I have hit him hard. He shudders into himself and tries to find his footing like a man struggling in a high wind, then he fades away and is silent.
I begin to feel horrible. But I tell myself that he needs a dose of reality. And I have been chosen to give him that. It is my lot to suffer. Sometimes one is just destined for a job.
He does not meet my gaze when I look at him.
“Come, Father, come.”
He turns away from me, but I do not follow.
I am weary now. I can hardly walk from the pain and bruises throughout my body, I am tired of the quarrel and the games and moods. He needs his moment and that is fine. But night is almost upon us and we are lost on a hillside.
“Come, Daddy, I want to go home.”
He does not respond, but I don’t care anymore. I strike out along the river to where he said I could veer to the beach. After a while I turn to see that with a limp I had not noticed, he is walking slowly after me.
ELEVEN
It is perhaps the ninetieth minute of our silence. Every inch of my body hurts with a different pain. Ahead and to the right I spot the lights of the motel the fisherman down the beach told us we would have seen perhaps an hour ago—the distance of country people is usually twice as long as they tell you. It is a large compound with a long driveway that leads to what amounts to a two-story apartment complex curving around a pool. A sign says, Memories By the Sea.
We must look a picture to the man standing behind the counter of the bar. I tell him good evening and ask for the receptionist.
“What happen to onoo?”
“What happened to us? We are not doing so well. Could I see the receptionist?”
“Where onoo coming from?”
Where are we coming from? I can’t see how that could be important to him. “Are you the receptionist?”
“This is the bar,” he says. “Is the bar this. What happen to onoo?”
“May we book a room?”
“Yes, is the bar this, what you want? Where onoo coming from?”
There is a sound from inside. He turns, pushes his head through a half-open door. “Just two man walk in look like them beggars from Kingston. Like them homeless people.”
I am too tired to get angry. I feel like Tina Turner in that movie, walking battered to the front desk of a hotel to book a room on the strength of her name alone. What’s Love Got to Do with It. Ah, some titles are so appropriate.
“The thing is, my good sir . . .” Father takes over. “The thing is, we were chased by gunmen off a property we went to look at up the road.”
Thank you, Daddy for not saying “chased off my land.” Thank you, God, he has sobered, and he is quieter, more dignified. He does not look at me, but that will come as time wears on, when we get back to Hampshire he will be back around.
“So we have been running from over near the river mouth all evening.” He sits on the barstool as if about to order a drink.
“We lost our van and everything,” I slip in.
“Yes.” My father ignores me. “So we are tired.”
The man turns to the inside room again. “Them say gunman chase them round river.” Then he turns to us: “Where?”
“The land above the river—round near the river mouth.”
“With a big ganja field,” I bellow even as Father seems to sigh. “A big ganja field and men with guns. You have a phone there?” I remember my van. “We need to call the police.”
“Where you say?” The man drags his finger through the hair on his face. He is about forty-five, short and red. His eyes are old and quiet and his smile is polite. But he seems more interested in the story than our well-being and I am getting impatient.
“Can we get a room? Can we get a tub of hot water to soak in? We have been walking for over three hours.”
“Hot water is in the room.”
“Can we have a room?” I almost shout.
I am the only flustered person. Father sits as easy as a mango on a tree and speaks casually. “You don’t know the land way round near the river on the north side, about three hours down the road from here and about an hour from Ballards Valley?”
“Yes, but I don’t know where up there you say you see a farm. And what you doing, you alone up there? Onoo come from town.” His head disappears inside for a moment. Then out with his head again to address us. “Is my father.” He nods toward the curtain. “Him say is up by Dorril.”
“What? What did you say?” My jaw drops.
“Up by Dorril. All the land on that side you talking ’bout owned by some people name Dorril.”
As he speaks, I feel the emotions contort my face. I do not know how to react or how to look at my father as he sits there dignified, ignoring me, leaving me to wallow in my embarrassment. The curtain parts, the man behind the counter shifts and a much older one emerges. He makes to speak and then his eye catches my father. He pauses and squints like a man trying to see past the glare of the sun.
“Wait, Dorril? Nigel Dorril, boy, you still alive!”
“You!” my father yells, pointing his finger like a gun. “I know you.”
“Damn right!”
“Green! Green from Bull Savannah? You look like Green.”
“Yes, is me, Eustace Green. Must be ages, man, Dorril. But stop. Is you they shoot after? Man shoot after you on you own land? Is him name Dorril.” He turns to his son and points at my father. “Is Dorril this. Is my son this, you know, Nigel. Is my boy this. You remember him? Him was small.”
“Yes,” says my father. “Well, this is my son too.” He nods at me. “First time down this way in ages.”
“But Dorril, you turn old man, man.”
“And you have not aged.” My father laughs.
“What a thing, eeh?” Eustace’s face has broken out into a thousand wrinkles. “What a thing? You know who I see yesterday? Ezekiel Brown. You remember Brown, man? Him was the first one get license to drive water truck, but couldn’t read. Own the piece o’ desert near Treasure Beach. Him son them farm it now. You remember?”
“Ezekiel, couldn’t play a domino.” My father laughs again. “I thought him was in England.”
“Right. Him come back now, returning resident, they call them. Might even come here tonight.”
“You don’t have any whites there?”
White rum! Half a day in the sun, chased through a ganja field, walked how many miles, tired, and the first thing my father orders is rum, overproof white rum.
And you know something? I don’t care, I will let him. For I am on the outside of something I do not grasp. And he is on the upswing of something not even he understands. I am too tired even to be embarrassed. I take the key offered by Tom, the son.
“Restaurant lock, but we can rustle up something,” Tom says. “Bring some salt to put in the hot water for you foot.” He fans his hand at the two old men and the bottle of rum. “Them all right.”
So I take the key and follow his directions. Once in the room, I set the water to hot and leave it running so the bath may fill.
The bed is firm. Up by Dorril. I have never in my whole life known anyone who owned so much land it was named after them . . . I try to imagine him there at the bar. I shake my head. I do not want to think of him, do not care about him now. If and when tomorrow comes, I will take it from there. But one thing I tell myself: no matter what he says, what he does, how he behaves, there is no way I will apologize to my father.
TWELVE
Someone is beating down the door. That must be the son with the salt for my feet. I have forgotten the pipe is running. I must get up and turn it off before the tub overflows. But my body is heavy; I do not have the strength to raise myself. The knock continues.
“Yes! Come!” I yell.
Tom pushes the door and enters. “What happen, you want some lunch? You father say if you want some lunch.”
“Lunch!”
“Is eleven o’clock, you know. You sleep through the night and the whole morning.”
He laughs. “But you father frisky, boy. Oh . . .” He catches himself and drops the bag he has been holding. “You van come. So I just bring up you bag for you.”
“The van is here? The police came? Why didn’t you call me?”
He laughs again. “You don’ see you can’ get up. No man, no police involved. The van parked downstairs.”
I drop back onto the bed and close my eyes. I don’t care about anything anymore.
It is about two o’clock when I finally make my way toward the bar/reception area. I am still weary and sore, but my stomach has become a dry cavernous place; it echoes when I yawn.
I discover that my ordeal has not damaged me beyond a few scratches and a large uncomfortable bruise where the seat of my pants tore away. My right palm is also stiff. But I will live. Now I am happy my father insisted on buying some shorts and slippers, though I still hate the sneakers.
Everybody is my friend. Tom the bartender/receptionist looks up at me and asks what I would like to drink. I tell him orange juice, and he seems disappointed. “Make a see if I find some.”
“You have any food? I could eat a cow.”
“The restaurant closed, but we can find something,” he mumbles.
“You don’t have anything at all to eat?”
“The restaurant not open, but we will rustle up something.”
“Rustle up? How long will that take?”
“’Bout half an hour.”
I figure that would be an hour or so in real time. “What about fruits? Can I have fruits?”
“You mean like some banana or so? Oh, melon, man. You want melon? This is melon country.”
He asks where I would like to sit and I choose a table outside, off the edge of the pool where it seems to be most private. As I make my way to it, I see my van parked near the side of the building. I approach it but the door is locked, so I just peer inside. Everything seems to be intact. I do not understand its sudden appearance, but I expect that Father will have the answers for me when I see him. For now I just want to sit in a quiet place.
There seem to be few guests at the hotel. Few cars are in the driveway, and there is no one in the pool, though the water sparkles invitingly. I can see why the guest-relations here are so abrupt. This must be one of those places where couples come for just a few hours at a time or no more than a night. It is built for maximum privacy, tucked away from the beach inside a small nest of trees. No wonder the restaurant is always closed; no one comes here to eat food.
I have been sitting for but a few minutes when the old man, Green, appears with a tray. He brings a large glass of orange juice and a tumbler of water. He puts this down then soon returns with some sugar cane and a large melon.
He places the melon on the table and with an expert hand slices it from end to end. He then swivels it and cuts it into large chunks. He is not a hotel chef; he is a man trying to work with me. I am too hungry to worry about that. I am grateful. I take a piece of melon, flick the seeds away with my fingers, and bite into it. It must have been planted with sugar in the seed. I am through the chunk before I realize that he has not moved but stands staring adoringly at me.
“So you are Dorril big son.” He speaks slowly as he begins to shave the piece of cane with the long sharp knife. “You are Dorril big son. I see you one time when you was young. Dorril bring you down here, you was maybe four or five years old. Could play marble no bitch though.”
“Thanks,” I tell him.
“For what?” He sits in front of me and crosses his legs as he slices the skin from the cane. “Ah, Mass Everton,” he says. “You favor him no bitch, you know.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, but that is how it is. You didn’t know? The first pickney always like the father, the second always like the mother, the third is him own person.”
“Have you seen my father?”
“Him gone walk, you know, ’bout an hour now. Say him gone stretch him legs.”
“He is serious about his walk.”
He nods. He has a patient smile and his hair is curly and brown, his eyes are dark, and his skin is close to the red of the land, but old and baked on him. Every movement he makes is with the patience and casual humility you find in good country people.
“Your father tell me you dive off the cliff from Dorril to the river,” he says with a twinkle of very light brown eyes. I can see why he is my father’s friend. They must have roamed this countryside breaking women’s hearts from the hill to the sea.
“Is that what he said?”
“Yes! You brave for a town man, though. I tell you, Mass Everton, the last person who try that was a man they called Dove from Morton Flats. And him dived when the river was full. Him never make it back. Some say him drowned, but I tell you the truth, Mass Everton, I think him broke him neck.”
I put the third piece of melon skin aside and reach for the orange juice. I wonder what stories my father has been telling about me or why he feels they need embellishing. The juice is freshly squeezed and good. “I don’t know if I knew what was happening on that hill, you hear. I was just trying to get away from those damn people.”
“Yes.” He passes sticks of cane across to me.
I test a piece for softness. Its juice is warm and sweet against my tongue. He seems happy that I like it.
“So your father tell me that you taking him on a tour around the country. You know, there is nothing like a big son who love him father. My son love me, but him lazy. You soon see some woman come call him there now. I not saying him not a good boy, but these days young people not interested in taking care of them parents anymore. You are a good son . . . traveling around with your father, making him see him old friends them . . . boy.” He sighs. “You know where I want to go? Montego Bay. Go there one time but not recent. I hear is pure tourism going on down there now. Even have . . .” He leans and whispers to me, “I hear they even have place down there where only naked people go. You not goin’ stop there?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Oh, you have to be naked, I see.” He chuckles. “Bet that would raise the dead.”
“I bet it would.” Where do these old men come from filled with mischief and secrets in their smiles? “So you have known my father a long time?”
“Long! Long, long time now. Can’t even count the days. Help a lot o’ people down here, especially with the land business. He is a good man.”
He finishes with the cane and places the naked slices on my plate. I thank him and he stands to go. “You must come down and spend some time with us one week. Everybody goin’ wan’ meet you.”
I tell him I will. I also try to thank him for the hospitality, but he fans my words aside. “Thanks for what?” His smile is a version of my father’s.
And so he leaves me.
* * *
The orange juice is finished. Half the melon has disappeared. My stomach has settled—at least for the time being. I chew on the sugar cane and can’t help wondering what stories my father has spread about me. And in wondering, my mind inevitably goes back to yesterday and the incidents that have brought us here. As I replay them my stomach begins to gradually ache again, this time not with hunger but with anxiety. How did I get here to this place, to this peace and quiet? Not the journey of it, for that I remember well, but how did I get here?
Yesterday, we encountered a large field of marijuana, we were chased and shot at by criminals, I almost lost my life. But today I am sitting here quietly, peacefully, with my vehicle returned, my new clothes intact, and my father gone on a peaceful walk.
How did it happen? Where are the police? How come I was not called? Are we now safe, here in this place?
Father must be tuned to my thoughts, for he joins me out of nowhere. “So you finally wake, son.”
He has caught me in reverie so there is a beat before I respond and then my voice seems to have a dreamlike quality to it.
“Yes, Mr. Dorril.”
He sits, pulls another chair to the side, and stretches his feet into it. “I see the boys take care of you. I see you get fruit plate.”
“How was your walk? You’re not afraid? Didn’t you get enough exercise yesterday.”
“This walk is different.”
He is as composed as a school teacher, but there is wariness in his eyes. He is not sure what side I woke up on this afternoon.
“You know you grandmother come from round here.”
That has caught me off guard. “Really? Granny?”
“Yes, not right here, but round there so, up farther from the river. Our family has a long tradition round here.”
I met my grandmother a few times, and each memory is like a tamarind ball in my mouth. When the other children would visit her or she would visit their home, I was never a part of it. But he took me to see her a few times, including once when they were having a birthday party for her at his house and she asked for me. Every time I saw her she would ask him why he did not bring me to see her more. She was a feisty old woman, with a deep sophistication and bleakness and sadness about her that I could not understand. But she liked me. And I loved visiting her and having her spoil me with sweets. But I never knew her . . . knew them. I do not know much of her or her story. Except that she lived in Kingston in a little place she refused to leave. But as she grew older, she moved to live with my father in Willodene, where she finally died.
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