Saint X

by Alexis Schaitkin

  On Sunday evenings, nearly everyone in Bendy Harbour gathered at the home of the only family in the village with a generator and a television. They turned the television so that it faced the yard, and everyone sat outside together to watch. Usually he and his mother did not join their neighbors, so on Sunday nights Clive sat at home knowing everyone else was together without him. But once in a while they went, and he sat on his mother’s lap among all the people he had ever known and had never not known as the sun went down. They watched Rawhide and The Wild Wild West, cheered as Andre the Giant took on Killer Khan or Kamala. When the generator wound down for the night, someone would light a lamp, and the stories would begin. This was what Clive missed most: drifting to sleep in his mother’s arms as voices that were as familiar to him as his own skin conjured faraway, long-ago worlds.

  There were stories about the men who had left the island at the beginning of the century and sailed to the Dominican Republic aboard the schooner Lady Ann to cut cane, or to Trinidad to work in the oil refineries, about fishermen and sailors and their trips to Aruba and Cuba and Curaçao and the things they had seen—the port of Santo Domingo, the club Sans Souci and the Malecón in Havana. There was the story of a cane cutter who came upon a beautiful woman one night along a desolate stretch of road. The next thing he knew, he was waking up beneath a silk-cotton tree in the forest in broad daylight. His shoes were gone—his feet were caked in dirt and blood. When he finally found his way to a road, he discovered he had traveled some twenty kilometers from where he had been walking the night before—he had crossed mountains and rivers but remembered nothing.

  There were stories about the Lady Ann—how when Jonathan Bell’s great-grandfather sailed the schooner back from Santo Domingo to see his dying father, it made the journey a day faster than ever before and he arrived just in time to kiss his father goodbye; of the salt she transported to Trinidad, and how, after the barrels had been unloaded, the deck glittered with fine white crystals like stars. There were stories about salt, how during the reaping months it was not uncommon to pull a cake heavier than a small child from the Thomasvale Pond. There was the story of Harlan Ghaut, who was walking the Old Vale Road past the salt pond when he saw a finned woman sunning herself on the rocks, or so he claimed. Harlan returned to the spot every day, but he never saw her again, until he returned late one night and found her perched on the rock, opening her fin and unfurling two human feet. Twenty years later, Harlan was sitting in his apartment in London watching television when this very same mermaid flashed across the screen.

  There were stories about Janet and Alice and Carla and Camille, the great storms that had leveled the island before Clive was born—how roofs lifted off houses and people looked up from their beds into the skies of heaven, how cars spun like bottles in the streets, how the wind stripped houses clean of their paint, and how the paint, carried on gale winds, could cut you up like glass. The sinking of the Lady Ann in Britannia Bay.

  Then there was the story Clive loved best, the one he begged his mother to tell as she tucked him in, about a long-haired woman with hooves for feet who lived on Faraway Cay.

  “Is she real?” Clive would ask.

  “For true. Your Great-Aunt Ruth got lured away by she. Poof. Vanish like so.”

  (“Ha!” his grandmother snorted when he asked if she believed Ruth had been taken by the woman on Faraway Cay. “I believe your auntie had she reasons to get lost; that’s what I believe.”) His grandmother did not tell stories. With her, the world was just itself.

  His mother had been gone less than a year when the island’s first ice plant opened. You could buy a twenty-kilo block of it; men churned ice cream and shaved ice on the pier year-round. You no longer had to wait for the boat from Saint Croix at Christmastime, and you quickly forgot what a wonder it had once been to sit on the pier, your feet dangling over the flickering sea, and taste the coldness of ice cream while the sun beat hot on your shoulders. Not long after that, electricity came to the island’s villages. Soon, lots of people had televisions and the gatherings and the stories ceased. Next the telephone wires went up. In no time, Mayfair Road was paved, and then Investiture Boulevard, and soon all the streets in the Basin. Then the resorts came, and with them the tourists, and everything changed.

  And so, for Clive, the sleepy, magical feeling of childhood was inextricably bound up with the island as it was before—with the smell of kerosene and the sounds of stories in the dark—which were, in turn, bound up with his mother. And as the years passed without her she became, like his father, a disquieting emptiness right at the center of him where he thought there should have been sadness.

  * * *

  HORATIO BYRD Primary was three times the size of Bendy Harbour Primary, where Clive had attended first grade. It was a low, horseshoe-shaped concrete building painted white with blue trim. On the inside of the horseshoe, children ran and shrieked across the packed-dirt schoolyard. Clive tugged at the collar of his polo.

  “Stop that,” his grandmother said.

  He didn’t know how she saw—she wasn’t even looking at him. He stopped.

  “Go on,” she said.

  He took a few shuffling steps forward. When he turned to look back at her, she was already halfway across the yard. He watched as she strode in her black shoes through the gate and out of sight.

  The classroom was not so different from the first-grade room at Bendy Harbour. The long wooden tables were the same. The girls wore the same jumpers and blouses, only here they were maroon and pink instead of green and white. The boys all wore pink polos and maroon trousers like him, though the other boys did not have their shirts buttoned to the top. He wanted to loosen his but didn’t dare. Somehow, his grandmother would know. On the wall above the blackboard there was even the same illustrated alphabet: a balloon for B, a goat for G, an igloo for I, and, his favorite, a mermaid for M. He looked at the familiar picture, the pink and green scales of the mermaid’s tail, her hair swirling around her head in curlicues, and felt calm.

  The teacher, a tall, kind-faced woman named Miss Forsyth, took attendance.

  “Annmarie Bell.”

  “Present.”

  “Don Claxton.”

  “Present.”

  “Damien Fleming.”

  “Present.”

  As she made her way steadily and inexorably through the alphabet, his mouth grew dry until it stuck together, teeth to tongue to roof.

  “Edwin Hastie.”

  Silence.

  “Edwin Hastie?”

  A boy in the last row shot up as if he’d just jolted awake. “Yes!”

  Everybody tittered.

  “Yes what, Mr. Hastie?”

  “Yes, I be present.”

  “I am present.”

  “I hope so, Miss Forsyth. You is our teacher.”

  The class broke into laughter. Clive laughed, too, though his was a nervous laughter; his turn was still coming.

  “Sara Lycott,” Miss Forsyth said, cutting off the ruckus like thwacking a weed with a scythe.

  “Present, Miss Forsyth.”

  “Daphne Nelsen.”

  “Present.”

  “Desmond Phillips.”

  “Present.”

  “Ron Rawlins.”

  “Present.”

  “Clive Richardson.”

  He opened his mouth, but his throat wrung itself up. His ears went hot, as if pricked by bees.

  “P-p-p-”

  Thirty pairs of eyes converged on him.

  “P-p-p-”

  He searched the ceiling desperately.

  “P-p-p-present.” The word came out much too loud, like an angry shout. They were all laughing again, harder than they had when Edwin Hastie pulled his stunt.

  “Enough,” Miss Forsyth said. “Thank you, Clive.” She smiled very sweetly at him, which made it worse.

  They spent the morning on maths. Miss Forsyth wrote equations on the board. She had beautiful handwriting. Each numeral was like a flower. She ca
lled students up one at a time to work the problems out. If Michael has seven nails and John has twelve, how many more nails does John have than Michael? Marie has seventeen yards of fabric. If she needs four yards to make a skirt, how many skirts can she make?

  Each time Miss Forsyth read a question, Clive’s mind flailed. The words tumbled together, twisting into strange shapes in his head. He tried to sort it out while praying he would not be called upon, because in addition to not understanding the questions, he also had to urinate very badly. He had drunk all of his tea at breakfast. But he could not bring himself to ask to use the toilet because he knew he would not be able to get the words out.

  “Johnny has a dozen eggs. If he eats four for breakfast, what does he have left? Edwin?”

  The skinny boy swaggered up to the blackboard. His trousers were too big for him—they were cinched to his waist with a belt, bunched and sagging. He took the chalk from Miss Forsyth and wrote: g-a-s.

  The class doubled over with laughter. Miss Forsyth allowed herself a very brief smile.

  “The corner,” she said. Edwin swaggered there, too. “You see, class, Edwin might be the smartest boy here but he treats everything as a joke so we will never know.”

  In the corner, Edwin Hastie played with the collar of his polo, flipping it up and down as if he hadn’t heard Miss Forsyth. His eyes flashed as if lit by a brewing storm.

  After maths, Miss Forsyth distributed copies of the Higham Brothers Reader and they went down the rows from the front of the room to the back, each student reading aloud in turn from a story about an American man who planted apple seeds wherever he went. Clive barely heard the words. He was now focused entirely on squeezing his legs together against the unbearable pressure of his bladder. He turned the page of his reader. The American, barefoot and with a tin pot on his head, lay next to a river—blue and white and foamy, full of rushing water. He could hold it no longer. As Daphne Nelsen read in the pinched, nasal voice he would hate forever after, he tentatively pressed his fingers into the air.

  “Yes, Clive?” Miss Forsyth said, cutting off Daphne midsentence. The eyes were on him again.

  “May I g-g-g-”

  It would happen. He would wet himself right here, in front of the entire class, on his first day at his new school.

  “May I go—go—go—”

  Miss Forsyth saw his anguish and understood. “Yes! Hurry!”

  Bent at the waist, fumbling over his feet, he dashed from the classroom. In the hall, he put both hands on his crotch and ran, and when he reached the latrine and released a torrent of urine he felt simultaneously so grateful and so humiliated that his eyes filled with tears.

  * * *

  WHEN PLAYTIME came, he made for a deserted corner of the yard. As the girls played marbles and the boys engaged in a rough game of tag, he sat, pulling clumps of dry grass from the dirt. He was himself all over again. In his mortification, he found a certain peace. He had his spot in the yard, and every day at playtime he would come to it and keep his own company. He thought of his mother. Where was she now? Did she know it was his first day of school? He pictured her tapping at a typewriter in a white room.

  Boys were coming toward him. The troublemaker, Edwin, was leading a pack of them; he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted: “Hey, Go-Go!”

  The other boys clapped.

  Don hooted. “Yes! That’s right! G-g-g-go-go!”

  Clive kept his eyes on his lap.

  “Gogo, man, me speaking with you,” Edwin said.

  Clive forced himself to look up. To his surprise, Edwin was grinning down at him, his expression teasing but—could it be?—warmly so.

  “We having a cricket match, we against they.” He gestured across the yard, where a few other boys milled about. Clive sat, uncomprehending, until Edwin exclaimed, “What you waiting for? Get up, man! We need you!”

  Clive stood, wiped the dust from the seat of his trousers, and followed.

  They won the game, though no thanks to Clive, who, for the most part, stood in one place and hoped not to make a mistake. From then on, he and Edwin were always together. You never saw one without the other, and if you did, it likely meant some mischief was afoot of which you would turn out to be the unfortunate recipient. They did many things, Edwin and Clive and the rest of Edwin’s band of brothers, Don and Des and Damien. They caught bait and went to Little Beach, where they fished from the pier, diving and backflipping into the sea when they were hot. They played windball cricket in the sand and had swimming races—first one to the end of the pier, or to the Atalanta moored in the shallows. (“I get you back!” Don shouted when Edwin grabbed his leg to slow him down. “I drown you! I gonna drown you!”) They built traps and caught turtledoves. They shook tamarind pods from the tree in Damien’s yard and mixed the sticky brown pulp with sugar and water. Begged a dollar off Edwin’s mother for sugar cakes. When Clive’s grandmother baked buns, they stole them right out of the oven, slathered them quickly with red butter, then ran out of the house and down the street, tossing the hot buns in the air.

  In fifth grade, they rode their bikes often to the beach that would, a few years later, become Indigo Bay. It was still wild then. The land was covered by pomme-serette trees, and they would pick the fruit, though only one in ten was sweet. The beach stank from seaweed and the seaweed was full of bad things—needles and condoms, which they would lift with sticks and fling at each other. Sometimes they would find two antimen together on the sand. They would sneak and watch them and then Edwin would shout, Go! and they would stampede and chase them off.

  They scaled the chain-link fence and climbed the island’s radio tower, a rickety structure flaking red paint. Clive was a quarter of the way up, far below his friends, when Edwin shouted down to him, “Look out, Goges. Why bother climbing if you don’t see anything?” He gripped the metal rung as tightly as he could and raised his head. He never forgot it. He could follow the ribbon of Mayfair Road from Horatio Byrd past the governor-general’s pink house and the eggshell-blue prison; he could see how the water fanned out around the island in bands of deepening hues—from a pale, milky green like Claude Félix’s cataracts to a bright turquoise and finally a deep, sparkling blue. If he squinted, he could make out Bendy Harbour—hardly more than the idea of it, a loose sketch of houses, one of which had been his. He could see his whole life spread before him—past, present, future—and the solidness of this image made him want to collect it like a coin and keep it in his pocket forever.

  The island’s first movie hall opened when they were thirteen, and Edwin and Clive made a habit of sneaking out of Everett Lyle Secondary to catch the matinee. They waited until five minutes after the showing time so the theater was dark, then snuck in through the side door, vigilant in case Wilmot, the old man who managed the ticket booth, should come down the aisle with his flashlight. The movie hall showed a mix of old movies—westerns and kung fu, mostly—and new releases. They’d sneak into the same movie many times, timing it to catch their favorite scenes. Clive knew Pale Rider and Way of the Dragon and Ghostbusters by heart. Occasionally he discovered that Edwin had left school without him, and he knew that Edwin was in the warm theater, which smelled of stale popcorn and sweat, watching E.T. cycle across the face of the moon for the fourth, fifth, twelfth time.

  Often the movies had been out in the States a year or longer by the time they reached the island. To Clive this was unremarkable. Everything took time to reach the island. Newspapers came a week late, by way of Saint Kitts by way of Jamaica. The TV stations showed Bonanza and I Dream of Jeannie and The Beverly Hillbillies.

  For Edwin, this was a source of immense frustration.

  “When you getting Rocky IV?” he asked Wilmot one day on the way out.

  “What are you boys doing here with no ticket?”

  “I ask you first. Rocky IV out a year already. When you getting it?”

  “When the poster go up. When you think?”

  “Come on, man! Bad enough we live no
where. Why we also have to live yesterday?”

  In the beginning, Clive was wary of Edwin’s friendship. Why him? There were other boys Edwin could have chosen. There was Arthur, for example, not a cool boy by any means and a definite brown-nose, but still miles cooler than him, and besides, Arthur came with the advantages of his father’s convenience store with the satellite television in the back room. Yet Edwin had not chosen Arthur. (Nobody had chosen Arthur, who, for some mysterious reason, had been left entirely outside the world of friendship.) Had Edwin selected him merely because of his size—had he been seeking a protector, an enforcer? Or perhaps Clive had been chosen because he was quiet and went along with Edwin’s schemes. But despite his wariness, Clive knew the true reason went deeper than this. In the end, friendship was not a thing that could be explained. It was a kind of magic. Either it existed or it didn’t. Edwin said they were mates and so they were, and Clive was grateful for it.

  Many years later, he would sit in a small restaurant in an unfamiliar city, as snow—a thing he always assumed he’d die without touching—fell from the sky, and he would trace back through his life and conclude that the moment Edwin approached him in the schoolyard was the moment. The one after which everything that happened was always going to happen. The one you could wonder and wonder about but never touch: What if he’d simply stayed in the grass?

  Ever after that day, Clive was Gogo. First to his classmates, then to his neighbors, then even, at times, to his grandmother. Because it was Edwin who gave him this name, and because it was also Edwin who brought him from the darkness of solitude into the light of friendship, he quickly forgot that the name had begun with his own mortification.