The Angels' Share

by Garfield Ellis

  “You must try to walk at least a mile each morning,” was all he said to me as he brushed by into his room. And later on the drive back, I noticed that as we passed the police station his face fell slightly and sadness seemed to creep over him.

  I raise the back of the SUV so the man can place the suitcase there. My father seems to tense a bit as he opens the latch of the suitcase, but I have already decided I want to see inside. There are clothes in there, about two weeks’ worth I guess at a glance. There are gifts inside. I see bottles of his pimento wine.

  He digs around for a leather pouch and his fingers tremble at its zip. I reach to help him, but he snatches it away even as he is pulling the money from inside it. Papers drop into the suitcase and a picture falls onto the floor of the van. He is unable to get to it before me because his hands are full with the pouch and the money. I pick it up quickly. The picture is old but in excellent condition, and I see a beautiful, sexy young woman staring back at me.

  There are more things to notice now than I can digest, more things to take care of than can be done in an instant. The photo has distracted me and so have the contents of his suitcase, so I am unable to monitor his transaction as I’d like to. But he is his own man. He concludes his business quickly and efficiently. I watch him calmly as he finishes what he is doing and folds the remaining dollars into his wallet. I want to ask him why he has so much money on him, but now is not the time. I hand him the picture so he can put it with the rest of the spilled contents back into his pouch.

  “You want to explain this, old man?”

  “Explain what?”

  “I have a sister I should know about?”

  He laughs dryly.

  “What is so funny?”

  “That picture is over thirty years old.”

  “Who is it?”

  “A friend I have not seen for thirty-five years.”

  “Oh . . .” I laugh sheepishly and turn around. “I figured you had a thing on the side or something.”

  “She is no thing on the side.” His voice is almost stern but with a longing in it.

  “What do you mean, Father?”

  He hisses his teeth and walks away. “You’re acting as if you don’t believe the number three thing all along.”

  “This is number three? There is a number three? This is the woman Una has been calling number three all these years? You have a woman on the side, number three in your relationship? You have been in love with this woman for thirty-five years? This is why you ran away, to chase after a woman you have not seen for thirty-five years?”

  “You never knew? Stop acting as if you never knew. I hear you and Una talk ’bout it. Stop acting like you don’t have any sense.”

  Jesus Christ! Sixty-seven years old! So many times when I would visit him at his house in Hampshire, I would find him sitting off by himself looking into space with a soft smile on his lips; or maybe in the middle of some conversation, his mind would just wander off with a longing in his eyes, and Una would nudge me and say, “Him gone to her again.”

  “Who?” I would ask.

  “Number three.”

  After a while, I became part of the joke and started to make my own private comments. But never in a million years did I think there was anything to it.

  Now this.

  “I was joking; I thought you guys were joking; I thought this was just a private joke about you wandering off in your reflections.”

  “Cho!” He waves a dismissive hand.

  Sixty-seven years old and my father has packed a grip, left his wife, and run away after a woman he has not seen for nearly four decades. Sixty-seven years old . . . thirty-five years. You never hear these things in conversations sitting on his veranda sipping pimento wine. He tells me this on the edge of a cliff, on a lonely winding country road in the middle of Manchester, where he has no right to be driving alone in the first place.

  He must be mad. What does he take me for? Who does he believe I am? That he suggests that I believed this number three business. Number three . . . that this joke between him and his wife was not a joke all along and that I knew or believed it, and tolerated it and respected him still, all this time. Me! What does he take me for?

  Even as I reel from the enormity of his statement—the revelation of it, the accusation of it—I try to remember if there had been any clues in the past from which I should have concluded the truth of this thing. The last time on his veranda, I had confronted him and he had not responded. Should I have concluded then that this phantom of a number three was real? And the many times, I suppose, Una had mentioned it, should I have been listening more closely? Her hysteria on the phone when she sounded more jealous than concerned: “He is gone to her! I know he’s not with you.”

  My God! What kind of game can two old married people play and why have they chosen me for it. How do you love a woman who is but a shadow in your marriage . . . for thirty-five years?

  My watch says two o’clock. The day is dead.

  The side man is wrapping the last of the chain onto the barrel of the crane. He seems quite pleased with himself, having just risked his life to retrieve a grip for my father for a good fee.

  In five minutes of bargaining father had summed up what the man’s life is worth and had his way with him. Father has a way of making people do crazy things.

  Is this how he sees me? Does he think he has the measure of me, that he knows what makes me tick? Is this why he throws this thing at me now? Does he think he will now have his way? He is making a sad mistake!

  The back door of the van is still open. The old suitcase is still half-open. I lift a bottle of pimento wine from it, caked with the dirt that had hardened around it from his cellar where he buries them to ferment. Is this trip all about a woman?

  I feel him brush by me.

  “So, you are leaving Una? What are you trying to tell me?” I say this to the side of his face. “You are leaving your wife for this woman you have not seen for thirty-five years? Suppose she is dead.”

  “She is not dead.”

  “Suppose she is married and has grandchildren.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Do you think the woman you’re going to find is the same woman in this picture? Do you think she looks like that?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “What?”

  “What does it matter, Everton?” He gestures for the bottle in my hand. I make no effort to pass it over. “Just say,” he continues, “I am taking a break to go and look for an old friend, all right.”

  “But that is not what you said. That is not what you meant when you spoke just now.”

  “What does it matter what I said or what I mean? Stay with me. Spend some time with the old man.”

  “Me! I am not going anywhere. I am not going on any quest with you. You are not going anywhere. You are going home, with me, this evening, to your wife.”

  “Take a break,” he says as if I had not spoken a word. “It would do you good, take a week off. Spend some time with the old man.”

  “Are you listening to me?” My voice is rising. “You are not going anywhere. I am not going anywhere. We are going home now! Back to Una—your rightful wife. Stop this foolishness now, Daddy!”

  He pauses his activities, turns his face to me, and for the first time in my life I realize I do not really know this man I call my father. His face is all composed; his eyes are hard and unwavering and he is steady as a rock before me. There is a force in him I have never seen—as if age has made him stronger and when he gets to a hundred he will be powerful enough to lift the world. His voice is just a hint above casual, but it balls the space before it into a savage punch.

  “Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do. You have no control over that.”

  I find I can’t hold his stare. “What about Una?” I ask. “What about your wife?”

  “She was fine the last time I saw her. Don’t let that bother you.”

  “She was hysterical when I spoke to her. Y
ou need to talk to your wife.”

  “I will talk to her when I get back. I am not going back there now. It is like a damn prison. I want some damn space. This is something I have to do.”

  This is new territory for my father and me.

  I have never been close enough to his business to get into it. We have lived in separate worlds all my life, and have come together in convenient patches of time. Funny how I describe them now, for those times, to me, were the most beautiful moments in the world. From a week of summer to glimpses of him as he exited my mother’s door and the sound of his voice on the phone. Times when I was old enough and would visit him on my own, or invite him to my apartment for the weekend and take him to a play or a concert. Those snippets of time have been the moments that string together the mundane drudgery of my everyday life.

  But now, as I stand here unsure of how to breach this space in which we now exist, I have to say that those were only patches of time, cameos in a grand performance. For now I stand with this man that I have lived for all my life, who has been my universe, and it seems I do not know the essence of him. I do not know the next word to say.

  But I must assert myself. For I too have priorities. I have a presentation to make, a brand-new plant to whip into shape. I know my boss gave me time to find him, but they expect me back. I have made plans for my time off this year—a trip to America to see Venus Williams play in the US Open—and every day I spend with him, I lose from my vacation. I do not have the time to give, the time that he needs. And even if I could, I would have to return to my office and negotiate with my bosses. It is not as easy as he thinks and he must respect me for that.

  “I cannot just leave with you like this, Daddy,” I tell him. “I can’t just leave. I am an executive now. I have responsibilities. You got up, packed your bags, and ran away. You can do that because you are retired. I had to run out of the most important meeting in my life for you. I have already lost two days. I can’t just pick up and leave. I am an executive.”

  The click of the latch on the suitcase is as loud as thunder against a granite mountainside. I hear its thud on the ground beside me.

  “Well, you can just leave me here.”

  “I can’t leave you here. You damn well know I can’t leave you here.”

  “You know, Everton, I’m your father. This has always been your weakness. You are never really sure of what you could or could not do. You are too afraid . . . afraid of risks. Now, why do you think you cannot leave me here?”

  “I cannot leave you here because you are my father. I am responsible for your safety. I couldn’t leave you here.”

  He laughs loudly, infectiously, and gestures around. “This, you see all of this? This is my country. Do you know where you are? When I was young, in my twenties, this was my playground. I know every nook and cranny around here. I know the dip and swell of the land, the rise and slope of every mountainside, the trail of every river. I know every landowner. This is my country. I could not leave you here because you are afraid to take chances and be adventurous. But me, just leave me here. This is my country.”

  And now, this anger that I have tried so hard to hold in check is getting the better of me. “So that is what you want? You want me to leave you here with your grip on the roadside? That’s what you want?”

  “Yes. I’ll be fine. It is just twenty minutes from Mandeville—before you can blink someone will pick me up and I am on my way.”

  “That is your wish, Daddy? I want to make it very clear that you gave me this instruction.”

  “Give me a paper, I will sign it.”

  “This is your country. You want me to leave you here with your grip? Make sure, Daddy, make sure. This is what you wish for? This is what you want? You are going to get it, old man, you are going to get your wish.”

  “Now you are starting to sound silly, son. Just do what you must do.”

  “All right, all right!” I walk away from him without another word. I slam the rear door of the Pathfinder so hard the whole van shakes. I open my door and can hardly see to sit down through the blinding rage. I floor the gas before the key is through turning and I am on the road so fast I have to brake to avoid joining my father’s car down the precipice on the other side. My reverse is better and now I am moving forward again and my tires screech as I head down the road toward Mandeville.

  Where did God get a man like that? And why did He give him to me for a father?

  I don’t know who I am trying to fool. There is no way I am going to leave my father there alone. And I am sure he knows it too.

  I am less than five minutes down the road when I slow at the next crossing, make a U-turn, return to stop at his feet, and tell him to get in.

  But he does not. Instead, he pushes his face through the window. “I am not going back.”

  “Get in,” I repeat.

  “So you decide to spend time with the old man? I don’t want you lose your job.”

  “Tell you what,” I say. “I will give you the rest of the week if you talk to your wife.”

  “I don’t have anything to tell her.” He walks back toward the suitcase on the road.

  I hop from the van with the cell phone in my hand. “Here,” I tell him, “talk to her.”

  “She’s too miserable. What will I tell her? She’ll never understand that I am doing what I must do.”

  “I don’t care, Daddy. You take that chance. I am the one you say is afraid. You’re always sure. You talk to her. You want me to come with you? Well, you take this phone and you talk to her, you set her mind at ease. Show some respect to someone who has loved you for thirty-five years.”

  So he takes the instrument from me and tries to calm his hysterical wife on the other end of the line. “Everton and me going to see the country, man. Boy decided to spend some time with the old man . . . Never meant anything . . . You weren’t there . . . No, I didn’t wait till you left to run away . . . Just decided to take a little time. Everton is with me . . . Yes, I have it . . . I will come back next week.”

  I move away. The conversation fills me with the guilt of intrusion and the feeling I am letting Una down. I cross the road to the edge of the precipice and peer down to where the car lies tangled in the cluster of bamboos. He is lucky to have survived that crash unscathed. After an escape like that, any other man would have changed his mind from whatever adventure he had planned. Any normal man would have rushed to return to the arms of his family. My father instead grips more tightly to whatever reason he has for fleeing.

  And now I find myself feeling curious. I would like to see this woman. I would like to hear this story.

  Thirty-five years . . .

  Why did he marry Una then?

  SEVEN

  So here I am. It is Wednesday morning and I am ready to do this thing with my father. I still cannot understand how I allowed myself to be conned into this. But I have made him a promise and I am here, for what that is worth. Of course, I had to lie to my boss about a nervous breakdown my father is having, how he went for a drive, crashed over a precipice, and is not himself. But it bought me the few days I promised him and now I am here. And in any event the story is not far from the truth. In fact, I cannot say in all honesty that my father has been himself for the last few days.

  We are sitting at a concrete shed by the side of the road where he wants to buy me breakfast. It is seven a.m. and there is no one here. A slab of a counter separates the concrete stool from a space beyond, rimmed by a long, large fire side. The stale smell of the food from the night before hangs around us. Behind, the land drops away and disappears, so we seem to be on the edge of a massive valley that expands to show the entire southern plains. I can’t believe he dragged me away from my continental breakfast at the hotel for this.

  A little old man emerges out of nowhere as if there are steps on the sides of the cliff’s edge. He is tightening a dirty black belt around washed-out jeans. He has no shirt on.

  “We don’ really open yet, you know.” He smi
les cautiously at us. “We don’ usually open till round nine or so.”

  I smile to myself, prepared to leave.

  But Father is not at all bothered. “You don’t have anything there you can rustle up for us? My son here never have roast yam yet.”

  “Well . . .” The man scratches a dirty head. “Well, I could see what I could rustle up.”

  “Some nice St. Elizabeth yellow yam, man. You don’t have any soft St. Vincent yam and roast salt fish and so?”

  “Well, I could see what I could do if you willing to wait.”

  “About how soon you think—hour, half an hour?”

  “’Bout that. And I have some cabbage too and a little ackee.”

  “Ackee?” My father’s eyes light up. “But I didn’t know that ackee would be down here this time of year.”

  “We have a little tree on the hillside round the back behind the house.”

  “Then that is the thing.” My father smiles and slaps me. “We will wait the half hour. This is my son, you know. First time this side of the country in years.”

  He has been treating me since last evening. Took me to a store and insisted on buying me clothes for the trip. Polo shirts of colors so loud you can almost hear them scream across any space I enter, Levi’s jeans, and sneakers with too many reds and yellows for my liking. But I sneaked behind him and bought a couple of T-shirts as insurance against his style. I wear one now, a shirt the color of the sky to match the blue of the jeans he gifted, though I still can’t find the courage to wear the ugly sneakers.

  “The clothes look good on you,” he says as we wait.

  “Thanks. The old man has taste.”

  He laughs at that. “You too stubborn.”

  A woman disembarks from a car. She makes her way toward the corner and sits with a frown on her face, then shakes her watch and looks up at me. “Excuse me, you know what time?”

  “Seven thirty,” I tell her.

  If she thanked me, I am not aware, though her manner suggests she has nodded graciously or something. Not too bad looking either. She is wearing a pair of waistless jeans and a small sky-blue shirt that stops at her navel. Her stomach is flat and deep. She has a strong face, a nose just shy of big and rounded at the tip . . . lips as if she is about to pout . . . false braids falling almost to her shoulders.