by L. Todd Wood
The white men left the bar, mounted their horses, and rode off to the north. John Tate picked up the gold coins and felt the weight in his hand. He had never seen so much money in his life. Yes, he would deal with Mr. Edwards in due time. Tate drank the rest of the day away with a smile on his face.
Ram indulged in his favorite pastime: resting in his chair that overlooked the cane fields from the main house. The view was stunning as always but today Ram didn’t seem to care. He was older now and tired, much more tired than usual. He had been wracking his body with alcohol, opium, and tobacco for years. He needed a rest, but he was tormented by the same psychological pain as in years past. He always wanted to dull the pain, hence the addictions. He had been through these tough physical times before, but this was worse, much worse. The drugs and hard living were taking a toll on his body. He didn’t feel good, something was wrong.
The workers were coming back from the harvest in the late afternoon. Ram should have been happy; the plantation had produced a record crop. However, he barely noticed them, as he was overcome with a malaise so great that he hardly felt he could move. He signaled to one of the girls to bring him a drink. There were many new girls lately, he didn’t even know their names. But what did it matter anyway, he thought. They were all the same. Their scantily clad bodies didn’t even excite him anymore.
This girl was named Isabelle. She was Portuguese and young and beautiful. She had landed with several other immigrants from Madeira several months back. The group had tried to form a settlement on an unoccupied stretch of land in the south. Most of the group had died of disease or returned. Ram had been lucky enough to hire her—and she decided to stay—after seeing her while riding through the village. He had not tried to seduce her yet. It was harder now since they were not his slaves. He sometimes had to actually work for it. Besides, he rarely had the energy anymore for such activities. The opium had seen to that.
“God, I am tired,” he said aloud. Isabelle brought him his drink and he sipped the rum. His body rejected the taste, and he threw the glass into the grass, the glass shattering and spraying out in front of him. His body didn’t want opium either. Coughing violently, he felt a liquid dripping out of his nose and touched his face. Looking at his hand, he saw that it was blood.
The fever lasted for several weeks. It was typhoid. Ram had been on the island for so long, he never thought he would get sick. The danger zone had passed years before, but here he was fighting for his life. Red spots covered his chest. He was delirious, and he suffered from diarrhea and severe abdominal pain. He had visions and became severely dehydrated. He thought he was going to die. Ram probably would have passed away if it had not been for Isabelle.
She nursed him through the whole episode. She was a sweet, kind girl and bathed him, forced him to drink water, and changed his bedclothes every day. Maybe it was because she was new to the plantation, or maybe it was her heart of gold; in any case, she did not hold any grudges or hard feelings towards Ram’s behavior in the past. She truly cared for him.
This was something he had never experienced, and Ram really didn’t know how to react. He was used to physical pleasure with no feelings of the heart. When the fever broke, he had visions of her being an angel. He remembered her kindness.
Something within him changed. He felt love. He enjoyed her company and felt happiness when she entered the room. She had scratched his soul.
As the weeks went by and he recovered, the rage he felt and the cruelty he exhibited towards others melted away. He looked forward to his time with Isabelle. They took long walks through the fields, talking to each other. Many on the plantation noticed a change in him. He was pleasant and frequently kind to his workers. It seemed that the evil man who once ruled the land had left and gone away, and all it had taken was a little kindness. He even allowed the Coolies, who were mostly Muslim and Hindu, to start practicing their religion out in the open during their off hours. This infuriated the Christian residents of Trinidad society, but Ram didn’t care. He did what he wanted to do as always.
He never pushed her for sex. He just enjoyed her company. He didn’t need the addictions anymore; the void within him had been filled. They would sit on the veranda overlooking the fields, holding hands for hours and talking about anything. Ram was content with this; he loved to hear her voice. It felt good. In fact, he felt no desire for sex. That will come in time, he thought. The cloud hanging over him his whole life parted. He felt at home for the first time in his life. He felt like he belonged. He was happy. He had a reason to live. He had a future. He had Isabelle.
Chapter Eleven
Ram awoke early and looked sideways at Isabelle, who was sleeping gently next to him, her breath making a soft purring noise. They had made love throughout the night and she was exhausted. Ram felt like a king, for she was less than half his age. The morning light shone through the window and lit up her face. She was so beautiful, he thought. I don’t deserve her. But she has brought joy into my life. He wanted to continue lying next to her, but there was work to be done, as always, so Ram quietly got out of bed, dressed, ate, and saddled a horse. He didn’t want to wake her.
It was a brilliant start to the day as he trotted out of the plantation on the road to the southeastern coast of Trinidad. He was excited for the future as the sun warmed his face. There was much more traffic on the road these days near his property, many men on horseback and an occasional wagon. The local economy was growing fast with more and more arrivals from London, searching for their fortune. The air was crisp, and the slow breeze slowly turned the tree leaves upside down and back again, like a wave through the trees. The birds were singing, the island seemed alive. It was summer and Ram was cheerful. The happiness was not from opium, alcohol, or brutal, forced sex; it was from the heart. He had someone to love and that somebody loved him. It made all of the difference in the world. Ram was a changed man.
He was fifty-five years old and life had been hard. He wondered at the fact that he was just now feeling peace and marveled at the future he would enjoy with Isabelle. The horse ride and the fresh air would do him good. He gave the horse an extra kick to increase his speed. I want to get back to Isabelle. Maybe she will still be asleep when I return and we can have some more fun.
The return trip to Pitch Lake was to monitor the extraction process going on there. The oil and asphalt business was booming. The materials were desperately needed in London for lighting and construction, and Ram was more than happy to supply it to them. His foresight in developing the natural tar pit was paying off handsomely. He had developed a new process to store the tar in barrels and ship the product all over the world. He struggled to meet the demand. But with all the success came complexity. It was an operation he had to monitor constantly. Perhaps I should hire more people, he thought as he rode silently. I will have to hire more people if I continue to drill more wells. I cannot do everything myself.
He had become wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. And now he had someone to share it with. Perhaps I should stop working so hard. Maybe I should definitely hire more people so I don’t have to do everything. But, I need to find people I can trust. He had decided to ride down by himself to inspect the operation without an announced arrival. Ram didn’t feel like waking his ranch hands to provide security, he would take a chance and enjoy the ride alone. He wanted to see what was really going on at the lake. He usually found out more that way when the workers didn’t have a chance to prepare the site for him.
He had been riding for an hour when the trail took a sharp bend to the right around a clump of trees that jutted out into the road. Ram galloped fast without a care in the world. He was alone, as there was no more traffic on the road this far south. As he rounded the bend, they struck.
A man jumped down from the tree on top of him and forced Ram off his horse. The breath was knocked out of him as he hit the ground hard and his mouth was filled with dust. His horse rode off in the distance. Two other men darted into the road. One threw a sack over
his head, and the other struck his head with a blunt object. The lights went out. The men dragged his limp body out of sight in the brush.
Ram awoke with his head throbbing. He felt pain in his arms and shoulders, dried blood caked his hair and face. His mouth was dry and full of dirt. He could feel his arms tied behind his back as he regained consciousness. He was sitting next to a tree with his legs stretched out in front and his arms behind, wrapped and tied around the tree. He could feel the rope cutting into the skin. He wanted to scream but only uttered a faint grunt.
It was dark, as the sun had set long ago. Where am I? There was a fire crackling in front of him, and the flames leapt into the darkness. A tripod was built over the fire with an iron kettle. Something was cooking, he could smell it. It smelled sweet. He had smelled that smell before. As his eyes adjusted to his surroundings, he noticed three men sitting on the other side of the fire, talking amongst themselves. After a while, one turned his head toward Ram and they noticed he was awake.
“Aaah, our guest is back with us,” one of the men said. Ram noticed his slave accent. All three of the men were African.
Ram tried to focus on the men, but the light from the fire prevented his eyes from making out their features. They talked more amongst themselves in a dialect Ram could not understand.
Finally, after some time, the largest of the three men walked over to him and squatted down so their faces were eye to eye. He was so close Ram could smell him. He smelled of rum. The man was about Ram’s age.
“Do you remember me, Missa Edwards?” the black man asked. Ram looked into his eyes. Again he tried to focus but could not make out the man’s face. Blood was still dripping into his eyes from the wound on his head.
Ram tried to talk but nothing came out. His throat was too dry.
“Well lemme help you,” the man continued. “I am John Tate.”
Ram’s eyes grew wide with recognition.
“Aaah,” so you do remember me. Thass good, Missa Edwards, thass real good! Do you rememba my wife? See, you poured sugaa down her throat. She died. You killed her. And do you remember my daughter? You called her Mary. She died too you know. She died in the fields after you wuz through with her. She was tryin to have yo baby. I miss ‘em both!”
Ram understood now. His time had come. It was time to pay for his sins. He only hoped Isabelle would be all right. He was strangely at peace now. He was not afraid of death. His pain was gone. He would go quietly.
“Well itsa time you gonna pay for what yu did! And, I’ma gonna watch.”
The black man laughed and stood up. He went to the kettle and took out a ladle of the boiling liquid then walked over to Ram.
“First I’ll letchya taste a little like my wife did.” He squeezed Ram’s cheeks and forced his mouth open, pouring a little of the scalding liquid down his throat.
“I’m not gonna give you enough to kill you. That’ll come lata! Jussa little taste!”
Ram screamed as his mouth and throat were burnt away.
“This is for the critters,” said John. He poured molten sugar all over Ram’s head, shoulders, and legs. He got a second ladle full and did it again. The stench of burning flesh and sugar was nauseating.
Ram managed to maintain consciousness through the searing pain.
John Tate just stood over him watching and smiling. He took his revenge. Ram slipped into unconsciousness.
A few minutes later, a pail of cold water was thrown into his face to wake him up. He saw the men take another nearby pail of water and douse the fire. Tate stared at him for a while, watching him writhe in pain. He enjoyed the scene. “Before ya die, I want ya to think long and hard about what ya did. Like I have thought long and hard about ma family fo years.” He stared at Ram for a while. Finally he turned and walked away.
“See ya in the mownin for breafas,” said John. They disappeared into the forest, laughing.
As the dying embers faded, Ram sat in the darkness and tried to take in the last remaining minutes of his life. The pain was unbearable.
It turned out he didn’t have to bear the pain for long. Through the enveloping darkness, he saw eyes reflected in the remaining light appearing through the brush around the edge of the clearing.
The first large rat stepped hesitantly into the open space, attracted by the sugar.
Early the next morning, John Tate and his friends retrieved Ram’s body, or what was left of it. They wrapped it in a blanket and tied rope around it. Then they took Ram to Pitch Lake, gingerly making their way out on top of the crust to a hole where the liquid could be accessed. They tossed the body into the thick oil and pushed it down into the depths with a paddle. No one on Trinidad spoke of Ram Edwards again.
Part Three
Chapter Twelve
I feel like crap, Connor Murray thought to himself.
It was worse this time, much worse. The poison coursing through his veins saw to that. He thought he could feel the lining of his stomach sloughing off as the chemicals did their business. It would be hours until they were out of his system. Until then, he felt like he was swimming in poison, full of medicine to his eyeballs.
I just need to get home so I can puke in private.
He had chosen R-CHOP 21. That meant a treatment every twenty-one days with five drugs. The doctor said this would be easier. It would give him more time to recover between sessions than the more aggressive fourteen-day option. Connor thought that would be better on Natasha. Eighteen weeks of treatments would be hard enough on her; she didn’t need him puking the entire time as well. She had enough stress of her own. He now had two treatments left. Four down, two to go. I can do this.
He had also chosen Mondays, not that it would really matter since he wasn’t working anymore. Maybe it was just the old Wall Street routine in him. He always had more energy on Mondays.
The cancer grew extremely fast. The chemo targeted the fastest growing cells in the human body. Besides the cancer, the fastest growing were hair cells and the lining of the stomach; hence, the loss of hair and extreme nausea. Connor had shaved his head prior to the first injections so he wouldn’t look like a cancer patient. Just get to the apartment, one foot in front of the other.
The first time, the treatment took eleven hours. Then six, then it took four. Now, he was a pro. Today, he was out in three. Progress.
I am so tired. He could feel the humming in his ears again. That meant his body was about to shut down completely. I need to lie down or I’m going to pass out. He knew the signs. I have to make it to the apartment.
The doctor had told him it would be more difficult this time. He was right. He liked this doctor much better than the last one. He felt like he could trust him. The last one, he couldn’t. That arrogant ass, he thought.
He slowly made his way from the curb after leaving the cab a couple car lengths back. It was spring, and the birds were singing while perched on the trees between the lanes on Park Ave, but he blocked out everything around him as he searched for his doorman. He saw him as he neared his building. The doorman waved; Connor didn’t have the energy to wave back. He focused on making it to the door and then the elevator.
She will be there. She will help me. She will make it better. The thought calmed him somewhat. He wanted to puke. The bile rose in his throat.
I don’t know if I’ll make it to the lift, he thought. One step at a time.
It had been a good year until he found out about the cancer. He remembered clearly thinking, Life is good! I’m alive and I have Natasha. I’m at peace. That was before he noticed the lump in his throat, the lump that wouldn’t go away. He kept wishing it away, but every morning when he put his hand to his throat, it was still there. He found himself touching it all the time absentmindedly. This went on for months.
So he had decided to go to the arrogant bastard. He had met him at a party in Manhattan about six months earlier while visiting Gotham. The doctor made it very clear he was the best at what he did, about that he left no doubt. So good in fact
that when Connor had gone to see him, the doctor put his hand to his throat and immediately pronounced there was nothing to worry about. No tests were necessary. Connor was relieved and had gone about his merry way with a smile on his face.
But the lump didn’t go away, it grew. He went back to see Mr. Perfect a month later. The lump was bigger. Again, Mr. Perfect didn’t think anything was wrong. “I studied under Dr. Gundtfelt and he was the best. He taught me everything he knew as an oncologist. You don’t have cancer!” Then he told Connor all about his latest golf game. How all of the members of the club couldn’t believe how good he was. Connor heard about every hole on the course. He described in detail how he had changed his swing at the urging of his coach, and it had made all the difference. The other club members were so jealous!
“I was quite proud of myself last weekend,” he crowed. He then proceeded to tell him about his latest hunting trip and the trophies he bagged. “I’ve almost got the big five!”
Connor left and made an appointment with another respected physician. This doctor immediately performed a battery of tests. Connor remembered the phone call like it was yesterday.
“Your LDH is elevated. You might have lymphoma,” he told him. “Lymphoma is a blood disease and it’s highly treatable; you’ll be able to function somewhat during chemotherapy. I have scheduled you to come in for more tests tomorrow. Be there,” he said before he hung up.