“Only four feet of land—that is all the Syrian have to give up to leave the track open for we to reach the beach,” Guts say all of a sudden, breaking up the silence. “You think that is asking too much, Songster? Four feet of land . . . and now he want to build wall all the way down the slope to make sure we can’t get through.”
“Well, it look like them people don’t want we on they beach. They don’t want fish guts stinking up they place. Maybe it not about the land because between you and me, four feet a land ain’t mean nothing to a man with seven whole acres in his hand. Maybe they trying to tell we that we not welcome to use the same sea with them and they Port of Spain friends. Maybe they don’t want we close enough to interfere with they business, get in the way of they privacy. Is really about us, Guts, not the land. Is we they fighting to fence out.”
“Fence we out! Man, I born in this village. My father and grandfather dead right here. I go dead here too. Fence me out because I on . . . that is God sea, man. You ain’t hear me. That is God sea!”
Guts small frame get rigid and Michael hold the challenge in his hard stare long enough for him to recognize that he too carrying the same pain. And it was only then that the anger subside in him and his body relax and there was nothing more to say.
Guts pick up and say he gone to cool-out by the school-ground where bachelors batting against married men. Michael watch him until he disappear down the road. Then his mind stay with Queen Penny. He study how she must be just rolling lazy from side to side in the bay. Wednesday morning was the last time she went out with only he and Mr. Oswald. Sunil didn’t go that time. He miss again because he was sick, or that is what his mother send Kamal to say.
“He sick bad. Doh want to eat self.” His eyes remain plant on the ground like he shame or ’fraid. Michael only listen but all the time feeling like he want to tell the boy that he don’t have nothing to ’fraid, that he could look up off the ground and see that the world not judging him, not him. But he didn’t say nothing because he didn’t want to make it any harder for the boy. He didn’t want him to know that he hear the whole story already. So he just let Kamal finish the message that he memorize.
The little fella look so shame. That is what really hurt Michael, that the boy carrying all that weight for nothing. The jersey Kamal wearing hang up on him and it have a dirty print of the Statue of Liberty that mark I Love New York. Kamal finger hook up in a hole in front. The finger twirl and twirl, stretching out the hole while he talking. And Michael heart all the time feeling like it want to break. He want to run over by Sunil and shake him for not staying away from the poison Lion pushing. Sunil anthem fix in his head like a beat-up ballad.
“I done with smoking, Songster. I done. Lion could keep he powder.” He swallow down the beer Michael just buy for him, his hand shaking as he try to steady the empty bottle on the counter. “I could stop any time I want, and this time, man, I not getting tie up in that thing again. Look how thin I getting.”
Michael avoid looking at him as if he didn’t need the confirmation or he couldn’t bear to fix his eyes on the truth that raw as flesh on Sunil lips, a truth that he choose to hide from his own self like a man trying to hide from his shadow.
That was the same day Hard Man crawl into the bar, prop the sunglasses up on his head and order a bottle of rum loud for everybody to hear. Then deliberate like he turn to face Michael and Guts, “You fellas drinking?” and before they could answer, he tell Harry wife who was working that day to bring two clean glass for his pardners. “Help yehself,” he say.
Sunil ain’t wait a second before he start to pour a straight rum for himself, while Michael sit down there watching Hard Man in his face.
“What happen, man, you not drinking my rum?” and he start to laugh so mucus that everybody turn around to see what was happening.
“I doh drink bad rum,” Michael answer and he ask Harry wife to bring another beer for him. “Real cold,” he say and he keep his eyes hook on Hard Man. The place get dead with only the music blasting in vain from the speakers. Everybody watching to see what going to happen.
Hard Man pretend he get cuff in his face and he stagger back a few steps. “Oui, boy, you hitting hard today! But suit yourself.”
But the whole thing so false that nobody even laugh and Hard Man look around as if he want to make sure that the bar was his audience. Then he take up the bottle and walk toward the section with the pool table, moving like a man who know he on show and that he sure the danger he feeling in his own blood expose. Just when Hard Man certain he in full view of all who in the place, he stop and take a hit straight from the bottle like he is a badjohn in a old western.
“You doh have to drink my rum, Songster. No sir, but I go drink what is yours any day. That is a nice woman you have there, man. A nice woman.” He never turn to face Michael, not because he ’fraid. No, he wanted to give him his back before he raise up his hands above his head, one holding the rum bottle, and start to do a wicked wine to the chutney tune that was blasting from Harry speaker boxes.
“Whey! That is wine, brother!” somebody bawl out from the shadows of the bar.
The beer bottle just miss his head and explode on the far wall. Hard Man freeze. The place get like a cemetery when like in slow motion he turn around this time to face Michael, his right hand prop in front by his waist balancing on something below his shirt.
“Is me you want to hit, man? Is me?” he say, making as though he could hardly believe Michael try to lick him down.
Then the shout ring out, “He have a gun, Songster!”
Same time Harry dash out from somewhere behind the counter and start to hustle Michael toward the road. “No fighting in here, man. Not in here.” And Sunil too was pushing him from behind, “Cool it, man. Let we go from here. Forget he, man. Let we go.”
“She sweet too bad!” Hard Man shout behind them. And when Michael, who was in a tight vise between Harry and Guts, get a chance to glance back, Hard Man was dancing out in front of the shop with Pearlie, one of the regulars, a signal to the entire village that he claim victory, and sealing at the same time his right to do what he want. And Sunil only repeating, “Leave him, Songster, leave the man alone.”
So when Kamal finish giving his message, Michael just dip in his pants pocket and fish out the last three dollars he find, put it in the boy hand and say, “Give that to your mother.”
Not even then the boy lift his eyes to meet his. He just speed out of the yard like he running away from the shame and the gratitude that get mix up in his abrupt, “Thanks, Mr. Michael.”
All that—the Syrians, Esa, Queen Penny, Sunil, everything Guts say—roll up in one hard ball and stink in his chest so Michael feel he need to breathe again. That is when he decide to take a turn down by the beach.
“I tell him don’t go in the sea,” Naomi announce to the church. “I tell him people not to bathe in the sea on Good Friday. And he tell me he just going to breeze out little bit. That is all. He say he not bathing.”
Naomi pause and the silence so heavy it get hard to even breathe. “Right there they shoot my boy, right on his spot. He never go close to the white people place. Is right there they shoot the boy where he use to tease me and say he could look out at the horizon and see the future. Right there . . . that was all he went down on the beach for, to sit down on his spot and dream about where he was going.”
And that was when Esa come forward from where she was sitting down next to Mother Crichlow, who is the great-aunt that grow her. Esa hand Miss Ivy the baby and straightaway throw her arms around Naomi and start to rock. “Michael gone, Mama Naomi, he gone. Let him go,” she say. “We have to let him go.” And so she rock Naomi until she get quiet again. Then Mother Crichlow raise a hymn and the church start to sing, “Then sings my soul, my saviour God to Thee. How great Thou art! How great Thou art!” And Pastor step up to Naomi and lay hands on her head and start to pray loud for healing, and for Michael spirit to leave the living and find peace. And all the whil
e the church sing strong and steady like is Jesus self they want to make come down from the cross and ease the pain and the hope that tighten in everybody throat.
The singing build and build till it swell like a wave threatening the shore, and just as it get to a point where the emotion ready to break loose, Sister Elsie ring the brass bell one, two, three times and is heaven self open and rain down mercy because everything that they carrying, all that they feeling, come rushing out. All Naomi loss and pain, their own grief and anger, because Michael gone too soon.
Who will believe Sunil, the only man that see how Hard Man pull the trigger when Michael stand up with nothing but words for his weapon? These days Sunil dragging himself all over the place like he don’t have no home, no name. And is true Hard Man sit down in jail, but he have his own story about self-defense because Michael had a score to settle and all he do was try to protect himself. Against what? A man with empty hands? Against words? As if words could break bones. Chut, man! And the Syrians still there, fencing up the place. They go on like nothing happen, fête throwing almost every weekend as normal, and they have a new security in black overalls with walkie-talkie and sunglasses, walking up and down the yard. The fellas on the block call him Carbon Copy.
All that and more pour out and the singing start to subside again, not because is defeat they accept, but because in the singing they hear again their promise and strength to suffer the right to be there in Victory Bay like they was people in truth with flesh that could feel and love and dream. They sing until they convince themselves again that they real and their living was an acceptance that not even death, or the Syrian who own the politicians and the lawyers, could deny them. It was only then that the singing ease into a stillness that hold everybody like an answer that asking its own question about their acceptance.
Is like the silence wake up Esa baby because all the time, through all the service, he sleeping a sweet sleep and just so he open up his lungs and announce his presence. “But look at my crosses,” Miss Ivy say, “this child practicing scales.”
And everybody laugh and agree how the boy following his father. That was what make Naomi rise up from her grief and tell Esa to bring the child and she hold him up right there in the front bench like she seeing him for the first time. Then she tell Esa, “Is time we christen this child. We wait too long to name the boy and present him to the Lord. Esa, what you calling this boy child?”
And Esa swallow hard and her two eye full up as she watch the boy how he smiling back at Naomi face and say, “Michael. I calling him Michael.”
That Easter Sunday Naomi cook a big feast. “Is a feast for Michael,” she say, “and I want everybody to come.” That was all and nobody dare to ask for more. So after the service, with the Alleluia still singing in their blood, the whole church end up by Naomi house. Everybody was there, down to Sunil who try to stay clean for the day though he look all the time like he want to run away. Naomi fry chicken and curry duck. Sunil mother help Esa make the dhalphouri, and they work so nice together Naomi make a joke and say they better open a roti shop in front the house. It even had Mother Crichlow special pepper sauce and Guts get the fishermen to chip up and they buy white rum with Harry throwing in a free bottle as his contribution. On top of that Naomi bring out the cashew wine she curing for two whole years.
People eat and drink and fête to Papa Joseph cuatro till Monday come. And just before midnight when Guts head was hot with rum and talk about the fisherman union that he calling the fellas to start to put pressure on the Syrians and to guard their affairs, Naomi take baby Michael in her arms and walk out to the road with him. She could see the Syrian place, how it light up with all the doors and windows wide open, and people was fêteing on the verandah to a tune the Birdie sing about a man in the queen bedroom. But Naomi ain’t take them on. From the house it look like she was showing Michael the stars.
The Party
by Elizabeth Walcott-Hackshaw
Santa Cruz Valley
(Originally published in 2007)
I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street.
—W.H. Auden
Tricia shook her head and smiled, she was frying the polori balls for the party as she told Miss Alice the story of the piper-pimp and his two lady friends who had cleaned out Miss John’s house while she was away, visiting her daughter “in foreign.” They stole everything: fridge, stove, fans, dishes, glasses, pots, clothes, sheets, even Miss John’s bras; the only things they left behind were her Bible, hymn book, and two lightbulbs. Everyone on Blackman Street heard the deep howl as the poor old lady walked into her house the night she returned from Brooklyn.
“Imagine those people buy them things knowing that it belong to their own neighbour. The piper and his lady friends have so much crack in their head ’fus they stupid enough to sell the things on the same street where they thief it.” Tricia laughed her high-pitched laugh, shook her head again, then took out another batch of golden polori balls and placed them on a sheet of neatly spread white napkins to absorb all the excess oil. The kitchen was filled with the delicious smell of geera and masala, frying in garlic, onions, and yellow curry powder.
Alice smiled as she arranged the samosas and mini rotis she had ordered onto a large white platter. She loved to hear Tricia’s stories; they had spent a lot of time this way, Tricia cooking and Alice listening to Tricia’s stories about the village.
“When they catch them I hear they put plenty licks on them in the station. Sergeant Socks doh make joke, he doh stand for any stupidness, a real church man, every Sunday up in front, right next to Miss John and Father.” Tricia claimed that the piper confessed in less than half an hour and minutes later the police went into all the houses on the street to search for the stolen items.
“You should see the neighbours, they so shame to show how much they buy from the piper. Ma John get everything back except the fridge, for some reason they can’t find the fridge. No matter how much licks they put on the piper he doh want to tell Sergeant Socks who have the fridge. Five years they give him, yes, and they say Socks tell him to go and chill out in prison and see how many fridges he go steal there.”
Both Alice and Tricia giggled together. Alice felt lucky to have Tricia around, she could always tell a good story and make Alice laugh. Tricia lived on the same street as poor Miss John, Blackman Street, in an area they called “the village,” five minutes by car from Alice’s home, which the people from Tricia’s village called “the vale.” Every area in Pastora Valley had a name.
From the kitchen window Alice could see that the ashes were still falling even though the fires had stopped earlier that morning. They weren’t the thick black ones that fell while the hills were still ablaze, but the thin ones, like strips of grey paper, light and weightless. Ashes had been falling in Pastora Valley for months, ever since the dry-season fires had begun in January. Sometimes they fell at night, or late evening, or even during the morning when the sun blazed through the valley like a torch. But the ashes seldom fell at two o’clock in the afternoon. That year every field in the valley, all the hills, the cocoa estates, and the pawpaw fields were dry; the valley was like a desert, shades of brown were everywhere—the leaves were a nut brown, the grass a golden brown, the earth a brown brown and the hills more black than brown. All the lawns (except the ones in the vale where the owners used sprinklers illegally at night) had dried up. A thick layer of smoke often hovered over the valley during the day and sometimes veiled all of the hills.
Alice went onto the covered part of the kitchen verandah where she usually had the birthday parties for Emma. She had to wait to see when the ashes would stop falling before she laid everything out on the long teak table she had inherited from her mother; when she was a child her mother would dress the table, the same teak table, for the beautiful Christmas lunch. Alice loved the weather at Christmas, the
strong winds, the cool air; she missed the Christmas weather and everything that reminded her of her mother. “Muggy” would be her mother’s word for this weather, but for Alice it was just too hot, like some sort of hell.
Tricia covered all the bowls and platters with clear plastic wrap: the chocolate, coconut, and vanilla fudge, the pink-and-white sugar cakes, the pinwheel cheese-paste sandwiches, the sausage rolls, the meat pies, the corn curls, the tortilla chips, the potato chips, the cupcakes, and the huge bowl of lollipops. Tricia would wait before she put everything out, wait for the ashes to stop falling. Then Alice would dress the table with the allamanda and the fuchsia bougainvillea that grew along the edge of the front porch.
In the early mornings, before this terrible dry season, before Alice began her morning routine of filling Emma’s lunch-kit or making breakfast for Emma and Scott, she would open the door and step onto the kitchen verandah; she loved the hills at the back of the house and the feel of that cool morning air on her face, the mist lifting like a curtain to reveal waves of sea-green hills. But these days, with all the fires, the early-morning air felt as though the valley had put on a thick woolen winter coat, so Alice stopped going outside. Except for this morning, for the first time in months, mainly because she couldn’t sleep, and mainly because it was Emma’s birthday she opened her doors to the hills in the valley but was disappointed at the sight of falling ashes.
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