The Angels' Share

by Garfield Ellis

  I draw the Pathfinder up to the gate of the cabin. It is the end of a silent ride back. As he disembarks I see he is not as bright as he was when he invited me back to see the land again this afternoon. But his spirits lift as we round the corner to the back door, and we see there on the veranda, looking out onto the pool, a little old lady sitting as if half asleep. As we come into view she opens her eyes and raises herself. She is close to the red of the bauxite earth and her skin is as clean and smooth as if she were just turning forty, but her eyes tell me that she has seen enough to fill many more years than that.

  She gives a loud yelp, jumps into my father’s arms, and scolds him for the fact that she has been waiting on him for two hours.

  EIGHTEEN

  Father does not seem too happy as he walks down the beach toward me. He walks alone and his head is slightly bowed. A passing stranger would probably believe he is sunk in wise contemplation, but I know him better than that. He is deeply troubled. I could have warned him that feelings do not rejoin themselves after thirty-five years; I could have told him it would not be as it was before; that the days of joy would not immediately return and that she would not appear from the past and suddenly make him happy—but it is good he has discovered it for himself.

  I watch him as he turns through the small gate into the yard and give him some time before I step from the water to comfort him and ask where down the beach he has left his thirty-five-year itch.

  “I see you went swimming,” he says as I join him on the veranda.

  “Yes.”

  “The water is nice, isn’t it? You know, they say the black sand keeps the water warmer than the white sand of the north coast, something about the sand absorbing light rather than reflecting it.”

  I nod at that. It sounds sensible, but then most often my father does sound sensible . . . except when he is chasing thirty-five-year-old crushes.

  “So what happen to your girlfriend?”

  He passes me the towel I had left on the chair and smiles sheepishly. “That is what I have to talk to you about.”

  “What?” I sit on the edge of the veranda with him.

  “She didn’t come.” He speaks quickly, sharply.

  “What?!”

  “She is not coming till next week or so. And she is not coming down here. We have to go to Montego Bay.”

  “And who was that?” My hand is shaking as I point down the beach.

  “Oh, that was Tara, that was Willy’s mother.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You walked away.”

  “I was giving you time with her. I have to go to work. I have a job, Daddy, I am not going to Montego Bay. I am not staying down here.”

  “I know, I know.” He tries to calm me. “Listen, no. Listen, I know.”

  “You know? I don’t think so. Daddy, I don’t think you understand at all.”

  “No, I know. That is what I am telling you. You can go on now. You can leave me here. I will be okay. I know you have to work and you have lost one week of your leave already. This is what I want to tell you. Go on, I will stay here. I am fine; Tara said I could ask Willy to take me.”

  Ah, there is a trick in this somewhere. I pause to absorb this thing, to come to terms with the wiles of this devious old man.

  “You mean to tell me, Daddy, that all this time you had me believe that this was the woman, Hope, while you were out there hatching a plan to stay here without me and I am just waiting here like a fool?”

  “No one is hatching any plan. Why are you always making a mountain out of a mole hill, Everton? No one made you believe anything. You saw what you wanted to see, you heard what you wanted to hear. You’re too busy.”

  “I am too busy?”

  “Yes, your mind is always working. It’s not good for you.”

  “I am not leaving you down here.”

  “You’re starting with that again!” He pauses at that, stands, and begins to make his way toward the door of the cottage. “When you get to my age, you learn to ignore statements like that.”

  I am trying to recall the man who was in tears an hour ago, who had broken down at the memory of the failures in his life. But clearly that had been a moment of weakness. The father before me is composed and seemmingly bored. And for some reason I feel on the defensive. “I need an explanation, Daddy.”

  “Everton . . .” He pauses and looks at me. “Everton, what must I explain to you? I don’t have anything to explain. I have told you everything. You don’t see this is something I have to do. It’s as simple as that. This is something I have to do. You have to go to work. I have to go to Montego Bay. I am tired, Everton. The old man tired, son.”

  With that he slips quietly through the door and leaves it to bang softly as it closes. I am left trying to form a response to him, but half the words are stuck in my throat, the rest are feelings, unformed, deep in my gut, wherever feelings lie before they are made into expressions. I can do nothing but shake my head as anger starts to boil within me. There is something wrong with this man. There is something wrong with my father. As God lives, there is something wrong with him. Either that, or there is something drastically wrong with me.

  NINETEEN

  It is early Sunday afternoon; I have deliberately slept in. I would have left last night, but the beautiful Tara came by to invite us to dinner and out of courtesy I accepted. Over the meal she asked us to church this morning, but though Father accepted, I declined. Knowing that church would begin close to twelve o’clock, I deliberately slept in so I would not have to face my father. And by the time he returns I will be gone. I do not understand these feelings I have, or the depth of the anger that burns in me.

  We barely spoke through the dinner, but that was a group affair with Tara, her husband, and Willy. There were so many stories to tell, and then there was the memory of my marble-playing prowess, that I do not believe anyone would have picked up the growing void between me and my father. But had they been in the Pathfinder on the ride back, they would have been appalled at the thick ugly silence between us.

  I know when I am beaten. I know when there is nothing to say on a subject. And I accept now that there is nothing I can do to prevent him from staying. And duty and responsibility ensure that I must leave. He is retired, he has had a wonderful career, while I am still starting mine and cannot afford to lose my opportunities, only to be chasing them forty years later with tears in my eyes and fantasies in my head. I have to leave, I must go home. I have to be at work tomorrow.

  I pack the final pieces of clothing in the duffel bag we bought together, the brown Polo shirt he liked, the jeans I insisted on, and the T-shirt I bought as insurance against the style he was forcing on me. Thirty-seven years. Most kids fight with their father over fashion and clothing in their teenage years. My time comes at thirty-seven. Thirty-seven years old and my first full week with my father alone—and now this, this silence, this void.

  The church is not a big one as churches go. It is white with a high roof and is pushed back into the yard so there is much space in the front for cars to park and children to mill around. It has a white picket fence with a low wooden gate that is wide open. I wonder what he is doing in there. Maybe trying to coerce God into some adventure or other, maybe trying to work his way into heaven through the back door. He was never a religious man. But he has gone to church because Tara invited him. And it seems to me a very hard thing to say no to Tara.

  I park the van a little way ahead on the soft shoulder of the road and walk back to satisfy my curiosity. I am not sure why I am doing this. I had resolved not to see him today, but I guess that just a glimpse of him in church through the window at the side could not be harmful to me or my resolutions.

  I walk with unsure steps, with a sense of guilt I do not understand. The ground under my feet is red and hard. It contrasts starkly against the bright white of the fence and the blue and white of the church. There is an old smell in the air, as if the space of the churchyard is ancient and p
reserved. A few children chase each other irreverently around the yard.

  Inside is full the way only churches can be, with people on every inch of pew until someone else comes and fits where no space seemed to have been before. I stand at the window and survey the crowd as they sing. The pastor may have just finished preaching for his Bible is still in his hand as he sings and beckons to the crowd. And the song is not as lively as those that start services. But what do I know, I have not been to a church in years. Plus, this is the country and who knows how they do things down here.

  It takes me awhile to locate him. And it is only as they sit that I do. He is in the middle of the left half of the church on my side and I see him by his hair: white and silky and needing a bit of barbering, distinct, even though there are older people on all sides of him. Beside him in a big white hat is Tara and beside her, turning almost instinctively to meet my eyes, is Angela from Ballards Valley. I could fall with surprise at her presence there and more so at the fact that I am sure she recognizes me through the louvers. She does not react, though I am sure she recognizes me.

  But there is little time to react for my father is standing. He straightens the borrowed jacket he is wearing, excuses his way by the knees of the brethren and sistren, and makes his way reverently toward the altar. The walk is not the proud upward gait I am used to. It lacks the upright proud strides and squared shoulders. His posture is angled a few inches forward of erect, his movement is closer to a shuffle than a stride, and the aura around him is one of humility, so that as he gets to the altar, his kneeling and bowing of head seems as natural as if the walk had prepared him for it and that place where he now kneels is where he has been heading all his life.

  There is a sense of privacy and independence about him as he kneels. He seems at a place now where no one needs to interrupt his conversation, a place where he has all he needs. My worries about him are unimportant. For no one matters to him now; I do not matter; he does not need me or anyone. I am useless to him and all this fussing and headache I have been having about leaving him seems ridiculous in the moment before me.

  I do not know why I feel hurt and dejected, but I do. I do not know why this loneliness is washing over me—or this sadness—but it does. I have nothing to do here. I turn from the window as the pastor places his hand on my father’s head and make my way through the gate toward my Pathfinder.

  TWENTY

  Halfway to the car I hear her call my name. The day is uncomfortable already. The place is bare, without trees. It is close to midday and there is a haze to the sky. She calls my name again. And I do not have to turn to know it is Angela, but I do, and even as I spin around I can feel the sun lean against me as if it has taken a liking to my face. I wish to be in the cabin of my van, with the air-conditioning on high and its nose pointing toward Kingston.

  She is in a black dress that wraps her body like a second skin, not that it is tight but it just works its way along her contours and every curve, every sink is highlighted. Her hair is up in a bun, and the curls at the top are like a small pom-pom those cheerleaders use. You see that it is false and the sheen of it is almost plastic, but it makes no difference to the way she appears. As a matter of fact, on her, with that body, with that smile, with that walk, it complements a sort of country vivaciousness, so that everything looks stylish and right.

  “What happen?” she says as she stops.

  “Pardon me?” I feel a need to be formal with her.

  “Me think you gone.”

  “No, I am just leaving.”

  “You father said you couldn’t come church because you have to leave early.”

  Something occurs to me that has been on the edge of my consciousness since the other day. “Are you related to my father?” I ask—because I do not trust him nor do I trust the fact that she keeps popping up at the oddest of places. “Are you perhaps my sister?”

  “What?”

  She is everywhere, unexplained, in the most unexpected places, just like the rest of this trip, so I am not ashamed to lay it out there. Even after the other night on the beach. “Are you my sister, my father’s child? Is this some kind of game everyone is playing?”

  “What! What you mean?” Her voice rings with incredulity and sincere bewilderment.

  “Never mind,” I tell her.

  “What happen to you, how you look like that?”

  “How do I look?”

  “You know, vexed. Angry.”

  She is right up to me now. Her scent is like the sweet part of the earth that sits on the air when a short rain has kicked up the dust and is gone. There is this muskiness that she exudes like a pungent aphrodisiac. I must get away from her.

  “What are you doing here? Don’t you live way around so?” I point with my nose.

  “Come church,” she asserts.

  “From so far?”

  “How church must far? And is here I baptized.”

  “You are baptized?”

  “Yes,” she tells me. “You not baptized? Everybody baptized.”

  I am silent at that.

  “You not baptized?” She looks earnestly at me. “Everybody baptized and backslide even one time in them life.”

  I am never prepared for this woman or the things she says. And I feel one of those moments coming on when she will render me completely speechless and inadequate.

  “So what are you up to?” I need to get out of the burning sun. But I must have sounded quite aggressive for she retreats a bit as if I have put a small dent in her mood.

  “I was goin’ ask you fi a ride, but it’s all right.”

  I want to ask her how she got here in the first place. And what she would have done if I had not stopped to look at my father. But I do not. I tell her that it would be no problem; her home is on the way.

  “You sure?” She stares at me.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, let me get mi bag.”

  By the time she returns the air-conditioning is on full blast and the tinted windows have shut the sun outside. She is now in a better mood than I have seen her, although sadness still lurks beneath her surface like a suspicion. But her mood is lighter and she seems more open to conversation. Though sadly this has come at a time when I am not.

  “You driving too fast,” she says to me, words that remind me of my father.

  I ignore her.

  “You don’t see the road winding and goin’ uphill?”

  “I know what I am doing.”

  “Yes, but the road have a lot of trucks. You know the road?”

  This is not a good day to have a woman nag me, especially one who for some reason is now finding her voice. Especially one who is sounding uncannily like my father, on that fateful night on that road, an eternity ago it seems, when this stupid Sanford and Son thing began.

  “You driving too fast,” again in my ear.

  “This is not fast.” I glance at her. “This is my normal speed. You worry too much.”

  “Yes, but you don’t know country people and how they drive.”

  I turn to answer her, and as I do she screams, “Look out!’”

  I swing around to see an old farm truck swaying around the corner ahead, on my side of the road. The truck’s body is wide and low and fitted to a lorry like a table too wide for its base. As he swerves to avoid me, the back, filled with melons, rocks and dips, and for some reason he swings again toward me. I slam the brakes and turn hard to my left, close to the bushes that line the side of the road. But the lurching truck is still coming at me, almost sideways now. I turn my van into the bushes and hear them lap against the side of the cabin. My left front wheel hits a rock and lifts high as if to capsize us toward the road. I fight desperately to gain control of the vehicle as it pushes through the bush, momentarily on three wheels. We slam down hard onto the asphalt, late enough to miss the swinging tail of the lorry as it careens down the hill. But we are in the middle of the road and the steering wheel is suddenly stiff and my vehicle is dragging to one side.

/>   I regain control and find my side of the road just as a car comes speeding down the hill. Breathless and scared out of my wits, I bring the van to a halt in a clearing up ahead.

  “You puncture,” she says dryly across the seat.

  It takes all I have to hold back the expletives at the back of my teeth and disembark to see for myself.

  Before my foot touches the ground, I feel sweat running down my back. When I bend to look at the tire, my shirt is sticking against my skin. The tire has a hole at the side apparently sliced by the large stone we hit down the road. Not only is it flat, it obviously cannot be repaired. I curse loudly. For now I will have to drive to Kingston without a spare.

  I check my watch. It is close to one thirty. I do not want the night to catch me on the road.

  As I remove the tools from the back of the vehicle, I notice that Angela has stepped out and is standing by the punctured wheel. I drop the tools on the ground near her. She stands inspecting the tire with a look on her face as if she knows something about these things.

  “Excuse me,” I begin to fit the jack under the wheel. She steps aside and I can feel her eyes on me as I get to work.

  “You nah kotch the wheel?” she asks

  “What?” I look up at her.

  “You nah kotch the wheel—put a stone behind it? You want the van roll down the hill?” Even as she speaks she walks into the bush and returns with an average-sized rock. She moves past me and places it behind the left rear wheel to kotch it. I watch her, bemused as she shakes her head at the rock and walks back into the bush.

  As I grudgingly concede that she has noticed what I overlooked, she shouts from the bush that she has found a better rock but cannot manage to lift it. I join her. She is standing beside a large rock that is partially embedded in the red dirt. It is shaped ideally to block the wheel. I kick it loose, lift it, and force it hard against the other rear tire.