The Angels' Share

by Garfield Ellis

  “So grandmother was from here, and you are from here?”

  “No, I was born in Kingston, as you know, but that is another story.”

  I laugh sarcastically at this and gesture to him, my hand almost imitating a table tennis stroke. “Stories, don’t be afraid of telling me stories, Daddy. We have time. And you have plenty stories to tell.”

  “Well,” he says, “if is story you want—”

  “Daddy! Daddy, let us cut to the chase, man. What are we doing here like this? You want explain to me what going on here?”

  “How you mean?”

  “You want explain this? How we get our clothes? How we get back the van? Why was no police involved? Why are you so happy? What is happening here, old man?”

  “Oh, that . . .” He laughs. “That, I bet you couldn’t tell me what happen! You wouldn’t believe what happen.”

  “Indulge me.”

  He leans back into his chair. “You know, you need to have a little more faith.”

  “Faith?”

  “Yes, faith. First, you have to believe it is my land. First, you have to believe it is your land. Then the story will make sense. You believe it is your land? You believe it is my land?”

  I make my eyes burn into him. I stare at him so he can feel the fire in them.

  “You remember Willy?” he finally asks.

  “Willy?”

  “Yesss . . . Willy. I use to bring you round here when you were a boy, you use to play marble with him. It was Willy up there. He is in charge of the land now. He thought we were trespassing.”

  Sometimes it feels like my father thinks I am either very stupid, still a child, or am so awed by him that he can tell me any stupid thing and I will believe him. “Faith?” I nod at him. “Just like that! Faith, the evidence of things not seen, right? You take me up on a hill and tell me it is yours. Okay, let’s say it’s yours. And don’t raise your eyebrows at me. I was shot at yesterday. I dropped off a cliff. I almost died. And you brush it off as: It was Willy.”

  “He didn’t know it was us.”

  “I don’t care. You don’t see what I see. He shot at us. I lost my things, I almost died.”

  “But your things come back.”

  I lift my hand to show him my Movado is still missing.

  “Everton,” he says to me, “why you working up yourself like this. It’s just a misunderstanding, why you working up yourself like this?”

  “Because you are insulting my intelligence, man. Just level with me, just for once. What is happening here?”

  “But I’m trying to tell you and you not listening.”

  “That it’s Willy! That it’s nothing to worry about. Come on, Daddy.”

  “See.”

  “Is your ganja field, Daddy? Daddy, is it your marijuana up there?”

  He sighs at me.

  “But I have to ask. I have to ask because I cannot make sense out of this stupid conversation.”

  “Shut up and listen. Jesus Christ,” he snaps. “What is wrong with you? I did not know he was there. His mother is in charge of the land. I have not seen him in how many years. His mother takes care of the land for me. It is laying there; twenty-five acres, nothing is on it. So he is doing little farming on it? Who is goin’ to go up there to check? His mother is taking care of it for me, but she is too old now. He is her oldest son. What is hard to see in that?”

  “But he is growing ganja up there.”

  “So what?”

  “So what?!”

  “Yes, so what?”

  “Is ganja, Daddy. These men are criminals. We should be calling the police. They shot at us. They almost killed us.”

  “Use to have a little man up the road name Joe Blades,” he says. “They called him that because he could swing a machete so smooth and easy. He owned a piece of land way over there near Junction. His children own it now. Blades used to do farm work in the United States . . . did several years of it. Used to have a funny story ’bout Joe. Every time Joe went to America to farm work and come back, his wife was either pregnant or had a new baby.

  “Now you know how people are. Of course, the first story that spread was that those could not be Joe’s children. Joe getting jacket; Joe getting bun. Did anybody check if the wife’s pregnancy was in good time, meaning did anybody time Joe’s departure with the arrival of his children? Of course not. Who interested in truth when a good story is better. Joe getting bun, man, they said. Joe getting jacket. So one day a good neighbor couldn’t take it any longer, and decided to have a talk with Joe on the matter.

  “So he said to Joe: Joe, how you explain that every time for the last three years you go to farm work, when you come back you have a new baby? Is mail? You mail it?

  “Joe said, Well, when I am at home, I take care of my business. When I gone, God take care of His.

  “So he said to Joe, What you mean by that?

  “Joe repeat: I say, when I am here, I take care of my business. When I am not here, God take care of His business . . . That is why all my children look like me.

  “Neighbor says: Yes, Joe, that is true, but remember it is you brother living beside your yard. Even his children look like you.

  “Joe scratched his head and opened his eyes in terror. You think him notice?! How him find out?”

  Father slaps his feet and laughs loudly at his joke. “You think him notice? How him find out?” He wipes tears from his eyes.

  “And I am supposed to laugh at that?” I try to restrain the smile dripping from my lips.

  “You don’t get the joke?”

  “Joe is a fool.”

  “No. Joe is a happy man. Joe knows he cannot control what happens when he is not around, so when he is around he makes damn good use of the time and then . . . leave the rest to God. “You think him notice. How him find out? That Joe was something else . . . boy, something else.”

  “And the moral of the story is that I should . . . what?”

  “I don’t know, Everton, but why kill yourself over something that you goin’ leave unattended for another long time? May as well you just enjoy the moment, make use of the time . . . and have a whole heap o’ faith.”

  “Really? Now?”

  He reaches for my water glass, empties it, and refills it from the tumbler. “Tell you what.” He smiles as he takes a drink. “You deal with it.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “It is your land, you deal with it. You call the police and you tell Willy to take his ganja off the hill.”

  “My land? Now it is my land?”

  “I told you that before they started shooting. So don’t be afraid. It is your land, you tell him. You call the police.”

  “You want me deal with it, Daddy?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want me take care of it? Because I don’t want that to ruin your relationships around here. I will do the right thing. I will call the police, and if I catch that Willy, I’ll chase him off that hillside, let him find out what it feels like to drop seventy feet.”

  Father grins smugly at me. “And you don’t have to wait too long. See him coming through the gate there.”

  THIRTEEN

  He is the color of the dry grass when the sun sets on it, and his eyes are the gray of a sleepy cat. I do have an inch on him, but his charm is easy, his smile quick and guarded, and his nature and mannerisms magnanimous. He wears jeans, red farming boots, and a Perry Ellis shirt rolled to the elbow. I could beat him in a fight, but I wouldn’t introduce my girlfriend to him.

  “Dads.” He hugs my father and shakes his hand. “Dads, Father Dorril.” He turns to me and his eyes light up “Everton, long, long, long time. You still play marble? Boy, you could play marble, no bitch.”

  “So I hear,” is all I can say.

  “So, everything all right?” He nods at me. “Everything okay, you get back you stuff and things?”

  “Yes. Thanks.” I can’t believe I just thanked him.

  “Boy,” he speaks as he sits, “what a thing h
appen yesterday, eeh, man? What a thing. Father Dorril, Everton, when you coming you must make us know, man.”

  “But your mother knows,” my father says to him. “She knows I am coming.”

  “She knows?!”

  I am asking the same thing myself, but I am past being surprised by surprises. My father has developed quite a knack for them.

  “Well, you know Mamma.” Willy hardly skips a beat. “She’s so secretive, especially these days. You know she gone to Montego Bay? Didn’t even tell me where she gone.”

  If my father were white, his face would have turned rose pink—it burns with the guilt of something.

  “Somebody else tell me that she coming back tomorrow,” Willy continues. “And now I hear I must tell you she not coming till tomorrow. So, that is how secretive she is.”

  “When you say she coming?” Father is trying too hard to be casual.

  “Tomorrow evening.”

  “What exactly did the message say?”

  “Tell Mr. Dorril that they won’t come till tomorrow evening.”

  “Them or she?”

  “Them or she, I don’t even remember. It matter though?”

  “And Everton was planning to leave this evening.” He glances at me, though there is relief in his eyes. The hypocrite has even managed to look sad. But I know him better, and I will take him up on the issue of our departure soon. But now I must deal with this man in front of me.

  “Well, she says to tell you that she will see you tomorrow,” he is telling my father. “But everything is everything and everything all right.”

  Everything is everything and everything all right. Just like that. A man almost kills you, has an acre of weed on your land, then sits with you at a table over fruits and tells you everything is everything and everything is all right. This is a different world, a different class of people, and my father fits in so easily it scares me.

  “So what happen, Everton?” He turns to me. “You remember them days we use to play marble? You could play marble, boy. You remember?”

  “I don’t remember.” My voice is not quite ice, but it is getting there.

  He looks from me to my father and even though Daddy’s face is not as hard as mine, there is disapproval there, and I know he is with me.

  Willy feels the need for explanation and offers a sober look. “Father Dorril, I must tell you.” He has lost the looseness and his language becomes formal, his English perfect. He is very, very good. “It is unfortunate, you know. A real unfortunate thing happened here yesterday. I am hoping we can deal with it and put it behind us. I mean, you put me in charge to take care of the place and this is what you come and find. But I am sorry. And I will deal with it. You just tell me how you want me to deal with it.”

  “Your mother know what you doing up there?” Father asks him.

  His eyes never waver. “You want to see me dead? Our business doesn’t have to include Mamma.”

  “Our business!” I am amazed. “Our business. I don’t own a ganja farm!”

  “Father Dorril, what you want me to do? Just tell me.”

  “It is not my land.” Father nods at me, “It is Everton’s land now.”

  Willy turns to me and smiles without skipping a beat. “Everton, so you are the new governor man. I am working for you now. Mother passed on the caretaking to me, and Daddy D. pass on the land to you. It is like a generation thing.”

  I doubt that Willy will ever work for anyone, least of all me.

  “Let me tell you the truth.” I almost believe the sincerity in his eyes. “Sometimes it is better to plant a little weed than to be lazy. It gives the boys around here something to do. Better that than go Kingston go carry a gun. At least down here a man can buy a half an acre from it and build a little house.”

  “Well, grow carrots, grow thyme like everybody else,” I tell him.

  “Well, we do that too, you know, but the drought and so. So what you want me to do?”

  “Burn it. Burn everything and turn over the gunmen to the police.”

  He laughs lightly. “Everton, you can’t burn anything on the hillside this time o’ year, man. Bush fire would burn down half the countryside. Plus, the men just got carried away. They weren’t trying to shoot you—they just got carried away.”

  “We could have died. I almost broke my neck! My father is almost seventy years old.”

  “But we didn’t know you was going jump, man. Nobody never dive off that hill yet.”

  “I never dived,” I almost scream.

  “All right, Everton, I am sorry. Tell you what I will do. I will get rid of it. You see like how you come now. You see like how I know now that you against the weed thing. I would never plant another seed up there. Now that I know, now that we talk face to face, it is new thing now.”

  As he speaks, it gradually dawns on me that my father is right. What am I doing? Willy probably knows every policeman from here to Black River. He knows that I will be leaving tomorrow and he knows I may not be back here for years to come. Who am I fooling, why would he cut down his weed for me? Who knows how many other fields he may have around, probably planting each new crop in a different place. And I am sitting here thinking that I can change that, that I can have the better of this man in a situation in which he is the master. I am beginning to lose the energy for the encounter. The conversation is starting to feel like a waste of time.

  So we sit here in the warm afternoon in this place called Memories By the Sea and he talks of how sorry he is and how the next time we come we don’t even have to call. We can walk on any land up there and whoever is there will have to answer to us. And I from time to time butt in, with my anger gradually replaced by boredom. And the conversation lightens and moves and he begins to laugh and tell stories and jokes he has heard from his mother about my father. And every now and then I must fend off a comment on how well I played marbles. And Father sits there, all pleased, looking at us as if he is looking at two sons together having a mature conversation for the first time. And I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the secrets down here is that Willy is his son too.

  So the afternoon wears on and the talk continues till the little old man appears and interrupts us to say that the fish has not come and the food will be another half an hour—and to ask if I would like more fruits.

  This gives Willy an immediate excuse to be gracious. He looks with surprise at me and asks how come I haven’t eaten lunch yet. So I tell him I woke late. He smiles and tells me he understands. “So that is all you eat for lunch?” He motions to the half-eaten fruits on the table.

  “I was waiting for the chef to rustle up something.”

  “Chef!” He laughs and beckons to the old man. “See what the man them calling you. Chef. You need to change you ways, old man.”

  “Is Tom him talking.”

  “Tom can cook? Is my brother this, you know. This is Mr. Dorril. This is my brother. You can’t rustle up food for my brother. What you rustling up? What you cooking?”

  “Well, I was thinking ’bout some fried fish and thing, but we send gone get some fish.”

  “Tell you what, don’t worry too much about that. Don’t bother with that. Let me just take them to Little Ochi and go eat some fish. Don’t worry ’bout it, I will take care of it.”

  “All right.” The old man smiles. “All right, Willy. No problem.”

  “And you can organize to send the stuff down to the cottage. I will send Razor or Breds for them.”

  “What is that about?” I ask as the old man walks away.

  “You can’t eat this food, man. Come we go Little Ochi. When last you go Little Ochi, Mr. Dorril?”

  “Couldn’t tell,” Father says with a smile.

  “And what is this about a cottage and moving our things?”

  “Well, we have a cottage on the beach. Why you want to stay here when you have a cottage?”

  “My cottage?”

  “Not so. It is my cottage, but my cottage is your cottage. See the key here, you do
n’t have to give it back. When you ready, just come, just give me call and come. It is your cottage.”

  “But don’t we need to shower . . . change our clothes?”

  “For what? You in the country. This is the south coast. You are a tourist. You ever see tourist bathe?” Then he laughs as I draw up to my full height. “Jesus, man, Eva, I’m joking, just joking, man. By the way . . .” He reaches into his breast pocket. “Is your Movado this?”

  Tears almost come as I reach for my watch.

  * * *

  So I am sitting here in a boat with a thatched roof on stilts in the middle of a large yard by the sea. Three women are standing in front of us with six platters of fish and lobster.

  “What you want?” Willy asks. “What kind o’ fish: parrot or grunt or butter fish or snapper? You want lobster?”

  I cannot make up my mind.

  “Just mix up and do little of everything.” He smiles at the waitress. “Fry some and steam some with some bammy—both steamed and fried bammy and so.” He sends her away. “First you come down here, Everton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, they say that if you miss you wife one day, this is where she is with her lover.”

  “Well, I am from Kingston.”

  “Exactly. This is where all the bosses from Kingston bring their secretaries—three hour out of Kingston and back by nightfall. Eat fish, good conversation, some ocean breeze . . .”

  “And a few hours at Memories By the Sea,” I add.

  “I didn’t say that. You hear me say that, Daddy Dorril?”

  “You never say that,” my father replies.

  “Onoo come a good day,” Willy says. “A good day.”

  “How so?”

  “Tonight is the Great Bay Carnival. We could go on down there. It runs from ten in the morning all through the night. The day part is mainly for the children, it is not much. It is the night that goin’ be nice. Music, dance, beauty contest, deejay contest, all kind o’ things. I help put it on every year with some other farmers round the place. You guys should come. As a matter of fact . . .” he checks his watch, “don’t even have to go to the cottage. We can just leave here and go down there.”