“Dominic was a complex man. He was hard, yes, but fair. Yes, I suppose I miss him.”
He gazed out the window at the storage area and the bottling going on below. Something wasn’t right. There was a sadness in the man’s eyes, like the golden rays of the sun. Some kind of personal connection Gilroy didn’t want to discuss. Perhaps Dominic Bacon was more of a father figure to Gilroy than he wanted to let on. It would explain why he stayed here.
I plucked a business card from the holder on the corner of his desk. It read: “Gilroy Antsy, Operations Manager.”
“Is there anything else, Mr. Montague?”
“Do you know the status of your reparations payment or what you expect to receive?”
“There are rumors circulating around between those of us who have a, shall we say, history here. They apparently located others but most of the payments are going to workers. The family has a loyal following.”
“Despite the fact that they were slavers?”
“They were not slavers. They were only doing what everyone at the time did. A lot of money and resources were tied up in the laborers purchased. Freeing everyone nearly bankrupted this company and many others. Our loyalty and patience are finally being rewarded.”
“Forgive me, but I’m just having trouble understanding why someone like you would stay.”
“Pardon me? Someone like me?”
“You are well-educated and in a managerial position. I bet you’ve had this position a long time, correct?”
He nodded.
“Is there anywhere to go from here in this company?”
“Not really. Owner of a distillery and as I’ve said, I’m already doing that.”
“Yes, but you make no profit and you cannot truly put your energy into it. To me, you should own this distillery.” I stomped my tennis shoe lightly on the floor. “Wouldn’t that be fair as your reparations? You could have asked Francine for that. She seemed to be in a very generous mood the last couple years. Any idea what brought that on?”
He stood and shoved both hands into his pockets. “I’m not interested in owning Bacon Rum.”
“Why not?” I asked. “You mean if Francine Bacon offered you Bacon Rum you’d say no?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. That is not a possibility. She is not offering me Bacon Rum. She is not offering ... her offer is fair.”
“Oh, so you do know what the reparations entail?”
“I think half-a-million is the amount or the total value. Might not be all cash. That’s a rumor.”
“Lots of rumors floating around. The others are dwelling on this a lot apparently.”
“Of course they are,” he said, raising his voice. “It’s more money than any of these people would ever see in two lifetimes. It would change everything or maybe nothing. Most of them are still stuck in a slave’s mentality. They don’t have the emotional capability to break out no matter how much money you hand them.”
“I understand. And you deserve to have things change. Right? You’ve put in years of service to both Francine and Dominic. You know what to do with the means of production.”
He spun around and slammed his hand on his desk. “You’re goddamn right I have! My sweat is on every conveyor belt, shelf, and plank in this place. My sweat and blood!”
“And now Yarey’s too, right? You let her become part of this.”
“That’s what it takes. It’s what we know. We are distillers. She can learn from me, not waste money on useless college degrees or thoughtful platitudes. I read. Books. On my own. I learn with these and these.” He held out his hands and pointed at his eyes. “In the real world you are learning every second if you pay attention. I don’t need anyone to give me instructions or a syllabus to become a better man. This is the best there is. There is nothing out there.” He pointed emphatically at the window.
“Right, right. You’re right. Most college people don’t know shit about the real world.”
“Yes. That is right. That is right. Yes. You understand. I’m surprised. They don’t know anything about reality. About pain. About love. Schools cannot teach you that. And this singing.”
“Singing?”
Now he was making eye contact and speaking with the authority of an expert. He was in an arena where he was in charge. Like a bull, he plowed ahead. These were his deepest convictions, vocalized to a stranger. Sometimes strangers were the only ones people felt comfortable talking to.
“Yarey. She’s got this thing about singing.” His hands were on and off his hips with each new declaration. “She has a performance at Reichhold Center tonight. She does silly gospel music and sings in a choir.”
He now stood at the window looking below. I seized the opportunity to read some of the stuff tacked to his cork board and glance at his desk. All of it related to molasses production and distilling everything from rum to whiskey to sake. The way he spoke now shoved me far away, like the man was talking to himself while I wore earplugs and listened from the closet.
He mumbled something indecipherable, then more forcefully said, “Time to put childish things away. She’s twenty-one. I was already a father at her age.”
He turned around and I twisted in the chair, acting like I’d leaned forward to crack my back. He didn’t seem to notice or care. My stomach was grinding away on the alcohol and the crackers weren’t enough to soak it all up. I’d been here a long time.
“Can’t she have a hobby and still move forward in her work?” I offered.
“You sound like my wife. That’s not an option. This money is not enough for her to become complacent. And she makes no money from this so-called hobby. She thinks she’s going to be another Susan Potts.”
I had no idea who Susan Potts was, although I had a vague recollection of seeing a talent show with someone called Paul Potts.
“Do you only get money as a family or do each of you get money?”
“Direct descendants. She gets it and I get it. My wife’s not part of that lineage.”
“It seems like there would be a lot of people who were part of this lineage, but from what I know it’s under fifty.”
“That’s an easy answer: most slaves who worked on sugar plantations died. These islands were brutal to my people. Tropical diseases and immorality run amok. Brutal. They didn’t procreate, they didn’t have families, they just worked and died.”
He paced from his desk to the window and back. “Do you know what tonight is?”
“Your daughter’s show?”
“Wednesday.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who plays at The Reichold Center on Wednesday?”
I shrugged, not sure where he was going with this. He emphatically wagged his finger.
“Exactly. Nobody plays on Wednesday.”
Chapter 24
Junior Bacon wanted to go out, but he could hear his father’s voice ballooning out of Aunt Hillary’s room. He was halfway down the spiral staircase, when curiosity got the better of him. Returning to his room, he came out with a glass he’d used for water before bed the night before. He checked for Wilma, but she was not up here. Probably in the kitchen.
Whipping out his phone he texted Boise that he’d be running late and to order his meal to go. Something vegetarian with fries. Beans and rice would also be good.
Stuffing the phone back into his pocket, he creeped to the thick door to Aunt Hill’s room and gently, ever so gently, propped the mouth of the glass against the wood. Moving the glass around slowly, he found a spot where he could make out some of their conversation.
“We are not to discuss that and are not discussing that when he’s here,” Herbie said. “Do you understand?”
“Ow! You asshole, that hurt. You better watch out. I’m not Junior. You can’t manhandle me like that.”
“What are you gonna do about it?”
After that the room got silent. He supposed they’
d stopped talking or had started whispering. He could hear harsh tones from his father and Hillary laughing.
“ ... drunk?” Herbie said. “What has gotten into you? You are becoming more and more like one of these islanders.”
“You aren’t an islander?”
“Not anymore. Not if we don’t stop this mess. What got into her?”
Hillary laughed, then snorted. “You could never control mama. She controlled you. You were always a little boy to her. Hell, we’re all still children to her. She’s controlling things even from the grave.”
Suddenly, a yell came from downstairs. “Miss Hillary, Mister Herbie! I have your supper ready. You want me to serve it?”
Shit, Wilma, was yelling for dinner. Before he could move, footsteps approached the door. Junior tried to palm the glass, but it crashed to the floor, shattering on the tile. He let out a startled yelp as his father unlocked and opened the door, filling the doorway.
“Hello, Junior. Why are you breaking glasses outside Aunt Hillary’s bedroom?”
“Uh, sorry papa. I was ... uh ... taking this glass back to the kitchen from my room. I had a glass of water last night and I was going to tell you that I’m leaving for Yarelle’s performance.”
Herbie licked his lips. Junior could see every pore on his father’s face along with each individual hair going backwards from his receding hairline. He wiped perspiration from his upper lip, then stammered on. “Be careful, Papa. Let me get a broom, and I’ll clean this up.”
Wilma came to the top of the stairs. “Oh goodness, look at this mess. Mr. Herbie, stay in the room, you are barefoot.”
At this Hillary shot up behind Herbie and bumped him forward. “What’s happening? Oops!”
Herbie howled as he stumbled and stepped on a sliver.
“Papa!” Junior cried.
“Son of a ... ” Herbie’s face contorted in pain as he hopped backward into Hillary’s bedroom and dropped on the bed, his foot raised. Blood flowed from the small gash. Upon seeing the blood, Hillary swooned and fell to the floor. Junior’s breathing accelerated as thoughts of his last brush with blood flooded his memory, the arrow protruding from Kendal’s chest.
Wilma entered, calmly crossed to the bathroom and returned with a wad of toilet paper. She plucked the sliver from the wound, then staunched the blood. Herbie howled again, slamming his fist against the headboard.
“Hold that,” Wilma intoned, taking Herbie’s hand and placing it around the toilet paper.
“It hurts!” he cried, then lowered the pitch of his voice. “Goddammit! Hillary, what is your problem?”
“Miss Hillary is on the floor. She unconscious, Mr. Herbie.”
The anger left his voice. “What? Is she okay?”
Wilma leaned over to check Hillary’s pulse and breathing. “She fine. She faint.”
At this Herbie rolled his eyes. “Again?”
“Yes, she faint again.”
“Junior?”
Junior’s eyes drifted far away, his legs bunched against his chest as he rocked.
“Junior is just sittin’.”
“What do you mean, just sitting?”
“He sittin’ on the floor. Just sittin’.”
At this, Herbie started to sit up.
“No, don’t sit up. You need to keep your foot raised. I don’t think you need stitches, but you want to keep it raised till the bleeding stop.”
“Fine,” he muttered.
He turned his body so he could see off the side of the bed, while still reclining. His foot stuck in the air and swayed like a palm tree on a beach. Junior continued to rock, Hillary looked peaceful. Thankfully she seemed to excel at fainting on rugs, away from hard objects.
Wilma straightened out Hillary’s leg, then gently, but firmly gripped Junior’s shoulder. “Junior? Junior?”
“Just yell at him! What kind of crap is this? He causes this mess then checks out like some kind of baby?”
“He ain’t acting like a baby. He’s in shock or having some reaction. Me don’t know why,” Wilma said, now rubbing the young man’s back. Slowly, Junior’s eyes returned from whatever far off place they’d gone.
He squeezed Wilma’s hand, then stood and approached the bedside.
“Papa, I’m sorry about that. I dropped that glass.”
“Junior, that boarding school made you soft. What were you doing sitting there and rocking back and forth?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Junior looked at his phone. “It’s getting late. I’ve got to go. I’ll clean the glass.”
“No you will not. Wilma, get to cleaning that glass.”
Wilma, who had been trying to revive Hillary, rose and pivoted. “You a rude man.”
“Because I asked you to do your job, I’m rude?”
“No, you rude because you rude. You talk down. Mrs. Francine, does not talk down.”
With that, Wilma left the room. Hillary groaned. Junior helped her into a chair.
“Auntie, are you okay?”
“What happened?” she asked, shaking her head.
“You fainted again,” Herbie spat. “You need to get hold of yourself.”
Junior, sensing the rising tension, excused himself and rushed downstairs. Wilma had the broom and dustpan in hand, but Junior would hear none of it.
“I got it, Wilma. My mess.”
She patted him on the cheek, “You a good boy. Not like them. You are lucky to be away, you know that?”
“Why’s that?”
“You don’t have to live every second in a house fill wid all these secrets and lies.”
Chapter 25
The box office at The Reichhold Center for the Arts sold Junior and me two tickets to Yarey’s show. They were good seats and not expensive, which made me think that perhaps Gilroy was right, this was not a way for Yarey to make a living. But, he was wrong in that without arts, many people felt lost, and that feeling could be as bad as poverty.
Junior and I milled about, admiring the romantic feel of the amphitheater. The evening was surprisingly cool and a light breeze tickled my skin. Junior had been late so I’d brought his food in a to-go bag that we took in the cab he showed up in. It filled the car with the enticing smell of fried fish and fries. On the way, I glimpsed Patrick Roberts’ law office and thought about Roger and Elias again. Father and son. Dead and alive.
Before things got even more strained between us I needed to call Elias. After shooting a quick hello-text to him, I turned back to Junior as he examined a message on his phone. Elias was right. Junior’s eerie stillness could be unnerving. At first, I chalked it up to his beyond-his-years maturity, but now it started to strike me as a primal freeze, as in fight, flight or freeze. Besides, when he argued with his family about getting into the business and his behavior around his father in particular, he didn’t strike me as all that mature. He was stuck in some emotional loop, probably caused by his father’s overbearing nature and lack of compassion.
“You believe he said that?”
He looked up. “Huh?”
“Gilroy. He said that. What’re you doing on your phone?”
“Nothing. Oh, right, Gilroy.” Junior pocketed the ticket he’d bought. “He used to be cooler, but something changed. The guy got more intense the last few years, you ask me. They used to be friendly, but Harold doesn’t like him anymore. It’s all business with him now.”
“All business. That’s accurate,” I said, rubbing my stubble.
“You know there’s an art exhibit down below?”
“Aren’t you hungry?” I asked. “We can sit now and you can eat.”
“I want you to see this. I’m fine. I’ll eat during the show. Thanks for the food, but remember I’m vegetarian?”
“You from here and don’t eat fish? Really?”
“I’m allowed to eat whatever I wish, Boise. I’ll eat it since they’re already dead and
battered, but I texted you what I wanted.”
“They didn’t have any beans and rice. I did what I could.”
Junior led me down to an art gallery on the lower level. We ambled through the African Art section, then circled back up in time to take our seats.
A tall woman with her hair wrapped in colorful dressings sat in front of me.
“I’m always the lucky short guy,” I grumbled.
The woman’s tiny daughter sat in front of Junior. He leaned over and whispered, “Bummer, dude.”
Using both hands, she adjusted the mass of fabric and hair. I wondered if carrying all that around on your head all day was healthy. Did she get headaches? My hair follicles ached at the end of the day from my hat, but it only weighed a few ounces.
I removed my hat to make it easier on whoever was behind me. Leaning toward Junior and scrunching down a bit gave me a better angle. He smelled faintly of weed.
“You smoking with Harold today?” I asked in a hushed tone.
He shook his head. Lying about something that small, especially when I’d seen them do it before also struck me as immature if not outright deceptive.
The show lasted about an hour and twenty minutes. The choir was fairly standard, but one singer who performed a solo had range, hitting some high notes with feeling. She was also physically stunning: Alicia Keys eyes, braided locks, a high forehead and shimmering skin.
After the show, my luck held as we found Yarey standing next to the solo-singing beauty in the stone courtyard, meeting and greeting the assembled masses as clouds slipped gently over the full moon. When the crowd died down, we made our way over to the pair.
Yarey hugged Junior and commented on how much he’d grown up since she last saw him.
“You never come by the distillery anymore. I thought it was your passion.”
“They shipped me off to boarding school,” he said with a shrug. “So much for passion.”
An awkward silence settled before Yarey turned to me. “You look familiar. Did we meet recently?”
Sweet Paradise Page 17
