Your Corner Dark

by Desmond Hall

  Aunt Jenny chopped the cane into pieces. “I don’t know. A whole heap of people are coming to the funeral tomorrow.” She tossed a piece to Joe and handed one to Frankie.

  Was she weakening or just playing an angle, about to give up something to Joe that would ultimately give her more power? And—now Frankie felt a slow burn—were they using his father’s funeral for a power play?

  Frankie touched his finger against the iron and pulled it away quickly. He was ready. “I think,” he began, “my father would be happy to be buried next to my mother. I would be happy to see it.”

  Jenny dropped the knife on the counter. Joe gathered up his dreads and let them fall again, his expression sphinxlike.

  For the second time, Frankie picked up the old rag and wrapped it around the iron’s handle. Knelt in front of the couch. Pressed the iron against his pants. He felt his aunt and uncle watching him. He didn’t care. He didn’t hurry. He was pressing his pants for his father’s funeral.

  Chair legs ground against the wood floor. “Likkle later,” Joe said at last. The door slammed behind him.

  Aunt Jenny sighed, picked up her phone, and made a call. “Yes, it’s me again. Let’s talk about the thing.” On to posse business again, no doubt. And she walked out.

  Frankie knelt on the floor worn smooth from years of footsteps, his mother’s, his father’s. He clutched the handle of the iron, welcoming the heat, smoothing away the wrinkles.

  Thirty-Two

  with dozens of mourners gathered twenty feet away around his father’s grave, Frankie stood on the slope of the hill, the exact spot where he’d seen his father last commemorate his mother’s birthday. He’d decided to let Samson grieve in private, that day. Sure, Samson had eventually called him over to the grave, but if Frankie had just walked over and stood next to Samson while he was grieving, things might have been different. He and his father could have shared something, something more than a couple sandwiches, something important that they’d both take to their graves. But Frankie hadn’t done any of that. Now, as he stood here, he wished like anything for that moment back. The irony of him in the same spot, also alone, was rich in a twisted way.

  The humidity was cloying. Frankie’s arms were lathered with sweat; his scalp itched. Mosquitoes made strafing runs at his neck. He ignored them, suffered their bites with unrelenting composure. In the clearing, beside his mother’s grave, a crowd of people gathered around his father’s, a slab of concrete that resembled a coffin. The local handyman and his son had poured the cement throughout the ceremony, creating the boxlike tomb. Now they were scraping away the excess concrete with spades, perfecting their work.

  From the shadows, Frankie counted eleven members of the church choir. They must have been sweltering in their black robes, though they didn’t show it. In her black dress and hat, Aunt Jenny stood beside the minister, who was orchestrating with his hands, counting out the beats. They started swaying side to side. And somehow everyone at once started to sing “Back to the Dust.” The sound of all those voices lifted up in praise was powerful, even beautiful, Frankie thought. Heavenly thunder, his mother called it. It always had the power to pull him away from his cares. But this time, Frankie felt nothing.

  “Respect due, mon.” It was Winston, his black polo shirt wrinkled, but his black pants new. He might have bought them for the funeral. They gave each other dap. “You all right?” he whispered.

  Frankie shrugged. “Don’t know.” Honest.

  Winston glanced around. “Your father was all right, mon.” He rubbed his nose. “Too strict on you sometimes, though. Him always reminded me of a police. But him was all right.”

  Police. Frankie looked left and right. “Yeh, mon,” he said, his voice cracking. No Bradford. No to Leah, either. He hadn’t invited her, fearing that she’d mention it her father, and who knew what that would set off. And Frankie still hadn’t told her about the posse. In spite of all that, he still wished she were here.

  Winston play-punched his arm. “You going to be all right, mon. Me will look out.”

  Frankie nearly laughed. Winston would look out. Right.

  Two villagers suddenly glanced Frankie’s way, their eyes going wide. Had they spotted him lurking on the fringes, dismayed that he hadn’t joined the mourners, that he wasn’t singing? But they seemed to see something beyond him. Bradford? Frankie turned and saw his uncle at the top of the path, and behind him, Buck-Buck, his head slowly panning left to right, vigilant. Joe was expressionless. Frankie looked over to Aunt Jenny. She had stopped singing. Her expression had gone as blank as her brother’s. Was this what life in the posse did to you, made you immune to emotion?

  Frankie heard a whir and slapped his neck. He pulled his hand away; two mosquitoes were squashed to his palm. He stared at the blood, then could hardly wipe it away quickly enough. He couldn’t stand there for one more second. Without a word, he left Winston and strode past the choir to his father’s grave, the smell of wet concrete strong and familiar. The man troweling away the loose bits looked up. Frankie stuck out his hand. “Can I?”

  The man took the cigarette out of his mouth and handed Frankie the trowel. Frankie knelt, pushed away a curl of concrete, smoothing out the area closest to where his father’s head lay, easing the old mason’s tool back to front, repeating his leveling. All that mattered was that everything should be kept even, the sides not daubed too short.

  Frankie nearly had two sides exactly right when he heard a gasp, then urgent whispering. Joe and Buck-Buck were walking away in a hurry, heading toward the road, guns drawn. Aunt Jenny scrambled after them, her high heels digging into the dirt. Winston, his gun drawn, was not far behind. What the hell? Frankie dropped the trowel and jumped up after them.

  Joe was in the middle of the street, squatting, elbows on knees. Buck-Buck and Speed stood like sentinels behind him.

  Joe eyed them. “Taqwan coming up the hill.”

  Aunt Jenny unclicked her black purse and eased out her own handgun. She thumbed the safety.

  Nothing was sacred, not even a funeral, Frankie thought bitterly. He smacked his fist to his forehead—he should have had his strapping too. Even Winston was prepared, but—the funeral—he just wasn’t. Idiot.

  Joe—how did he know? He nodded to Buck-Buck, who pulled a second gun, a Beretta like Winston’s, from the back of his pants. “It don’t have as many rounds as your Glock,” he said apologetically to Frankie, handing it over.

  Not as many rounds? Frankie turned the gun over in his hands; it was heavier than his. Were they in for a serious shoot-out?

  Frankie heard the roar of the Toyota and seconds later, Ice Box and Blow Up jumped out, guns in hand, leaving the doors wide open.

  A branch cracked and Frankie looked to the trees—it was only some young villagers at the edge of the woods, eyes wide with excitement. They shouldn’t be here. It wasn’t safe, but there was no time.

  Three SUVs crept around the bend, their engines growling. No one spoke. A Benz, a GMC with tinted windows, and a Denali stopped just fifty feet from where Joe stayed squatting. A man the size of Ice Box, and a light-skinned man with dark glasses, stepped out of the Denali, followed by five scowling teenagers, bedecked in bling and denim. No sign of Garnett. At least.

  Now the Benz doors eased open, and Taqwan, ropes of gold chains glittering, emerged. Frankie was mesmerized. They all were. Taqwan was a sight. Frankie’d wondered what he looked like, but this… His black shirt had red roses stitched in at the shoulders, and he had rings on almost every finger. If he weren’t dripping charisma, they might have laughed. But there he stood, tight gabardine pants, patent-leather long-toed shoes, and the slightest hint of mascara. And his skin, the wildest thing yet—his skin was bleached. His neck was darker—way darker than his face. He must have been using products to make his face look whiter, striving for the “chrome” complexion that some of the guys at school wanted. “Me look too black.”

  “Girls like it when you light skin.” Damn. Taqwan was a trip;
a Kingston don but not even comfortable in his own skin.

  Two teenage girls, blouses cut low, erupted from the Benz next, big leather bags slung over their shoulders.

  “The man has no shame,” Aunt Jenny muttered under her breath.

  Frankie shook the Beretta uneasily, testing the weight, hoping he didn’t have to see how it fired, wondering what the hell Taqwan was doing up here, on a day like this.

  Taqwan leaned on one hip as if posing for some rude-boy magazine. “Joe. Me come fi pay respects.” He rubbed his chin. “Yes now, your brother must be in a better place.”

  Joe spoke slowly. “Just another place. Him no really dead.”

  “Oh right. Jah Rastafari.” Taqwan tapped his chest with his fist three times.

  Was Taqwan mocking Joe? Frankie grew certain when he saw a small smile grow at the corners of Taqwan’s lips.

  “Yes, Jah is my God. And what’s yours, Taqwan, the almighty bling?” Joe said, calm, so calm.

  Taqwan’s tiny smile became a grin. He snapped his fingers at the girls, who reached into their large bags.

  Frankie started to raise his weapon. Aunt Jenny smacked his shoulder with the back of her hand. “Easy, Franklyn,” she whispered.

  The girls took out four fancy-looking bottles filled with brown liquid. Faces blank, demeanor like models on a catwalk, they walked right up to Joe and set the bottles—Hennessy cognac—on the ground in front of him.

  “Dem bottles is XO, next level up from VSOP!” Taqwan folded his hands over his groin. “The Japanese love that shit! Pay big money for it.”

  The muscles in his uncle’s jaw tensed. This insult came without a veil. Taqwan had to know Rastas didn’t drink alcohol. This was part of Taqwan’s show, a presentation of dominance.

  “I hear you make a deal with Denetria.” Taqwan’s smile grew wider still, the gold grille over his teeth flashing. “You getting a bigger influence in Kingston.”

  “Trees grow, Taqwan. That’s the way it is.”

  “Tree? No mon, weeds.” Taqwan wagged his finger. “And weeds get cut, Joe.”

  Frankie swallowed. He figured this was it. The moment was coming. He tightened his grip on the gun.

  Taqwan’s teenagers backed up and shifted their stance, their hands at their sides.

  Taqwan unclicked his gold grille from his teeth, looked at it all casual. “Don’t grow any further, Joe. Me dislike gardening work.”

  Joe nodded to a bush to his left. Winston, Marshal, Baxter, and Big Pelton stepped out from their cover. “Me growing all the time, Taqwan.”

  Taqwan clicked his grille back in. “Listen now, Kingston ain’t the fucking mountains. Shit no live so easy down there.” Then Taqwan turned away, but on second thought he swung back around. “Another thing, me hear your nephew had beef with one of my people. I told my man to squash it, but shit does happen, Joe. I can’t always control my men, you understand?”

  Garnett! Frankie had to stifle his cough. Shit!

  Joe reached out and scooped up the bottles, two in each hand. He popped upright, nodded at Taqwan, then with one synchronized swing smashed the bottles. Shards of glass sprinkled like diamonds on the road. He spread his fingers wide and let the bottle necks fall. “The road up here is dangerous, Taqwan. Me wouldn’t recommend you come any further.”

  “No worries—I’ll see you in Kingston, Joe.” Taqwan took his time strolling back to the Benz, one hand held high like a ringmaster’s. The rest of his posse got into their vehicles. Engines revved and the caravan turned around and drove off.

  Aunt Jenny already had her phone out. “Denetria. Yes, girl. Can we talk?”

  Joe huddled with his men, and Frankie wondered apprehensively what they were saying.

  But his showing up here, today, at Samson’s funeral, doing what he just did, had all but ensured a war.

  Frankie thumbed the safety of the Beretta. He had to get back to his father. And as he thought about the graves of his parents, he pictured his own, right beside them.

  Thirty-Three

  the abbreviated ceremony—a simple, songless sealing of his father’s grave after Taqwan’s little “visit” this morning—left Frankie feeling restless, wanting something more. Even the Nine-Night celebration of his father’s death, raging in his backyard, wasn’t enough. A half hour earlier, he had left the party to get some air. As he walked back toward home through downtown Troy, the heat oppressive and his father’s too-tight square-toed shoes pinching, it dawned on him that Samson could have been dead for weeks, months, maybe even since his mother had been gone. The entire week had become formless, an undefined jumble of actions.

  So many people had spoken of his father’s life. So many that Frankie couldn’t match the faces with the voices. “He was a very brave man.” “You could always count on him.” “What a good man.” How long was the service and what passage had he himself read? He couldn’t recall. But then Taqwan came to mind, like one of Leah’s hellscape paintings. And everything snapped into focus again. Back to reality.

  The pain he felt wasn’t going to go away or get better. He could wander alone for days or years and still not leave it behind. He knew this because the breath-stealing gut punch of his mother’s death was still present. So why would this new emptiness ever leave?

  He neared his house, the vibration of a familiar beat under his feet, the mega bass from the DJ’s distort of a Jimmy Cliff remix, “Many Rivers to Cross.” His father’s Nine-Night was going strong, and should have lasted many days, as was tradition, except Joe had put the kibosh on that—one day was all he’d allow. He’d already made a concession to have the funeral, was his argument.

  It seemed the entire village was spilling out of his front yard, filling the street ahead like a roadblock. Aunt Jenny broke through the crowd and handed him a bottle of Red Stripe, already warm. He gratefully raised the bottle to his lips.

  He’d forgotten that he had to act like some sort of host. All he really wanted was to sit and be alone for a while, a day, maybe a week. There were many things to deal with.

  He made his way to a rickety wooden chair next to the pimento tree, and sat and watched, letting people pass him and clap him on the back. He tried to remember to smile and nod in appreciation for the kind words. He glimpsed Aunt Jenny escorting a short woman with a large church hat through the front door. The woman held a handkerchief over her mouth, sobbing. Her tears reminded Frankie of how stoic his father had been at his mother’s funeral, ordering Frankie not to cry, not crying himself. In that moment of his worst grief, Samson had stood rigid like a statue, a barricade against self-pity. Frankie raised the Red Stripe, making a quiet toast to his father, vowing not to cry today. He’d honor his father by withholding the tears, even though he knew his father was wrong. A boy crying at his mother’s death wasn’t any sign of weakness. It was a tribute to how much she had meant. His father had to have known that. Just like he had to have known that he should have let Frankie know how sick his mother was. Even if she didn’t want him to know. Because it cost them so much time when they could have been together. And Frankie never really had a chance to tell Samson how pissed he was about that. And now he never would. Never seemed enormous.

  The sweet scent of coconut milk and thyme wafting through the air had him thinking about his mother’s favorite way to make rice. She made it when Frankie wasn’t feeling well. He looked up. “Blessings, Frankie,” an old friend of his mother’s said, the gorgeous smell rising from the plate of rice and peas in her hand. He stood as she grasped Frankie’s hand, as so many had throughout the day, shaking it slightly. “May di good Lord look out for you.” She handed him the plate, explaining she’d made the rice in honor of Samson—it was one of his favorites that Frankie’s mother had cooked. It was? He’d had no idea.

  “Thank you.” He gave a slight bow, and as she left, he glanced at the house’s back window—at least he’d remembered to disarm Samson’s natty security device, removing the machete. He made a mental note to reset the machete after
the party. It struck Frankie that his father would have thought the very same thing.

  He wandered his own yard, spooning the coconut rice into his mouth. A throng of villagers were dancing in the back. They spun, dipped, fell back, bobbed, and wound their hips like waves in an angry storm. He found himself at the trunk of the pimento tree, his boyhood place, his vestigial escape, and gave a wry grin. He was always drawn to this spot. Even today. It was one of the few empty, quiet spaces in the backyard.

  If Samson could part the clouds and peek down, what would he think about the party in his honor? He might not like all the fuss and might even wish for the people to leave for their own yards. He’d worry about the coconut trees being damaged. When was the next full moon, anyway?

  Winston was pushing his way through the tangle of dancers, swaggering as he led Big Pelton, Marshal, and Greg, each gripping bottles.

  “Him look too sober to me!” Winston slurred as he reached the pimento tree. He must have been at the rum bar or out on the street smoking ganja.

  “The man needs a strong drink for true!” Marshal added happily.

  Big Pelton held out a half-finished bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. “Yeh, mon.”

  Frankie had to admit he was glad to see them. Glad that they’d come. So he smiled and thought, Why not? He raised the bottle and took a big sip, his lips making a popping sound when he took the bottle away. An instant burn flared in his chest. That was some strong shit.

  “Remember when your father give us drinks, when di hurricane hit?” Winston asked.

  Marshal and Big Pelton nodded. “Yeh, mon,” Greg said.

  “Pass the bottle. We all fi take one next drink,” Winston called out, his eyes glassy, his patois thick with drink. He took another swig, then howled like a dog in the night.

  They’d been in grade school—fifth? sixth?—and it was during the tail-end of a hurricane’s assault. They’d been desperately looking everywhere for Marshal’s dog. And though the wind had died down, rain crashed like waves from the sky. Samson had led them down the mountain. When they’d reached the road near the bottom, they were shocked to see that it had become a small river. A torrent of water dragged along uprooted trees, bushes, two-by-fours, and random pieces of clothing.