by Ed Taylor
He remembers a tire swing, he doesn’t know where it was, a big tire on a long chain under a giant tree, with plastic around the chain so you could swing and hold on to it, and swinging back and forth, the wind, and looking up through the branches where the sun broke in and right into your eyes and you had to close them and just swing, feeling weird and dizzy and warm, no earth down there just air and swinging, and then a voice, and he remembered where it was, at the house in Jamaica and it was Ada the housekeeper saying, Theo, your father says to come inside now, it’s time to go. Go where, Theo said, eyes closed. Ada laughed: Time to go home, boy.
This is home.
Child, you going to New York and you got to get on a plane to do that, and planes don’t wait. So come on now.
I’ll do it if my dad tells me.
Theo, your dad cannot come right now. He loves you and wants you to be happy, but he cannot come right now. You need to get down and get ready to leave.
Theo opened his eyes, the tree like an umbrella keeping the sky off, and at the tree’s edges was everything. The house was blinding white, the shutters blue, a red roof made of tiles. Flowers big as plates, red and white and yellow, and a lady inside with his dad. The air smelled like salt and something sweet. Last night the house was singing, men with really long hair they called locks – dread was what the Europeans called them, dreadful looking locks, so the men called them locks but dreads sometimes and his dad and a man with a tape recorder, and one lady singing. Theo went to sleep hearing them, the singing like when you don’t quite run, and you don’t quite walk, like a dance. The house cats trotted with tails in the air, only their legs moving, like bumper cars with the rods at the back that ran to the ceiling and sparked, and the birds sounded wild and angry, and crickets and tree frogs. Outside the gate, from up at the road came high horns of motorbikes and jitneys.
Ada, will you be here when we come back.
I don’t know, Theo. Maybe.
Theo swung, not pulling or pushing the chain anymore, just hanging on, swinging lower and lower, slower. She stood with arms on her hips, and he looked at her, back and forth.
You want some fritters before you go.
Theo loved conch fritters, loved tearing at them with his teeth. Even his dad told him to cool it. The clean strong taste and the rubbery toughness. He thought about animals, and eating them. Sometimes it bothered him. His mother was a vegetarian for a while, and in the hotel they only had vegetables and fruit. Then one rainy Sunday his mom finally came out of her room, and called room service and asked for a steak, and said, I need blood. Yes ma’am, Theo heard from the phone, him holding on to her leg.
Ada stood until the swing slowed and became completely still. Theo hung for a minute, not moving, and then hopped down. Okay, he said, giving up.
Theo now kicks sand on the beach, thumping among people, pounding the sand with his feet, stomping. He’s flattening; he stomps over toward Mingus and Gina, and others now there, digging and piling sand.
It looks like a cake, Theo says.
Mingus wrestles with wood planks he’s brought in the wagon, along with some stepladders, stuff from one of the rooms full of junk Theo figures; Mingus is sweating and drinking from a big glass bottle – Olde English 800. Mingus says it clears out the poisons, drinking that. Mingus drinks a lot of them. Sometimes he brings bottles in a suitcase, along with the arrows.
Gina’s burying one of the other adults in the sand so only his head and shoulders stick out of the cake.
Mingus laughs, gleaming. Everyone’s gleaming, or dull with sand. Theo’s feeling dizzy. His stomach hurts.
Mingus and two men are setting up stepladders to hold planks flat, four that stick out like helicopter blades. Two ladies sit on the first two planks, and two men are struggling up onto the other two.
There’s a trench around the cake with pail-shaped mounds of sand at its edge. Mingus and Gina are giving out straws and bottles of beer and Olde English. One man has one of the black bottles his father likes.
Some strangers not from the house stand now watching, old people in big hats and shirts and shorts, but not too close.
Make a wish, Mingus says to them, smiling big. It’s a fountain.
Mingus stands in front of it and lifts his arm like an orchestra conductor, and moves his arms, and the people suck liquid into their straws and spit it back out, up in the air, on each other, on Mingus. One lady squirts toward the people watching but it’s not close; they still move backward.
You people are at the wrong beach, one man says.
Baby, you are so right.
Mingus takes a big swig from his bottle and walks toward them, holding his cape out with his free hand. They stumble backward but not fast enough. He sprays Olde English, them swatting at the air as if it were insects, and he drinks quickly and sprays again as they stumble and back away. The fountain whoops and yells, some spray from their planks toward the old people.
Alcohol’s illegal here. We’ll be back with police.
Mingus waves his bottle around, points down the beach at tents and chairs. Yeah, nobody drinks on the beach here, they serve cocktails. Mingus points the bottle at one of the ladies. Come on back when he gets in his coffin for his nap, baby. Mingus winks. I bet you looked good when you were alive.
Adrian’s here now, grinning. You’re the reason I pay a fortune for this place.
Mingus turns, spits at the sand. He grins, then guzzles and spits at Adrian, who ducks: Bloody idiot, and runs at Mingus and staggers him, both are grinning, Adrian shorter and skinny getting pushed around by Mingus, Adrian in his underwear and Mingus under his cape. The bottle hits the sand and spills, a spreading brown.
Adrian, huffing, stumbles over to one of the fountain people, takes the black bottle. He has something in his hand that he swallows, then he takes a big pull at the bottle. Then he seems to notice Theo.
Hello mate, what do you think of the fountain. We can cool off in this.
Adrian walks closer and everyone sprays him, and he shakes like a dog. Come on in, he grins. Theo moves over, into the sticky warm spray. He’s next to his dad, who’s got his mouth open, like catching snowflakes. Theo closes his eyes, and he’s hot and his stomach feels like something sharp’s poked into it.
Dad, I don’t feel good.
Well. You don’t feel well. Good is an adjective and well is an adverb. Let’s do something about that, eh. What have you eaten. You look a little shaky.
You were going to make me something and you forgot.
Sorry, love. I’m falling down on the job. You need a better dad, or at least a better cook. Let’s get Leslie in on this, come on.
Theo ducks away from the people still spraying, which is weird. It’s spit. His dad’s wet and greasy looking; Theo notices he needs to shave and he looks tired and patchy. His dad motions at one of the other adults, a man with a cigarette and shades and a mohawk, who slowly gets up from the sand and tilts his head. Theo thinks a mohawk would be cool but his mother keeps saying no.
Dad, can I get my hair cut like that.
Sure, mate.
Where’s Shelley. Theo remembers the presents. He wants his dad to kick a ball. Maybe if Theo played music more and got good at it his dad would listen to him more.
Theo’s dad’s grinning and slapping hands with the man with the mohawk, talking low, ducking heads together. The fountain people are all spraying the man who’s buried up to his chest, and he’s gleaming now and the sand’s chocolate brown, and Mingus sits cross-legged talking to one of the ladies, he’s touching her hand, reaching over to do it. Theo hears the words miracle and interval. The lady is nodding. She’s pretty. Theo feels funny.
Colin runs over wet, and he’s got a hunting knife stuck in the waist of the thing he’s wearing, and his eye-shadow is smeared down his face so he looks like a zombie or some of the people who come to the house sometimes who’ve just played a show, they wear make-up around their eyes and –
Where’s Shelley: Theo asks Adria
n.
I hope you like her. I do. She had to go to work.
What work.
She’s a model. It’s sort of like acting, at least if all your character ever has to do is make faces. Anything beyond that gets dicey for most of them. Shelley’s not like that, though.
Let’s do it, Colin is saying, and the mohawk man is smiling.
Dallas is in town, he’s falling by later, Adrian says.
Outstanding, things are slowing to a crawl otherwise.
Adrian looks at Theo funny, and says, I gotta make sure Theo’s taken care of, I’m on me own here.
We can get somebody, Colin says.
Later, maybe: come on, son, Adrian says, let’s go eat.
Theo thinks, why do they talk so much. Why did Adrian say he was on his own if Colin’s right here. Why can’t they leave his dad alone: someone’s always pulling at him, wanting his attention or asking for something. And –
Come on, chop chop, my friend. I’m famished, let’s get those bangers, maybe Gus’ll join us. This walk is killing me. I feel like Lawrence in the desert.
Who’s Lawrence.
He was an Englishman who made a career in Arabia, marching across the burning sands dressed in curtains to ensure that Europe could have all the gasoline it needed. Let’s take a rest here.
Adrian sinks into crossed legs next to a cooler dropped away from everyone up the beach, opens it and clanks around in sweaty bottles, grabs something, a beer, rummages until he finds a bottle of Coke, a small baggie full of powder, a sandwich, which he hands to Theo: Allah be praised, it’s a miracle.
Then Adrian coughs, and coughs and keeps coughing until he’s gradually bending over the sand and Theo sees Frieda’s face.
Are you sick.
No, it’s just the cigarettes. I should cut back, shouldn’t I. Maybe you can help me.
Okay, sure. What do you want me to do.
When you see me getting ready to light one up, just say, memento mori.
What’s minto moray.
Memento mori.
What’s that mean.
It’s Latin. It refers to the grinning skull always breathing down your neck.
What’s that mean.
Adrian laughs, coughs a minute. It means, my friend – Adrian pushes his sunglasses up his face, and Theo notices he’s still holding the small baggie full of powder, which is kind of brownish white. It means, don’t smoke. Adrian laughs again. So right, you see me lighting up one of those death sticks, just say memento mori, dad.
Adrian’s still in his black underwear, his legs thin like Theo’s; piano legs Frieda called them.
Eat up, eat up, we’ve got to keep you fed, you’re growing like a weed. Adrian stands up on his spindly legs and moves back toward the water, tips the beer up. Budweiser. Adrian doesn’t like American beer but does like Budweiser. It’s tastelessness is distinctive, he says, like fugu or tofu. He calls it the pick of the litter.
I thought you were hungry, Theo says.
I don’t like to get filled up, have a pile of heavy food sit like a rock in your digestive system for hours. I like to eat but not a lot at a time, I think it’s healthier; it passes through you faster, doesn’t stay in one place too long. We’ll get something later. Where’s Gus, do you have any idea. He should be looking after you.
Theo’s chewing the sandwich, which is warm and just a slice of bright cheese on the white bread, no mayonnaise or mustard or anything. It gums up in his mouth. The Coke needs an opener, but there’s not one in the cooler.
Adrian, away, walks a little faster, bent over now holding something up to his face: the little bag, Theo remembers.
Theo bends over the cooler, full of beers and bags, but no ice. Everything’s warm. Little bags, and some have pills, red and green ones. Theo sees carved boxes; he’s seen these before, from North Africa, when they went to Morocco. Theo picks up a small box and opens it on pills that look like aspirin.
Theo closes up the cooler, stands. Adrian now sits in a circle of people under an umbrella, pink and white stripes, the edge rippling and whipping. The wind is stronger, and gulls stand on the sand, flock around the people, some of whom throw things at them or to them, hard to tell which. People walk on the beach, and Theo sees a jeep coming, the same one as earlier with the two police officers. One of the men in the circle under the umbrella stands; it’s one of the minders, Lev, he’s stepping over people and walking fast but casually toward the jeep, heading it off, he’s walking in front of it, so the jeep slows and turns, it has big eyes that stare at Theo, unblinking. A uniformed man gets out from behind each flapped door, and Lev smiles and holds out a hand.
Theo turns and runs back toward the house, over the desert, sharpness in his stomach now. He’s been around a lot of police at different times. Theo’s read about jail and seen movies and TV shows – one of his classmates waved around a magazine article about his dad. The article said a lot about drugs. Let’s bet, the kid said, and other kids started in on Theo, or on his dad, rather, saying I’ll bet he’s goes to jail this year. Then: Let’s bet on when someone will like you. Nobody likes you. Why doesn’t anybody like you. Something’s wrong with you. You’re like a girl. One kid’s father ran a bank, one took pictures of models. I want you to have a normal life, his mother said, go to a public school. Normal dusty trees rustled a little.
Theo grabbed the magazine and ran back into school from the hot black playground, past the monitor lady always looking the wrong way and never seeing anything that happened. The teacher would be in the classroom at her desk, she never came out for recess, and Theo streaked to the janitor’s closet, where kids only temporarily hid things because the janitor drank alcohol in there and he wouldn’t tell but the thing would just be gone or thrown away, and Theo decided not to hide it there, and he started walking fast, in and out of other kids lining up in the hall and teachers counting and he walked close to the sign-in desk at the front door and kind of ducked to go past and pushed on the big bar of the front door and went down the steps and to one of the big prickly bushes next to the sidewalk blooming with empty cans and bottles and greasy napkins and platanos bags jammed in, and pushed the magazine into the bush, more weird fruit it produced, and then turned around and went back up the steps and kind of ducked again and ran this time down the hall, a couple of teachers saying no running, and Theo passed his class where the teacher was eating and reading, carefully not looking up, you could scream and yell or bang and she still wouldn’t look up during recess, and he went back out past the monitor lady and ran toward the monkey bars and found a spot where there weren’t any kids and pulled himself up and climbed until he sat at the top, next to another kid he didn’t know, from a different class, and the two of them sat up there not talking, on top of the tower, looking out over the chasing and playing and huddles of kids, the swirl and churning, waiting till someone made them come down, back to the planet earth.
Walking back toward the house under the beach sun Theo broils impatiently, he’s not a kid, and a lot of things he didn’t notice before he notices now. Or, maybe he did notice, he thinks, as he remembers when he was eight and seven and six. He thinks maybe it’s just he knows more now, he knows what to call things and before when he didn’t, he saw and noticed but didn’t know what things were. He knows about drugs, and that adults do dumb things that even they know don’t make sense. That’s one thing he didn’t see before. Theo wonders if he’ll do weird things that don’t make sense, too, when he’s a grownup. He wonders if he’ll hurt things or people. He tells himself no, but thinks of times he’s maybe done it already. He’s Lawrence now, at the edge of the desert, and he’s climbing to a dune’s top, pulling at the sea oats and trying not to pull them out but he does and feels bad, he doesn’t like killing things, even plants. It seems unfair, that some random creature can come along and pull a thing up or kill it, he doesn’t like that now that he is old enough to think about it. He likes meat, however. So he stops thinking about it.
Theo on
the dune, wind pushing his hair from his eyes. Theo’s arm is shiny, jeweled armor – he lifts and looks and can see flecks of light, the salt that he knows from class is a crystal, which means it has a shape – he thinks he can see it, maybe, but can’t remember what it’s called. He’s a lizard with a crystal skin, he lies on the sand, on his stomach, rubbing against the sand, wriggling. It feels good and he closes his eyes, watching enemies lazy and vulnerable and not knowing they are being watched. The ladies sit and the men flit around them, bring them things, touch them, push them over, and the ladies just laugh. Sometimes one will get up and walk toward the water. A couple of the ladies are standing up with men. The men lie on the sand alone, or squat; a couple are throwing something, a bottle, back and forth like a football but they keep dropping it or missing it, throwing badly. Mingus’s fountain is just a weird pile of sand, everyone gone from it. They probably didn’t want to waste the alcohol, Theo thinks. Theo can’t see his dad – where is he.
Theo lifts his head, scans: Adrian’s lying on his stomach and a lady is smearing something on his back. Adrian’s still wearing his underwear. Theo wonders if Adrian remembers. Adrian flips over and the lady’s rubbing his stomach. No, Theo decides. Theo rolls over and down the dune, rolling over sea oats stiff and dry, cracking. They keep the dunes from blowing away, Theo knows. His dune’s not that big and he has to push himself to keep rolling. At the bottom he stops on his back, squinting up at gulls fighting over something that looks like a sandwich, chasing the one with the white square in its beak. Maybe it was his sandwich. Theo can’t remember if he finished it.
All is dry on the beach, and then there is all that water, a country of water. The people that live there are fish. Sharks are out there, and dolphins and whales. What else. Submarines and octopuses. Treasure somewhere. Theo is tired of being alone. Shipwrecked.
