Your Corner Dark

by Desmond Hall

  Buck-Buck’s and Ice Box’s expressions were grim. Frankie waited for them to say something, but they seemed to be waiting for him. He remained silent—he had no excuses. None that would matter to them, anyway. Whatever his punishment, he was going to have to take it.

  Buck-Buck broke the freeze, rocking side to side, then suddenly lunged, belting his thick fist into Frankie’s gut.

  As the air rushed out of him, Frankie began to fall, a flash of feeling light as paper, a flash of remembering the hospital floor. But Buck-Buck caught him by the shoulders, shook him hard, kept him standing. He punched Frankie again, so fast Frankie didn’t see it coming. He doubled over, then felt his shoulder hitting the dirt. Clutching his stomach, he pulled his knees up tight. Everyone was now walking away, their gaits slow, quiet as if their team had lost a game. No one looked back.

  Buck-Buck hunkered down, his breath sour and hot. “Joe tell us to come talk some sense into you. Him say you can’t run away from camp and miss no meetings. You should know who you work for and own up to your responsibilities—”

  “Me think him say duties,” Ice Box interrupted.

  Buck-Buck shrugged. “What difference it make? Duties is the same thing as responsibilities.”

  “If you say so.” Ice Box looked away, annoyed.

  Buck-Buck turned back to Frankie. “Duties not the same as responsibilities?”

  Frankie, still gasping for air, was not sure he was hearing this conversation correctly.

  “You don’t know?” Buck-Buck pressed, irritated. “You should know, mon. You no get big scholarship and thing?”

  Gray lights floated down in front of Frankie’s eyes.

  “Now listen, Frankie,” Ice Box said. “Because Bradford couldn’t make it, di meeting get rescheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Don’t miss it or any other one, fi dat matter.”

  The meeting was canceled and he still got this kind of beating? What would have happened if there actually had been a meeting? The absurdity of it all got to Frankie. And in spite of the pain, he had to grin. “You have a hell of a punch.”

  “Yeh, mon. Muscles isn’t everything. It’s about your hand speed.” Buck-Buck punched the air.

  Ice Box flexed his own arm. Muscles rippled. “My punch finish fights. Yours can only start one.”

  “Oh, I can finish fights too. But me not going to kill Frankie.”

  Frankie caught his breath.

  “Frankie, between Ice Box’s punch and mine, which one hotter?” Buck-Buck asked now, patting Frankie’s back, friends.

  “You can’t ask him that. I punched him weeks ago now. If you really want to test it, we both have to hit him one after the other.”

  “No thanks.” Frankie started hobbling toward his shack. “Let’s just call it a tie.” He heard them laugh as he shouldered the door, fell to his knees, and sprawled out on the floor.

  * * *

  The next morning Frankie was up crazy early, stomach aching, feeling mad at the world, and mad hungry. Breakfast wasn’t on yet, so he decided to go to the packaging shed, hoping to work so hard he would stop thinking about Leah, about Winston, about his dad, at least for a little while. He also needed to make good with the posse for missing the meeting that wasn’t.

  The windowless packaging shed—a good three times bigger than his shack—reeked of ganja. Thank goodness they’d harvested this batch a little early, or else he might need a mask. About to flick the switch on the vacuum-sealing machine, he remembered that the battery was low. Didn’t want to deal with wrinkly bags again and have to remove the ganja, then go and reseal it all over again. He reminded himself to tell Joe they should buy a new one that didn’t mess up when the battery got low. Even though his uncle was cheap, he’d understand how the wrinkles could let air in and start molding his holy crop. Then again, maybe he should try to talk Joe into putting up the money for canisters. They’d probably keep the ganja better and there’d be no crushed bud problems. Nah, Joe was too cheap. Besides, he’d said he didn’t care about crushed buds. Damn, why should Frankie care? He slammed his hands on the table, lowered his head. This wasn’t what he wanted to be doing in his life, freakin’ packaging weed in a dark-ass room.

  Frankie took a breath. The weed smell was intense. Shit, at least this was better than firing bullets at people. He went about changing the battery, loaded up buds into a plastic bag. Ready, he lined up the open edge in the machine, locked it, pressed the button, and the machine whirred, sucked the air out, automatically sealing the bag at the same time.

  After an hour and a half, Frankie’s eyes were burning, worse than cutting onions, and he was bored out of his mind. Stretching, he clicked off the machine and went out for some sweet mountain air. The camp was just stirring. Joe’s girlfriend, locks sticking out of her cap, was removing yellow ackee fruit from its red shells. She picked out the poisonous stem and dropped the fruit into a big clay pot that sat on three oval stones over a fire. Samson had always cooked ackee with saltfish for breakfast, called it Jamaica’s national dish. Frankie didn’t know if it was or wasn’t, but the sight of it was making him even more hungry.

  In the middle of camp, Joe was sitting cross-legged with Blow Up, Cricket, Marshal, and a few others. They all looked totally chill, so Frankie bet Joe was leading one of his Rastafarian discussions. Buck-Buck had mentioned that he held them once a week, that it was a cool experience. So Frankie started walking over there. Might as well check it out since the posse was all he had. At least until he could figure some way to get out of it. Might as well see what it was all about.

  Aunt Jenny cut him off halfway there. “Franklyn.”

  “Hi, Aunt Jenny.”

  “You should get started on the bagging.”

  “I’m almost done.”

  She dropped her jaw in a mock gesture of surprise. “Hardworking man.”

  Ice Box joined them, scowling big-time. “Jenny, Buck-Buck say me have to go collect today.”

  Aunt Jenny threw her hands on her hips. “That’s right.”

  “Bumboclot, me hate that job, mon,” Ice Box moaned. “Why me always haffi’ do it?”

  “Anybody ever refuse to pay you?”

  He raised his chin in pride. “No, mon.”

  “Well, that’s why. You’re as a big as a house. You scare the hell out of them.”

  He still frowned. Like a petulant little kid, Frankie thought. “Me still no love it, mon. Me haffi’ listen to bumboclot stories all di long day. ‘Times are hard. Money is scarce.’ ”

  Frankie saw a way to help out and stay out of the packing shed at the same time. “What’s the job? Maybe I can do it?”

  Ice Box raised an eyebrow. “You? You can’t even drive.”

  “I can!” Frankie said proudly. “Mr. Brown taught me.”

  “Yeah, how you going fi deal with pocket or pay?”

  “What?”

  “The police, mon. Dem stop me all di time say me speeding or whatever. Dem jus’ want pocket money. Pay them right there and you gone clear, otherwise dem give you a ticket or try fi harass you some other way.”

  “Franklyn, you think you can collect protection?”

  He considered. “Sort of.”

  She gave him a look, knowing full well he didn’t know about protection. “All the shopkeepers in this entire area, and even some down in Spanish Town, pay us to take care of them,” she started.

  “How uh, exactly do we do that?”

  “Well, for one, Joe gets their garbage picked up. The government surely doesn’t, plus since we look out for them, they don’t get robbed.”

  Ice Box spat. “And with all dat, dem still have ’nuff stories about how dem can’t pay.”

  “Huh.” Frankie couldn’t help but think that bullies pretty much did this same kind of thing at school.

  “Youth, you never hear of that before?” Ice Box’s voice went condescending.

  “No, I just didn’t think we did that kind of thing.”

  Aunt Jenny landed her hand, butterfly-lig
ht, on Frankie’s shoulder, looking Ice Box in the eye. “He’s not ready for something like that. We need you.” Her voice was soft.

  “Me know you samfi me, you know?”

  “Me not tricking you, Ice Box.” Her voice was softer.

  “Is all right.” He spun on his heels, leaving a lot less agitated than when he came over.

  Man, Aunt Jenny could handle anyone, anytime. She turned to Frankie. “So, what are you doing now?”

  He gestured toward Joe. “I was going to go to sit in, hear what it’s all about.”

  Curiously, she took her hand off his shoulder. “Why don’t you wait a while, Franklyn. See if that’s really right for you.” At that, she walked away, not even waiting for any response.

  Frankie stared after her. That was totally strange, totally. Wasn’t Jenny a Rasta too? And yet Winston had said how Joe wasn’t a real Rasta, because he used violence. He’d thought Winston was just being bitter because he’d gotten kicked out of the posse, but now he wasn’t so sure. Now it seemed clear that even Aunt Jenny was hinting that Frankie shouldn’t follow Joe.

  But back at the shack, seeing the shell sitting on top of the radio, there was something—someone—he just couldn’t wait for. Leah. Once and for all, he had to know. He thought for a minute—what day was it anyway? She was probably at school. He grabbed his backpack. Outside, the smell of ackee and saltfish and Rasta ital stew beckoned. Man, he was hungry, but he had to get to school. He made a beeline for Aunt Jenny, told her he had to pick up some homework assignments.

  She studied him as if taking X-rays of his soul. “You no have things to do?”

  “Not much. I can finish when I get back.”

  She held his gaze, taking more X-rays.

  “I even started on tomorrow’s.”

  “You know about the meeting this afternoon, I trust?”

  Frankie nodded fast. “Yes.”

  “You must look out for Taqwan’s people.”

  “School is on the other side of town.”

  “I know that, but every day the bucket goes to the well, one day the bottom will fall out.”

  “Me not looking for any more trouble, Aunt Jenny.”

  She turned away, and he took that to mean it was okay for him to leave.

  * * *

  Frankie peeked through the window in the art studio door. She was at her usual spot right in the corner of the room. His mother would say about relationships when they’d gone bad, It spoil. Maybe, but theirs was too new to spoil. He put his hand on the door, took a long breath, and pushed. He’d grown to like the chemical smell of paint—Leah’s “perfume” besides the citrus and cedar.

  She was leaning back, her arms folded. Lined up on the table was a row of pill bottles, including the two she’d shown him at the museum. They couldn’t be all hers, could they? Reflexively, Frankie glanced over at the two other students working near the big windows. When he looked back, Leah was staring at him.

  “Hey,” he said, moving closer. He touched the cap of one of the bottles.

  “They bother you?” Challenge in her voice.

  “No, just… there are other people in here….”

  She let her arms drop by her side. “It’s an art project, Frankie.”

  “Yeah, but you’re letting people into your business.”

  “The art I make already says who I am.”

  He nodded, thinking that was true. What you do is who you are. He blinked that thought away—he wasn’t going down that path right now. “So, you’re making an exhibition of your meds?”

  “No, somebody already did that. Got a great review for it too.” She rearranged the bottles. “Just opening myself up. I need some inspiration or something, I guess. Kind of blocked right now.” She paused, then said, “Why are you here, anyway?”

  The words were like a hand on his chest, pushing him away.

  “Still mad?” he asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He looked toward the other art students again. “Can we go talk somewhere, please?”

  “I’m good.”

  One hand began to tremble; he made a fist, quick, to hide it. “I’m sorry, Leah. I know it’s no excuse, but I—” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “It was the only way I could see to save my dad. And believe me, I tried. I even tried to trade in my scholarship for money! It was before you and me. I just—didn’t figure on you and me. And how much I feel for you. I just knew that… if I told you… you’d walk.”

  “Yes, yu’ corner dark,” she said in patois.

  So maybe she did understand? That there had been no good choice to make—not with his father, or with the posse. Every corner was, indeed, dark.

  “As a cop, my father does some pretty messed-up stuff.”

  Frankie watched her carefully, hardly daring to breathe.

  “But it’s Jamaica, and the way things are, he has to make compromises,” she added. “I can see that in you. I always saw that in you.” She looked down at the many bottles in front of her. “I appreciate what you have to go through. I do.”

  His mind was spinning. This was sounding like she was finished with him.

  “Thing is, like I said at the beach, I don’t know if I can trust you. I don’t know what else you might be keeping from me, Frankie.”

  Why was everything so fucking hard?

  “Frankie, stop pacing.”

  Was he pacing? He stopped.

  “But I don’t see why—why—you still think that! I mean, I’m telling you this. I explained everything, and you—no, no one—no one gets any of it. Shit!”

  Water welled behind his eyes. He didn’t want her to see. He stormed toward the door, the steel handle smashing back on the concrete wall with a hard clang. He had to get out of there, out of everywhere.

  “Frankie!”

  Leah was behind him.

  “Frankie!”

  She ran to catch up. “Frankie, stop. Please!”

  He wiped at his face with his forearm. Hesitated.

  Leah caught up, and hugged him from behind. He turned and landed his head on her shoulder, shaking. He could have stayed like that for a long time, but one of the students came out of the room to see what was going on. Frankie took Leah’s hand and moved farther down the hallway. When the student ducked back into the room, Frankie leaned against the wall. He felt so damn tired. He felt so damn relieved.

  She put her hand on his chest. “Don’t ever lie to me again.”

  He took her gaze in, whole, raw. “I won’t, girl.”

  “Don’t,” she said. Then she closed in against him.

  But his throat tightened. There was one more dark corner between them: her father. He had to gamble, keep this one last thing from her, and hope.

  * * *

  Sitting on a bench with Leah in the middle of the campus mall, Frankie looked up at the Jamaican flag that hung limp on this hot, humid, and windless day. Its slackness reminded Frankie of when he had sat in his counselor’s office and called the university in America to get an advance on his scholarship. The day he’d made the deal with Joe for the money to save his father. And that worked out so freaking well. He had to figure a way out. He had to be at the damn meeting in two hours. Wait, Bradford was supposed to be at that meeting! Frankie jolted straight up on the bench, startling Leah.

  “Hey, you all right?” Leah held his upper arm.

  “Huh?” He collected himself. “Yeah.”

  She pulled something out of her backpack—a crisp copy of a Popular Mechanics magazine. “It just came out. I noticed you didn’t have a subscription. You almost didn’t get it.”

  He almost didn’t get her. Gripping the magazine with both hands, as he looked at the cover, his eyes blurred. She’d taken the time to think of him, get him something, even when she was totally pissed at him. He didn’t trust his voice to say thank you.

  “Hey, you can read it later, you know,” she joked.

  He looked up and kissed her. Hard.

  She pulled
back, smiling, even her eyes.

  But, “I have something to tell you,” Leah said next. Her tone was heavy—whatever was coming next wasn’t going to be good. “I was going to tell you at the beach, but… the whole posse thing came up and—”

  His chest went tight. “You’re not breaking up with me, are you?”

  “No!” She waited for a group of students to walk by, then: “Remember I told you I got wait-listed for University of Miami? Well, someone dropped out of the art program.” Her voice went wobbly. “I’m going.”

  Frankie eased his hand away, strained to digest this. Now? She was telling him this now? A surge of anger swelled; he tamped it down.

  Leah put her arms around him and pulled hard, like she was trying to merge them together. “I wanted this so bad, and now… now… there’s you…”

  He pressed his head against hers. He should be happy for her! Yet a streak of jealousy flared—he couldn’t help it. And—she was leaving? He shouldn’t feel jealous, he knew it. But it was there anyway.

  She put a hand on his shoulder. “You all right?”

  He must have been staring into space. Time to forget about himself and big her up. “Me well happy fi yu’, mon.” He hugged her hard. “Amazing, Leah! You must be so psyched!”

  She was all joy, he could see it in her eyes. It was replaced with a look of intense concentration. “Frankie… the posse stuff… nothing good is ever going to come of it. I know you know that. You could end up—” She choked up. “Listen, why don’t you come with me? Come to America. We can figure it out.”

  “You—you—you—” It was like he was juggling his words in his mouth, and they were getting stuck somewhere between hopelessness and regret. You can’t leave a posse just like that and live. She got into her college and now she was leaving. But he had to stay.

  “Frankie, you said you’d find a way out of the posse. This is a way. You can stay with me.” Her eyes were warm and hopeful—a complete opposite juxtaposition of his uncle’s when he said joining the posse was a lifetime commitment. Shit. Just—shit. “I don’t know. I don’t even have a passport. The university was going to take care of everything for me. Hell, I don’t even know where my father kept my birth certificate.”