Your Corner Dark

by Desmond Hall

  Suddenly Samson pointed. Marshal’s dog. But it was wedged against a branch, bobbing in the current. Samson wasted no time. He bellowed out orders, raising his voice above the driving rain and the river roar. Frankie marveled at how sure, how positive, how in charge his father had been that day. No way was that dog—what was his name? Yes, Pele—going to drown on Samson’s watch. He got Frankie and the others to lock arms and brace against the river’s rush, creating a human chain so he could wade out in the water without being washed away like all the branches speeding along the relentless current.

  Samson had sloshed into the water, repeatedly losing his footing as the thrust of the water pushed against him. He stumbled, his arms jutting out to the side, a counterbalance that somehow kept him from falling, being swept away.

  “Daddy! Don’t give up!” Frankie remembered yelling. Whether his father had heard him over the rushing water or not, Samson fought on. Pele whimpered as Samson extended his arm and scooped the dog out. He cradled it under his arm and slowly made his way back to land.

  Once home, Samson offered each of the boys one shot of Johnnie Walker Black. Frankie smiled, remembering. And was touched, actually, that Winston had, right down to the exact brand of liquor.

  Frankie had always wondered if his father had heard his shout. Or if he had known how proud Frankie had been of him. His father had been a hero.

  He took another sip of whiskey. He had forgotten that story, but Winston hadn’t. Frankie looked at the circle of friends. Come to think of it, not one of them even had a father they lived with, or who even visited. Damn. But Samson—had been there for them that day.

  The bottle circled back around. Frankie inhaled the smoky smell but took only one last small sip. He couldn’t get drunk now, not on the day when he had buried his father, not when he had promised himself, and his dead father, that he wouldn’t cry.

  “We going over to di lounge,” Winston said. “Come no, Frankie?”

  His friends had had enough. Even in the few minutes they were there, he could tell. The service at the grave, and bearing witness to older people’s dancing and revelry—ugh. Frankie wanted to leave with them, escape the sudden responsibility, the carousel of people who came around to him demanding his attention, demanding it like he was suddenly different, older…. But for Frankie, there was no leaving, no matter how much of a relief it would be to go drink himself numb with his friends. He represented the family—dead and alive.

  “Likkle later,” Frankie said.

  The posse offered various salutes and respects, their gestures like shadows that stayed with him as they slipped away, single file, fading into the crowd. Frankie was surprised at how alone he felt without them. He felt pain in his palms, realized he was digging his nails into them. Truth was, crying would have been such a relief.

  Thirty-Four

  frankie turned off the water at the kitchen sink, stopping the trickle. Out the window, the yard was empty, finally. No more guests. He noticed a limb of the breadfruit tree was heavy with fruit, hanging over his house. His house. He’d never get used to that.

  He dried the last dish—the one his ma’s friend had brought the coconut rice in—careful to stack it in the right pile. Several neighbors had loaned what they could for the Nine-Night. Thankful as he was, he had thought they’d never leave. Tomorrow morning he’d return everything and thank everyone for being so considerate, for coming. They would probably tell him all over again how sorry they felt, and that he could count on them for anything. He didn’t look forward to all the pity. All he wanted was to be alone for a while, to take time to understand what all this meant, life without his father. Things had changed, but the differences weren’t clear.

  Aunt Jenny idly straightened the stack of plates and let out a long sigh. “I wish you’d let me help you clean up. You’ve been at it for hours, Franklyn.”

  He looked down at his hands, his wrinkly fingertips.

  “I know you’re grieving. We all are. But don’t be so fast to be all alone.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Your uncle and I were talking. We feel it’s safer for you and the others to move up to the camp.” She pinched her nose to stop a sneeze. “All the other boys are moving up in the morning.”

  Frankie didn’t have to ask—he could feel the reason. Still, to confirm, he asked, “Taqwan?”

  “Just in case,” she said, then held up a finger for him to wait, as her phone buzzed. She frowned and started quickly typing.

  Sure, Taqwan must be plenty pissed about losing the Denetria deal, but it hadn’t been his in the first place. But that was logical thinking, Frankie knew. And logic didn’t always come into it. Like leaving. Logically, he knew he should. It’d be easier in some ways—leave behind the memories, leave behind the loneliness—but at the same time, this house was all he had now of his parents. How could he leave that? Logic didn’t come into play here. He looked to the floor where Samson—so many years ago—had built a bridge between the two styles of wood in the floor. He’d done such a good job that the maple and walnut actually blended. Frankie almost laughed out loud: it was like a goddamned metaphor. He and his father were the two different woods, except there was no chance of that bridge now, was there? He looked at his aunt. Did she feel the same way, about his dad? “Thanks for all you’ve done, Aunt Jenny. Looking in on me and all,” he blurted out as she put away her Blackphone.

  Her face turned concerned. “Frankie, you don’t get it. You’re going to move up to the camp first thing in the morning.”

  He shook his head. “I want to stay here for a while. Maybe in a couple days I’ll come.”

  She sat back, searched his eyes. “Franklyn, this is no time to be sentimental. This is Taqwan we’re talking about. He doesn’t joke.”

  He thought of all the chores. The plants needed watering. Water! “I do get it, Aunt Jenny. I just need to do some things first.” His father would have taken care of business first. “You know, I wanted to get away from this house so bad.” He laughed, a resigned sound, no joy there at all. He looked at the caulking between the sheets of wood that made up the wall. Some was crumbling—he’d have to dig it out, add new caulking. He’d watched how Samson had done it before. “But now I need to stay.” He gazed imploringly at his aunt. “Just for a day. I just need a day.”

  “Lord, Jesus.” Her phone buzzed again. She looked at it, then put it back down. “Listen, Franklyn, your father didn’t want you in the posse. But you’re in it now, and you have to forget what you regret.”

  “Forget?” Behind Jenny was the black-and-white picture of his mother, the one his father was holding when Frankie told him he’d gotten the scholarship. Forget?

  Jenny’s eyes went soft, for a moment only, but he saw it as she said, “Tonight only. Me and Joe are your family now, Franklyn.”

  And the posse—Winston, Marshal, Greg, and Big Pelton, especially the way they’d shown up at the party—were there for him.

  Aunt Jenny swung open the door. “You need any help, you call. But remember, we only talk about where to meet, no posse business on the phone.”

  “I understand, Aunt Jenny.”

  “Come ya, mon.” She opened her arms and hugged him, swaying into it the way his mother used to do. Reassuring him that no, he wasn’t alone.

  * * *

  Later, Frankie twisted the opener along the tin lip of the bully beef can. The corned beef smelled like hard-boiled eggs. He daubed the purple mash over the buttered hardo bread, then chopped a slice of onion and landscaped the pieces over that. The chair creaked under him as he sank his teeth into the salty, pungent blend.

  He couldn’t remember if he’d eaten anything at the party. His head ached from the whiskey, that was certain. His father loved bully beef, but as Frankie went to dollop more out, strangely, there wasn’t much left in the can. Yet the sandwiches Samson made for Frankie were always thick, thick. Frankie paused, knife in the air. Because Samson gave most of it to him. He turned from the sandwich.

  His fat
her’s silver hair clippers lay next to the dog-eared King James Bible on the small table by the couch. Sighing, Frankie plunked himself down. The clippers were heavier than he remembered. He lay back and pressed the button. The battery still had juice, the sound was—his father. His father and the first Saturday of every month. He would trim his own hair, then he’d trim Frankie’s. The buzz was oddly comforting, like rain outside the window on sleepless nights. Frankie’s shoulders melted into the thin, lumpy cushions.

  * * *

  Thwomp! Frankie woke up from his sleep and sprang off the couch. Light from the kerosene lamp shimmied across the wall. A scream. It sounded like a man in pain. Frankie scanned the room, settled on the back window. It was just dawn, a muted pink and gold outside. His father’s machete was cleaved into the sill! The trap had been sprung—there was blood on the blade. Damn Dad—the thing worked! Hazy, unbalanced, he rushed to the bucket, smacking his shin on the counter leg, and grabbed his gun. He peered outside to see someone running away in the distance, clutching his hand. It was Garnett—it had to be. Frankie left the house and bolted across the yard onto the street. He raised his gun and took aim, but before he could fire, Garnett sprinted into the dark bush, out of sight.

  “Fuck you!” Garnett’s shout echoed through the quiet town. Frankie raced back into the house, adrenaline flowing. He grabbed his khakis, thrashed through the pockets for his phone. There was a knock on the door. Frankie froze. But Garnett wouldn’t knock. Still, Frankie raised his gun, checked the rear window to make sure he wasn’t being set up. His hand was trembling, his finger ever so close to pulling the trigger.

  “Frankie, open up! It’s me.” Big Pelton. Only Big Pelton. Frankie practically panted with relief. He lowered the gun and ran to the door.

  Sweat dotted Big Pelton’s forehead. The relief was short-lived. “Come quick, mon. It’s Winston. Me think him dying.”

  Thirty-Five

  big Pelton tore down the street, arms pumping. Frankie followed, trying not to picture Winston in any way but his chubby-cheeked grinning self. Not like Ray-Ban Boy. Not like that. But as they stopped in front of Winston’s house, Frankie heard sobbing, and his knees went weak. Then, as if in slow motion, he brushed past Big Pelton and up onto the small porch. Creaking open the door, he stepped inside the dimly lit one-room house. Greg was already there, slouched against a wall. His face was a wreck of emotion. “Somebody said it was Garnett. Everybody out searching. We don’t know if Taqwan is about,” he told them, his voice raw.

  And there—there was Winston. He lay on the couch, his head on his mother’s lap. He could have been taking a nap. Frankie rushed forward and fell to his knees. Winston’s eyes were closed. There was a stench of urine. His skin already had a bluish tint; the corner of his bottom lip sagged as if he was about to cry. Frankie looked around wildly. Had anyone tried CPR? They’d had a course in high school. But then he noticed Winston’s shirt. His white polo was stained dark red, a small neat hole like the eye of a storm in his chest. A fly buzzed, landing on the arm of the couch. Frankie felt fury at this fly. He was not going to let it land on Winston. As he swung at it, he at last took note of Winston’s mother, his little sister, Tanya, their faces blank, gazing at him as if unable to comprehend what he was doing. He swatted again at the fly, hitting it. Suddenly the fly was gone.

  Winston was gone.

  Frankie’s stomach turned rotten. The rot rose to his throat.

  He rushed out the door, doubled over the porch railing, and vomited. Winston. Winston was dead. He vomited again.

  A breath returned, but he didn’t trust it. Big Pelton was beside him saying something. Frankie couldn’t hear the words. He closed his eyes. Another full breath of air—he had to get a grip. But… Samson and now Winston? Winston?

  “Franklyn, you all right?” Aunt Jenny was here? How did she get here? How did she know?

  He tried to respond. His throat ached.

  “It’s all right, Franklyn. You understand?”

  Was she insane? It wasn’t all right. Nothing was all right. His best friend had just been murdered. It wasn’t all right. But he lowered his head, nodding because he had to. If he didn’t nod, he didn’t know what he’d do.

  Thirty-Six

  as Frankie stood on the porch, hours later, after Big Pelton and Greg had left, the world came back into focus, and along with it the shock of Winston’s death. He knew, of course he knew, that he’d never talk to Winston again. Greg had said the same, voice cracking when he had told Frankie what he knew about Winston’s death. All packed, excited, probably still drunk, hovering just a few feet from his house with some boys from the area, Winston had been bragging about moving up to camp. Frankie understood. Winston wasn’t so much worrying about the coming war with Taqwan as he was pumped about moving to camp. Camp was a big thing. That meant Winston was a big thing. Big until Garnett slipped out of the night and shot him. It was easy to picture Garnett, stalking his prey, a beast in the night, eager to settle the score with Winston.

  Frankie had asked Greg if Winston had a chance to use his gun, wondering if he had gotten the yips again. Greg didn’t know. No one would ever know.

  Blowing out a long stream of air, Frankie longed to talk to his ma. The words he had imagined her saying at her grave echoed. The posse wasn’t for him. He had to leave. He had to figure out a way.

  Frankie stood on the sloping porch of Winston’s house, looking out at a sky too beautiful to be following the ugliness of the night before. Two women walked past, their eyes widening at the sight of him, as if inquiring, wanting news. He looked away.

  Aunt Jenny came out to tell him Winston’s mother wasn’t feeling so well. “We send for a doctor.”

  “Can I do anything?” Besides screaming for the rest of his life, he thought.

  “Nothing.” She rubbed his shoulder. “Why don’t you go check with the others? See what’s going on.”

  Frankie hopped off the porch, glad for a reason to leave Winston’s mother’s hiccupping cries, and her daughter’s disbelieving face. He walked past the old breadfruit tree, its fallen fruit decaying on the ground. At the end of the street, he paused at Mr. Brown’s store. Only a month ago it had been full of life, and now it was empty and boarded up.

  Then he heard a shout. A group was gathered down by the gully, just off the main road. What was up with that? A few steps closer and Frankie could practically smell the tension, the danger. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t good. He felt for his gun and hustled over. Big Pelton and Marshal and a few of the other new recruits were shielding—who? He got closer. Ice Box and Buck-Buck. Ice Box and Buck-Buck were behind them, holding Garnett! Duct-taped to his right hand was a blood-soaked rag.

  Samson’s device. Tears pressed at Frankie’s eyes. His father… his father had literally saved him from the beast in the night—the rolling calf.

  Garnett’s eyes were wild, pleading.

  Beyond Garnett was a precipitous drop-off, a two-hundred-feet plunge into a shrub-laden gully, trunks of trees intertwined like the veins of a grandmother’s hands. Frankie struggled to take in the situation—everything seemed to be spinning to the surreal. Garnett? They’d caught Garnett? Yes, they were holding him by his skinny arms. Yet the scene in front of him seemed impossible, and an absurd thought came to him: standing on the precipice, with the capital city of Kingston in the background, Garnett, Ice Box, and Buck-Buck made for a macabre postcard: Greetings from Troy, wish you were here.

  Joe was just arriving too, dreads swaying, striding past the others toward Garnett. A bit of theater for the crowd’s benefit. Frankie felt so strange—there, but a million miles away. He could have been watching a movie.

  “You love to take life in cold blood?” Joe was saying.

  Garnett opened his mouth to respond, but closed it. His silence was a strategic consideration, Frankie guessed.

  Joe wasn’t having it. “You can’t talk?”

  “I sorry,” Garnett squealed at last.

  “Sorry?�
�� Joe mocked. He smiled big. Teeth so white, despite all the ganja he smoked. “Sorry? Me wasn’t born when me mother gone to market. You not sorry at all.”

  Frankie had such hot hate for Garnett; still, he could feel the horror of his impending doom. Joe was only setting him up with all the fake humor. Garnett would be dead soon.

  “No, Joe! Me not calling you stupid—” pleaded Garnett. He cut himself off, mouth falling open. Frankie spun around—it was Cricket and Blow Up. They were carrying a discarded tire. Garnett suddenly started to struggle, twisting his arms away. But Buck-Buck was ready with a fat fist to his stomach. With an oof, Garnett doubled over, but Ice Box yanked him upright. Cricket and Blow Up lifted the tire over Garnett, like a straitjacket custom-made by the Goodyear company. Garnett started whimpering as Buck-Buck took out a bottle of kerosene oil and doused the tire and then Garnett. The stage set, Joe approached, holding up a disposable Bic lighter. Click.

  Frankie stepped back as people—where had they all come from?—rushed past him, bumping into his shoulders, desperate for the spectacle they would retell, even to others who were present. He turned and walked away from the gully. There would be no satisfaction in what was about to happen. Garnett’s end would only be a new beginning of the same. Was he the only one who felt shame, and dread, and disgust?

  He was passing Mr. Brown’s store when a heavy hand dropped on his shoulder, skunky ganja scent taking the oxygen from the air. Joe leaned in, his spliff burning.

  “Frankie, take your things out of di house; you moving up to my camp now. This is war.”