fuller, Ms. Rose, Ms. Escoffery, and Mr. Thompson at Elletson Primary, Mr. Douglas Forrest our headmaster, Mrs. Parchment, Ms. Leo-Rhine, Ms. Hamilton, and Mr. Isaac Henry at Kingston College, as well as, to my friends and schoolmates there who made it a most memorable experience. The same is true of Ms. Lawson and Ms. Sutherland, my first teachers at Foresters Hall Preparatory School; Mr. Theodore Sealy, editor in chief; Barbara Gloudon, feature editor at the Gleaner Company, and the Rollington Town gang, particularly the Wembley fraternity. Thank you.

A Reason for Living is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Places and some names are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons— living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

BOOK I

THE ARTIST

King Street, Kingston’s main commercial center extends from George V1 Park to the north and Kingston Harbor to the south. Here, every day of the week other than Sunday, people push their way through the crowds, buying, selling, lodging, and withdrawing from bank accounts. On Saturdays, King Street is one of the busiest, hottest places in Jamaica. Most of the crowd is shopping, and the others are merely pretentious.

Girl watchers, man provokers, exhibitionists—this is their day. The men— pointedly called facemen, cha-cha boys, and wolves— meet at the intersections of King and Barry and King and Tower Streets; at these points, they are described as the concrete gang. Together they are strong, sarcastic, and boorishly charming to the young women. At these meeting places, many a man finds a wife, some a lay for the night or two, most ending up getting only an insolent answer to their querulous approach.

Most girls, however, are insinuative in their insolence, and if the wolf is patient and subtle; aptly able to throw another quick question or answer before the girl gets out of hearing distance, the chances are that she will slowly turn and ask sophisticatedly, I didn’t hear that? This leads to the wolf moving to her, she waiting for him, and the two walking off together.

These young men wear only the latest in fashion, most preferring the soul cut to any other—not because it is so much the in thing, but because it only necessitates cutting one’s hair at the most four times a year. The girls are beautiful, the minority being natural. The majority, depending on the makeup, and the shortness in length of their dresses, get catcalls or wolf whistles.

They are any color, race or social upbringing, but it is noticeable that the darker boys prefer the lighter complexion girls and vice versa. But it is a nationally accepted fact that the girls with mixed blood are the most attractive and sexually inclined of all the thousands of young women who pass along King Street; those with Negro -Indian, Negro- European, Negro- Asian, or Negro- Jewish claims are the ones generally preferred. Pure stock Indians are too vicious, both in and out of bed. Period.

Howard walked aimlessly along King Street toward the harbor. He was not sure if he should drop into Zarak for a Saturday afternoon jazz feast or go on down to the pier for an afternoon of swing with Tommy McCook and the Supersonics. His hands were stuck deep in the pockets of his Wrangler jeans —out of style and equally out of color, old and faded. He was concentrating deeply on the legs of the girl before him. If you don’t mind me saying it, I believe your dress is a bit on the tall side.

She smiled, flashing a quick glance at him and then at her dress.

Most people think it’s too short, she responded to Howard.

Well, most people are wrong. What do you think?

I think it’s okay and it’s airplane mini, you know.

Um, um, but I think a girl like you, with such beautiful legs should show all of it, and not just 50 percent.

Her smile wavered but held. Thanks.

They are so beautiful that I would like to touch them. The smile began to strain but held.

If you wish, we could go into the lane where nobody would see us. May I? He held her gently by the arm.

The smile died. She shook off his hands and moved away.

Hi, your panties are smashingly red, he called after her.

The people around chuckled. The girl went over to the other side of the street. Creep, he thought to himself. Exhibiting flesh but doesn’t want it to be eaten. Here, look. Look all you can, but don’t touch. Creeps the damn lot of them. He decided to stop at Zarak. Rolando Alphonso and the Soul Brothers would be there. Rolly blew the most lyrical sax south of the sun. This is King Street. Soon it would be five. At five, King Street would be wounded. By seven, it died. The cops and the dogs would take over from there. The poor homeless dogs would be hunting for food. The cops preventing the poor homeless men from stealing for food and clothes. Sometimes the cops and the dogs had their misunderstandings. But they were friends. They were all lonely, away from home, underpaid, and underfed. And, they had one thing in common—they disliked the poor homeless thieves intensely.

Howard walked past Old Edmond sitting quietly in his rocking chair reading a copy of The Star, the daily evening paper. Christine was curled in the sofa listening to the top pop tunes on the radio.

Howard, I would like to speak to you for just a minute. Old Edmond coughed.

I am going to the bath when I am through.

He wants to speak with you now, his sister called up to him.

He speaks with me later!

Old Edmond said nothing. He folded the paper, watching his son climb the stairs. He stretched his feet before him and yawned, making no gesture of formality to cover his mouth. Lifting his pipe from the ashtray beside him, he filled it with tobacco from a pouch that his father had left him as part of the legacy. This is for you Eddy, my boy. Keep it with you always and remember what it has done to your dear old pop, he remembered his father coughing at him. But it had made no impression of fear on him. He had chosen the same trail as his dear old pop had done. He was proud to own such a beautifully decorated pouch as that. It was the talking piece for him, like a stuffed antelope head hung over the fireplace was for the hunter.

Howard scrubbed between his legs. The water felt cold running down his back. A good bath would help revive him after six hours of living hot jazz, rocksteady, and killing hot rum. Rolando had been at his best for a long time. The sounds were clear when they should have been and hazy when it was necessary for them to be.

In the arts, one had their time. But it wasn’t so for Howard; his time never came. It wasn’t that he was not trying. He murdered his mind trying but to no avail. Something was eluding him.

Berny had said it was a girl he wanted—that his kind was made for falling in love, and without love for such an artist, there would be no inspiration. But he had had girls, though his involvement with them was only physical. Still, for a time, they had meant something to him but nothing happened.

His nerve was all right. His hands were sure like that of a surgeon. But nothing happened, nothing at all. Jesus Christ! He couldn’t give up now. He was a painter, born and bred. But nothing was happening.

Old Edmond was at him. He knew that was what he wanted to talk about. Christine was also at him, but not out of concern for him as a brother. It amused her to see him struggling, she being an accomplished musician. She hated him—that was no strange news—and if he failed at anything, it gave her some kind of warped satisfaction.

To hell with them! Why, he was his own man. If it meant to die from trying, then he would die; but nothing was going to stop him from becoming a master painter. To hell with the whole goddamn world! It owed him. It owed him love— love that he had been robbed of at four. So why should he be concerned with what the world thought of him? The world as it was, wasn’t for him. Misfits had to make a world of their own so no one in the orderly, loving gutter slum they called society should concern themselves with his failures or successes. Frig them.

I saw Mr. Watson today. We were speaking about your problems, and he agreed with me that you should rest off from it for a while and do something else. He said that this has happened at times with a young painter, and even the old masters, they have a blue period. He said you would soon get over it. You could come into the office. I will find something for you.

Howard felt uncomfortable in the room, he wanted to go— to get as far away from there as possible. They turned his stomach. Why doesn’t he take a rest too and try something else? Even in my blue period, as he calls it, none of them can paint like me. And you can tell him that!

Great, Picasso. Christine smiled at him.

Great Lady of the Night, Howard returned.

Daddy, you heard what he called me. It must be you that I am catching! She began to sob to impress upon her father how deeply hurt she was.

You have no damn right calling your sister that. You have no damn manners for no one! You only go around talking a lot of bull about painting tripe, you lazy, goddamn son of a bitch! Old Edmond rose out of the chair as he concluded his outburst.

Tut-tut, temper, temper, Old Ed. We mustn’t get irritable over trivial things, now should we, um?

"Daddy, he isn’t worth talking to. He hates us all. You are wasting your time trying to get something out of nothing. Hush, honey," her father said, his tone consoling.

Old Edmond, if you are through, I would like to go, Howard said, bored.

Howard, I have been through with you for a long time now. Believe me, it’s only for your mother’s sake that I am still trying— for her and her alone.

Howard smiled. Thanks. I do appreciate that, he said and left.

What’s the matter with him, Chris? Tell me where I have gone wrong with him.

It’s not your fault, Dad. He just doesn’t have any good in him. He thinks he is a second Robin Pone. Robin was lucky, and he had some good in him. But Howard is worthless.

But he is my son, your brother. He is twenty-one, and so far nothing has come out of his life, absolutely nothing. He turned and walked away. I am going up for a rest, Chris. When you are going, call me.

It’s okay, Dad. I am not going out tonight. He forced a smile at her. He still had Chris.

Howard parked near the entrance under the lights. He couldn’t afford for anyone to steal the tires from the car, not with his old man threatening to freeze all his bread. He had no money except that which his father allowed him. The money that his mother had left for him was to go only to his education as a painter. She had willed it.

Hi Howie, honey, the young woman at the door said in greeting.

Hi, baby. Long time no see. He rested his hand on her stomach, moving it gently across.

How do you expect to see me if you have stopped coming around?

Well I’m here now, puss, and for real.

She chuckled. Heard say that you had outgrown Merritone— you didn’t dig the crowd no more.

Who said?

She shrugged, her breasts remaining to the left when she moved to the right. "It was around. Saw your cousin here too last Saturday.

What brings you here tonight to Peyton the Place?"

Some patrons arrived, and he shifted to one side to allow them in. You, I guess. Long time since I’ve been down there. He moved his eyes down her magnificent body to the spot that he was talking about.

Don’t think you will ever be back either. The door has closed for a time yet.

Um, um, gotta try and open it. He pinched her soft belly, feeling the blood run hot in his veins. See you later. Going to mix a little.

He moved away, thinking over what Berny had told him. Maybe he was right. Berny was always right. He was going to find himself a woman. Maybe he had found her already and not known, but he would be looking. That was what had brought him to the Merritone Discotheque’s home, Peyton Place.

Ha, my painter! someone shouted across to him. He recognized Derek coming toward him. Great, what brings you here brethren? Derek inquired.

Looking for a woman, he responded.

A record started to play over the set, and the swingers danced around them. It was a new release by the Wailers, the new singing sensations from West Kingston and Howard could see his old school friend, Skill with the members of the Wailers talking to Winnie, the main selector for Merritone.

Any special woman? Derek queried.

Yeah, nothing regular, he responded to Derek.

Then you are in the wrong hole, Howie boy. Only regulars are permitted here.

A girl came over to them. She was short but provocatively attractive. One might consider her breasts too big for her height, but her hips were equally big— a contrast to the waist. The white, tightfitting pedal pushers she wore vividly displayed the V spot between her legs. Howard knew her. She taught art at the Jamaica School of Art and Craft.

Howie, darling. she threw her arms around his waist.

He felt his penis pressed into the soft, warm flesh. It swelled. Easy, Janice, baby. You are making me strong.

And don’t I want to. She eased away from him, still holding onto his hands and looking down at the front of his jeans.

I guess you would, Derek said, reminding her that he was there.

But of course, you do want to. Don’t you, Howie love? Want to what? Derek laughed.

Want to exercise your strength on me of course. The record ended and another began.

Sure, but right now I want something to drink. How about you, Derek?

More than words can say.

Bring a rum and water over to the table for me. And do get strong quick, Howie love, please. She danced off to the music.

Howie and Derek moved over to the bar.

I have been trying to get down with that nymph for the last six months. She does things to me. Don’t you feel the same about her? Derek queried.

Slightly.

Slightly hell, Derek said in mock anger.

Well sure she does, but not as much as she may do to you.

Well I want her, Howie. More than how dry peas want fire, and tonight I am going to walk all inside her.

And Berny? Berny may kill you if he finds out.

Berny’s batty hole. He has no more claim on her than anyone else. One flask rum, Charley and a soda— dry. What are you having?

A flask of white rum and water, two trays of ice.

Hell, Howie man, but aren’t you too young to be drinking white rum like that?

Howard laughed. Aren’t you too young to be welcoming death, for as sure as God made Eve, Berny is going to kill you for walking over and into Janice.

I can kill him too, you know. Don’t you ever think of that? I can damn well kill him, too. He had said it, but it was as doubtful to him as it was to Howard. He knew it and shook violently inside.

Howard twisted in his bed and looked at the clock. His thoughts returned to the previous night, Derek had left with Janice and he had left soon after, not finding what he had gone there for. Sure some of the best-looking and sexiest girls in Kingston were fans of the Merritone, but they were the most regular also. They were the swingers of the jive set. Four times a week every week they swung with the mighty Merritone.

He would have breakfast and go to the beach. Painting was out. He could not paint a line until he had found something to inspire him, something to shed some emotion on— even if it was a cat.

Old Edmond and Christine were halfway through their breakfast when he went down.

Didn’t hear when you came in, Old Edmond tried to sound friendly.

You couldn’t have if you were sleeping. Howard thought of saying to him. I came in pretty early. Guess you went to bed early.

Sure. At my age, I got to get as much sleep as possible, leave the nightlifing to the younger heads.

Nothing was spoken for the next minute, but Howard could feel his father glancing at him. He hated the atmosphere. It was too thick. Anything was liable to happen.

About what I suggested last night, Howie, I really would like you to consider it. It wouldn’t be anything hard, just something that wouldn’t demand too much of you.

Like picking up all the paper clips from the floor Pa, try to understand I can’t do anything but paint …

And we aren’t sure of that are we, Christine remarked.

Chris, this is the breakfast table, and I want no haggling. Furthermore, today is Sunday. Now will you stop aggravating your brother.

Dada, you shouldn’t be the one to say that. You know him. You know he only uses that as an excuse. I bet if he was in the position where he had no father who had money to feed him and clothe him and entertain him, he would have to find some work to do. He would have to or starve because he is no painter. Sure, he may sell a canvas are two sometimes. But he doesn’t have enough talent to live off it, and you are only wasting your time spending all this enormous amount of cash sending him to school. For what? Tell me, for what? Howard isn’t a boy anymore, Dad. He is almost twenty-one.

You got what you wanted, didn’t you? Well I want my share now! And, Christine, don’t turn Pa against me. Don’t do it, he said threateningly.

You don’t frighten me, Howard. Not in the least.

Will you both shut up! I am sick and tired of you both now!

Well, you tell her to keep out of my life. I don’t want either you or her hanging over my back, riding me like a damn horse. Get off!

You ungrateful, wretch! You see what I mean, Dad. He is worthless, and it’s no use trying with him. His only intention is to go and live with those no-good Rastafarians friends of his, like his cousin. They are both worthless. Ma always said, ‘Show me your company, and I can tell you what you are.’ Worthless tripe!

You still haven’t gotten over it yet, have you, sister dear? You hate him. Well he can make a million of you. No, that’s wrong. Not even a million of you can make one Robin Pone. He loves his people, and they love him. He fights for them. Just because they have different philosophies from you or dress differently or live in a manner that they think best to themselves doesn’t give you are anyone else the right to victimize and segregate them. Robin realizes the needs of the people living in his constituency. He doesn’t shun them, but helps them.

He is a Rastafarian, and that is that! Old Edmond stated emphatically.

That he is, Pa. That he is. But he realizes that black is beautiful, and black is strength. He is not like dear sister Christine, who happens to have a little light color and thinks herself white. Well, love, let me tell you—white is pale, weak and beautiful only when tanned. Learn that.

Why don’t you go and live with him, and them, and become a great Rasta savior. That’s what you want, isn’t it?

Chris, you aren’t much …

Howard, shut up! Old Edmond bellowed.

You don’t like Robin because he went and got married to someone else. Your own cousin—you must be thinking you are in the royal family.

Shut up. You don’t know nothing. She was forcing tears away.

Howard, get out, his father commanded.

He paid no attention.

You dislike your cousin because he didn’t have any intension of sleeping with you. And you hate me as much, no more. I know, and you know.

Christine left the room, bursting into tears as she ascended the stairs.

You mean, dirty, good-for-nothing son of a snake, you hurt her!

She hurt me too, Pa. Or didn’t you notice?

Well what she said about you is fact. And though I have been trying to make the best of it, I know you are no good, Howard— never was, never will be. You hate her, don’t you?

Well she makes no pretentions of having any love for me either.

Why?

Maybe it’s the difference in pigmentation.

That’s a goddamn lie. Now I want to know why!

Howard rose and grinned across the table at the tall, powerfully built man that was his father. His father. How could a little woman like his Ma stand a powerful bull like his Pa and have two children for him at that. Why don’t you ask her, eh, Pa? He walked away from his father and up to his room.

He lay across the bed, staring out at the sky. Later he might go to the beach, but now his thoughts were filled with what had occurred between him and his father that morning. It wasn’t that he disliked Old Edmond. But they had not blended together. There was no agreement, nothing tangible between them. They lived in the same house and saw each other almost daily, but that was all. There it ended. Old Edmond was material in all concepts of life. Howard was artistic, spiritual, and soulful.

The problem, Howard thought, had begun before he had been born—with his parents. They were as different as the earth is from the sun, and it was that which had accounted for him being what he was. He was drawn between two entirely different rivers flowing in opposite directions. Christine was able to cope. He wasn’t. He was more sensitive than she was. The only thing they had in common was their sexual prowess. She had known it before him, but it had not taken him any length of time to discover both of their vast sexual energy. And there it had begun.

Old Edmond sat in the patio studying the rose garden around the swimming pool. He was wealthy but not happy. He had failed somewhere along the line with his only son. But what troubled him most of all was that he had failed his wife. She had asked him to do all he could for Howie. It was as if she had known that he would be difficult to live with, to understand. He knew more about roses than he knew about his son.

He recited his favorite poem:

The heights that great men reach and kept

Were not attended by sudden flight,

But they while their companions slept

Kept toiling onward through the night.

He had been given a start by his father. And with the help of a woman who had been worth more to him than life itself, he had made a success of his life. He was head of the largest real estate and construction firm on the island, Baxter Development Company, with branches in Trinidad and the Bahamas.

The only member of the family in the firm was Christine, who was the secretary. Howard had shown no inclination of becoming a member of the firm. Robin had taken up politics and preferred to spend his time with the Rastafarians. Christine was more than good in her position, but she was only a woman. And although it was possible she had a better business mind than Howard, it was Howard who he still wanted to take over the business when he retired. And he wanted no one outside his family to take over as head of his firm.

He had tried praying, but it had been no help so far. Howard was intent on painting. It was hard to see him having no talent. His mother had been a beautiful artist, sculptor, and musician. The Pones were a family of unlimited talent. Robin had had his first exhibition of watercolors at the age of eight. At fifteen, he had a one-man exhibition of paintings and sculptures at Tate’s Gallery. The same year, he’d won a scholarship to study at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. Howard had always seen himself as the next Robin Pone, skilled in more ways than one. But he had not yet mastered one of his many talents. He was still searching for something— something that remained elusive.

Old Edmond could think of only one other person who perhaps would be able to show Howard that he wanted to change—that it was necessary for him to avert from that which was defeating him until he was able to grasp it firmly and show his mastery. Robin should be able to speak with Howard. They were more alike than any other two persons he had met.

Howard left without anyone knowing. He preferred moving that way. It gave him a feeling of complete independence and freedom of movement—that he was capable of using time at his own convenience. It was after four. He thought of going over to Robin’s home but decided against it. At times, it was best for one to get as far away as he could from any member of his family.

It was twenty to five when he drove down Jackson Road towards Windward Road. He would stop and drink a cool Red Stripe beer. Beer. You think of beer, and right there before your eyes was Berny. It was a long time since he had seen him, but Berny was against even eating when exams were near. Berny interrupted his studies for only two things—beer and women. His eyes caught sight of a tall, slim, light-complexioned young woman going along on the other side of the street. Yes it was her. It had to be. Only she walked that way.

He slowed down and called to her. Hello there. Can I drop you anywhere?

She recognized him. No thanks. I am only going another chain to church. She smiled, showing beautiful, even teeth between thin, pink lips.

I could drive you the other chain, I would like to.

Okay, if it’s all right with you.

It certainly is, he assured her as she got in beside him. She was beautiful, strikingly beautiful, a daughter of the gods no less.

I believe your name is Maria. Am I right? He found it hard to speak clearly.

Her eyes flickered. Up until now, I had thought you were a mute. Her voice was soft and gently caressing.

Why do you say that? He could hear his voice quavering.

It’s a long time since we have been seeing each other around the town, and you always continue staring at me but have never said a word. I had asked one of your friends if you were a mute.

Howard laughed. He had seen no joke, but he felt that, if he laughed, it would ease the tension that was building up in him. And now you know.

Yes, and I am glad that you aren’t.

Why?

They had come to the corner of Jackson and Windward Roads, at the church.

It would be sad for a nice young man like you to have lost his voice. By the way, how did you know my name?

He suddenly felt happy. She had shown interest in him. It was six years since he had first seen her. He had been living in Rollington Town, and they had taken the bus together. She was a student at Alpha Academy then, and he was in his second year at Kingston College. But he had never had enough courage to speak with her.

I happen to know a lot about you, more than you would think. He found it easy to smile with her.

Is that so? Well I don’t like boys who know a lot about me, as I don’t put it in their way for them to know. And I don’t see how you could. So you must be lying. She attempted opening the door to get out.

I am sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just that you were so friendly to me that I forgot that we hardly know each other.

She saw the hurt in his eyes. She held out her hand and touched him softly. I was wrong to shoot off on you like that. She smiled earnestly.

Their eyes met and held. She quickly got out of the car and made for the church.

Maria, where do you live? She stopped.

In Rollington Town. Or didn’t you know?

Yes, but where?

I am sorry, but I can’t see why you should want to know where I live.

He strained a smile. You are a very hard person to understand, aren’t you?

The easy ones fall quick. I am sorry about the address, but my parents don’t allow young men to visit me. But you may have my number if you wish it.

I do. But won’t your parents be angry if I phone?

No. They won’t know, I am always the first to answer the phone.

She gave him her number. The thought of this beautiful young woman naked before him passed through his mind. He pushed it away.

Howard, drive carefully, won’t you? She smiled and left. He was so gentle, like a child. That’s what he was—a child in a man’s body. I like you, Howard Baxter, she told herself. I like you more than you know.

Howard watched her until she went inside the church. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen; he had known it for some time now. He remembered when he had first seen her, how he had told his friends of the swan he had seen at the terminus. From that day, he had kept a diary of her in his mind. He had told her a hundred, no a thousand times that he loved her and to him, it was real. He was afraid of her. He had tried a number of times to say something to her, but nothing happened when he opened his mouth to speak. Today it was different. She had called him by his name. She had touched him after she’d hurt him, and she’d shown concern for him. He smiled to himself. He had found her. He had found life. The world had his back. Love. Love.

When hearts have once mingled,

Love first leaves the well-built nest.

—Percy Shelley.

Love was first, and all others came after it. This may be disagreeable, but love and hate are universal languages— the stronger of the two being love. That women are the inspiration of all things is an undoubted