Praise for Easy in the Islands
“Stunning.”
—The Washington Post Book World
“Beguiling stories … about an uncommonly fascinating part of the hemisphere. Shacochis’s talent seems more than a match for the subjects at hand.”
—Time
“Brilliant.”
—The Boston Globe
“[Easy in the Islands] has more going for it than any fiction since Peter Matthiesen’s Far Tortuga or Ernest Hemingway’s Islands in the Stream.”
—The Blade (Toledo)
“Something of a Caribbean Thomas McGuane laced with Barry Hanah and Harry Crews.”
—Houston Chronicle
“Quirky and quite wonderful.”
—Saturday Review
“If there’s a better writer in the States who matches language rhythm to landscape and the beat of the heart in the Caribbean, I ain’t found him. Shacochis is top shelf, and the boy should not only be given all the prizes, but the moon over Barbados itself.”
—Barry Hannah
“Easy in the Islands is tough, funny, and wickedly knowing ... a breath of fresh air on the story scene.”
—Joy Williams
“In these stories, Bob Shacochis takes very seriously his responsibilities as an artist by extending his imagination into areas of Caribbean experience not usually perceived by an outsider. In language, humor, and evocation of detail, he succeeds in capturing, beautifully, the nuances of a completely different, nonexotic, way of life. Easy in the Islands is a very fine collection.”
—James Alan McPherson
“[Shacochis’s] stories have an unselfconscious narrative momentum—a linear drive towards an ending—that I associate with the easy ways of an old master…. I think this boy’s been writing since he was a baby.”
—John Irving
ALSO BY BOB SHACOCHIS
Swimming in the Volcano
The Next New World
Domesticity
The Immaculate Invasion
Easy in the Islands
Stories by Bob Shacochis
* * *
All of the Author’s stories in this book were initially published in magazines and periodicals as follows:
“Lord Short Shoe Wants the Monkey,” “Mundo’s Sign,” and “Easy in the Islands,” © 1982, © 1983 and © 1985 respectively, in Playboy magazine.
“Dead Reckoning” and “Redemption Songs” in 1983 and 1984 in Esquire magazine.
“The Heart’s Advantage” in 1984 in Tendril magazine.
“Hunger,” © 1980, in The Missouri Review.
“The Pelican” in 1984 in The Iowa Review.
“Hot Day on the Gold Coast” in 1984 in Black Warrior Review.
The author wishes to thank the National Endowment for the Arts and Yaddo Corporation for their generous support and the Copernicus Society for a James A. Michener Award.
* * *
Copyright © 1985 by Bob Shacochis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by
any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by
a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of
educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for
classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include
the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc.,
841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003.
First published in 1985 by Crown Publishers, Inc.,
New York, New York
Printed in the United States of America
Printed simultaneously in Canada
FIRST GROVE PRESS EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Shacochis, Bob.
Easy in the islands : stories / by Bob Shacochis.
p. cm.
Contents: Easy in the islands – Dead reckoning – Lord Short Shoe wants the monkey – The heart’s advantage—Redemption songs – Hot day on the Gold Coast – The pelican – Hunger – Mundo’s sign.
eBook ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-9932-4
1. Caribbean Area—Social life and customs—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3569.H284E27 2004
813′.54—dc22 2003057143
Grove Press
841 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
These stories are for Miss Fish.
And for William Peden.
* * *
“Watching a coast as it slips by the ship is like thinking about an enigma. There it is before you—smiling, frowning, inviting, grand, mean, insipid, or savage, and always mute with an air of whispering, Come and find out.”
—Joseph Conrad
Heart of Darkness
Contents
EASY IN THE ISLANDS
DEAD RECKONING
LORD SHORT SHOE WANTS THE MONKEY
THE HEART’S ADVANTAGE
REDEMPTION SONGS
HOT DAY ON THE GOLD COAST
THE PELICAN
HUNGER
MUNDO’S SIGN
Easy in the Islands
Easy in the Islands
The days were small, pointless epics, long windups to punches that always drifted by cartoon-fashion, as if each simple task were meaningless unless immersed in more theater and threat than bad opera.
It was only Monday noon and already Tillman had been through the wringer. He had greased the trade commissioner to allow a pallet of Campbell’s consommé to come ashore, fired one steel band for their hooliganism and hired another, found a carpenter he was willing to trust to repair the back veranda that was so spongy in spots Tillman knew it was only a matter of days before a guest’s foot burst through the surface into whatever terrors lived below in the tepid darkness, restocked on vitamins from the pharmacy, argued with the crayfish regulatory bureau about quotas. And argued with the inscrutable cook, a fat countrywoman who wore a wool watch cap and smoked hand-rolled cigars, argued with both maids, muscle-bound Lemonille and the other one who wouldn’t reveal her name, argued with the gardener who liked to chop everything up, argued with the customs house, argued with the bartender Jevanee. And although he had not forthrightly won any of these encounters, he had won them enough to forestall the doom that would one day descend on Rosehill Plantation.
But now the daily defeats and victories were overshadowed by a first-class doozy, a default too personal to implicate the local population. The problem was to decide what to do about his mother—Mother, who had thought life wonderful in the islands. Now she rested stiffly in the food locker, dead and coated with frost, blue as the shallow water on the reefs, protected from the fierceness of the sun she once loved without question or fear, a sun that was never really her enemy, no matter how it textured her skin, no matter what it revealed of her age.
In her room on Saturday, Mother had died mysteriously. As Lemonille had said when the two of them carried her out after the doctor had been there, Mistah Till-mahn, it look so you muddah shake out she heart fah no good reason. Like she tricked by some false light, ya know.
His mother’s body had been strong and brassy, her spirit itself unusually athletic for a woman only weeks away from sixty. In her quick laugh was as much vitality as a girl’s, and yet she had died. In bed, early in the evening, disdainful of the bars and clubs, reading a book—Colette, rediscovered on her latest continental visit—her finger ready to turn the page. Tillman was astonished. Only after Dr. Bradley had told him that he suspected his mother was poisoned did Tillman begin to calm down, his imperturbable self returning by degrees. S
uch a conclusion made no sense. The terms of life in the islands were that nothing ever made sense, unless you were a mystic or a politician, or studied both with ambition. Then every stupidness seemed an act of inspiration, every cruelty part of a divine scheme. There was no dialectic here, only the obverting of all possibilities until caprice made its selection.
Dr. Bradley couldn’t be sure though. Neither he nor any of the other three sanctioned doctors on the island knew how to perform an autopsy with sufficient accuracy to assure each other or anybody else of the exact nature of death when the cause was less than obvious. Still, Bradley earned moments of miraculous credibility, as when the former Minister of Trade was brought into the hospital dead of a gunshot wound in his chest. To the government’s relief, Bradley determined the cause of death as “heart failure,” an organic demise, and unembarrassing.
“I will take your permission, mahn, to cut de body open ahnd look in she stomach,” Dr. B. had said to Tillman as they stood over his mother’s corpse in the sunny hotel room on Sunday morning, a breeze off the ocean dancing the curtains open, billowing sunlight throughout the room and then sucking it back outside. A spray of creamy rosebuds tapped against the louvered window, an eerie beckoning in the air silenced by death.
“For God’s sake, why?” Tillman had said. It sounded like an ultimate obscenity, to have this fool with his meatcutter’s stubby hands groping in his mother’s abdomen.
“To determine what she eat aht de time of succumption.”
“I told you what she was eating,” Tillman said, exasperated. “She was eating a can of peaches with a spoon. Look here, there are still some left in the can.” He shook the can angrily and syrup slopped onto his wrist. In disgust, Tillman wiped the sticky wetness on his pants, half nauseated, associating the liquid with some oozy by-product of dissolution. “Take the peaches if you need something to cut into, but you’re not taking Mother. This isn’t one of your Bottom Town cadavers.”
Bradley had reacted with a shrug, and a patronizing twist to his smile. “Dis racial complexity—what a pity, mahn.”
How often Tillman had heard this lie, so facile, from the lips of bad men. “One world,” he said, biting down on the syllables as if they were a condemnation, or a final sorrow. “We all live in one world. What’s so goddamn complex about that?”
Tillman refused to let him remove the body from Rosehill. He wrapped his mother in the mauve chenille bedspread she had been lying on, restacked several crates of frozen chicken parts, and arranged her in the walk-in freezer until he could figure out just what to do. It was easy to accept the fact that you couldn’t trust a doctor in such circumstances. What was most unacceptable was that Bradley had told the police there was a possibility the old lady had been murdered. The police, of course, were excited by this news. They sent Inspector Cuffy over to Rosehill to inform Tillman that he was under suspicion.
“You’re kidding,” Tillman said.
He suggested the inspector should walk down to the beach bar the hotel maintained on the waterfront and have a drink courtesy of the house while he took care of two new guests who had just arrived in a taxi from the airport. “I don’t believe it,” the new man said in an aside to Tillman as he checked them in. “The skycaps at the airport whistled at my wife and called her a whore.” His wife stood demurely by his side, looking a bit overwhelmed. He could see the dark coronas of nipples under her white muslin sundress.
“Hey, people here are more conservative than you might think,” Tillman told the couple, and to the woman he added, “Unless you want little boys rubbing up against your leg, you shouldn’t wear shorts or a bathing suit into town.”
“But this is the tropics,” the woman protested in an adolescent voice, looking at Tillman as if he were only being silly.
“Right,” Tillman conceded, handing over the key. He escorted the couple to their room, helping with the luggage, and wished them well. Wished himself a dollar for every time their notion of paradise would be fouled by some rudeness, aggression, or irrelevant accusation.
He crossed back over the veranda out onto the cobbled drive, past the derelict stone tower of the windmill where every other Saturday the hotel sponsored a goat roast that was well attended by civil servants, Peace Corps volunteers and whatever tourists were around, down the glorious green lawn crazy with blossom, down, hot and sweaty, to the palm grove, the bamboo beach bar on its fringe, the lagoon dipping into the land like a blue pasture, Tillman walking with his hands in the pockets of his loose cotton pants, reciting a calypso and feeling, despite his troubles, elected, an aristocrat of the sensual latitudes, anointed to all the earthly privileges ordinary people dreamed about on their commuter trains fifty weeks a year. No matter that in a second-class Eden nothing was as unprofitable as the housing of its guests. Even loss seemed less discouraging in the daily flood of sun.
Jevanee was glaring at him from behind the bar. And the inspector sat grandly on his stool, satisfied with being the big-shot, bearing a smile that welcomed Tillman as if they were to be partners in future prosperity, as if the venture they were to embark on could only end profitably. He gave a little wink before he tipped his green bottle of imported beer and sank the neck between his lips.
“Dis a sad affair, mahn,” he said, wagging his round head. Jevanee uncapped a second bottle and set it before the inspector, paying no attention to Tillman’s presence. Tillman drew a stool up beside Cuffy and perched on its edge, requesting Jevanee to bring another beer, and watched with practiced patience as the bartender kicked about and finally delivered the bottle as if it were his life’s savings.
“What is it with you, Jevanee? What am I doing wrong?” The bartender had come with Rosehill when he had inherited the hotel eight months ago. Somebody had trained him to be a terror.
“Mistah Trick!” Jevanee whooped. He was often too self-conscious to confront his employer head-on. Nevertheless he would not accept even the mildest reproach without an extravagant line of defense or, worse, smoldering until his tongue ignited and his hands flew threateningly, shouting in a tantrum that would go on forever with or without an audience, a man who would never be employed to his satisfaction. He turned his back on Tillman and began muttering at the whiskey bottles arrayed on the work island in the center of the oval bar.
“Mistah Trick, he say what him doin wrong, de devil. He say daht he mean, Jevanee, why you is a chupid boy ahs black as me boot cahnt count change ahnd show yah teef nice aht de white lady? He say daht he mean, Jevanee, why you cahnt work fah free like you grahnpoppy? Why you cahnt bring you sistah here ta please me?” Without ceasing his analysis of what the white man had meant, he marched out from the bar and into the bushes to take a leak. Tillman forced himself not to react any further to Jevanee’s rage, which appeared to be taking on a decidedly historical sweep.
The inspector, who had not shown any interest in Jevanee’s complaints, began to tap the long nail of his index finger on the surface of the bar. He made a show of becoming serious without wanting to deprive Tillman of his informality, his compassion, his essential sympathy, etcetera—all the qualities he believed he possessed and controlled to his benefit.
“Who else, Tillmahn, but you?” Cuffy finally concluded as if it hurt him to say this. “Undah-stahnd, is only speculation.”
“Who else but me?” Tillman sputtered. “Are you crazy?” The inspector frowned and Tillman immediately regretted his choice of words. Cuffy was as willfully unpredictable as most everybody else on the island, but in a madhouse, an outsider soon learned, truth was always a prelude to disaster, the match dropped thoughtlessly onto tinder. He should have said, Look, how can you think that? or Man, what will it take to end this unfortunate business? But too late. The inspector was pinching at his rubbery nose, no longer even considering Tillman, looking out across the harbor, the anchored sailboats bobbing like a display of various possibilities, playing the image of artful calculation for his suspect.
Tillman sighed. “Why do you think I wou
ld kill my own mother? She was my mother. What son could harm the woman who carried him into the world?”
The inspector pursed his lips and then relaxed them. “Well, Tillmahn, perhahps you do it to have title to dis property, true?”
The absurdity was too great even for Tillman, a connoisseur of island nonsense. “To inherit this property!” Now Tillman had to laugh, regardless of the inspector’s feelings. “Cuffy, nobody wants this place. In his will my father was excessively sorry for burdening me with Rosehill Plantation and advised I sell it at the first opportunity. My mother had absolutely no claim to Rosehill. He divorced her long ago.”
Tillman paused. As far as he could tell, he was the only one in the world, besides the government, who wanted Rosehill Plantation. It had been on the market for years, not once receiving an honest offer. Its profits were marginal, its overhead crushing. But the hotel was his, so why not be there. What he had found through it was unexpected—the inexplicable sense that life on the island had a certain fullness, that it was, far beyond what he had ever experienced back home, authentic in the most elemental ways.
Cuffy had become petulant, studying him as if he were spoiled, an unappreciative child. Tillman was not intimidated. “Why should I tell you this anyway? It has absolutely no relevance to my mother’s death.”
“Urn hmm, um hmm, I see,” the inspector said. “So perhahps you muddah take a lovah, a dark mahn, ahnd you become vexed wit she fah behavin so. You warn her to stop but she refuse. So …” He threw out his hands as if the rest of the scene he conceived was there before him. “Is just speculation.”
Tillman was tiring fast. Inspector Cuffy had no use for what was and what wasn’t; his only concern was his own role in the exercise of authority. It killed boredom, boredom amid the splendor. It created heroes and villains, wealth and poverty. No other existence offered him so much.
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