Waiting in Vain

by Colin Channer

  “Look, there’s no need to be out of order. Don’t act like you don’t know how things are here, man. A million and one things can happen.”

  He began to lament. If he could get just one tenth of the Jamaicans in the States to return home, he sighed, he could make the country into Singapore or South Korea. All this he said while gesturing grandly. His graduation ring from Miami-Dade Community College glinted.

  “Okay, fine, Donovan,” Fire said. “A million things can happen, but what did happen? I’ve heard so many different stories from you: It’s at the warehouse. It’s still in Miami. It’s at the warehouse in Miami. You have it here now, but customs is giving you a hard time. Something broke in transit and you have to send it back. C’mon, Donovan, tell me the truth. I’ll work it out with you. Just level with me.”

  Donovan leaned forward in his chair and placed his hands on his desk in his best imitation of earnestness. Fire and Ian leaned forward as well, expecting to hear an apology.

  “You’re calling me a liar?” Donovan asked, wagging his head slowly. “I can’t believe my ears. I go to the Ark of God Pentecostal Church with my wife and three kids every Sunday. When was the last time either of you set foot in a sanctuary?” They didn’t answer. “And you have the temerity—in fact the corruptness—to call me a liar? Gentlemen, I am very disappointed, not to mention hurt.”

  He leaned back in his chair, stared up at the ceiling, and made the sign of the cross while whispering in tongues—“shala-pala-shala-mala”—then leaned forward again.

  Fire and Ian looked at each other in disbelief.

  Fire threw up his hands in frustration, but Ian continued to argue, jousted with Donovan, wore him down until he confessed.

  “Okay, okay, okay,” he said. “Somebody else bought them, so I have to bring down another set when I go up again.”

  “Who?” Fire asked.

  “Can’t tell you that. Confidential. Just like how I don’t discuss your business with other people, I can’t discuss other people’s business with you.”

  “Don’t give me no confidential fuckery, Donovan. I want to know who has my fucking washer and dryer!”

  “Listen, man, get a hold of yourself. Don’t raise your voice at me. And is not your washer and dryer, is theirs. They paid for it!”

  “But I gave you the fucking money,” Fire shot back.

  “But they gave me more.” He covered his mouth quickly. He’d said more than he’d meant to.

  “Look,” he said, “it’s fucked up and I’m sorry. Listen, Fire … don’t let that come between us though y’know, man. Two more weeks and you get it.”

  Fire narrowed his eyes. Ian got up to go to the bathroom.

  “We have to call this meeting over,” Donovan said as Ian left. “I have a function to attend at the Pegasus, and I have to leave here now. Call me tomorrow morning and we’ll straighten things out. Come on, let’s deal with this intelligently. Call me Monday. And Fire, tell you friend to cool it. The man is acting like I’m a tief—like anybody tief like coolie.”

  Coolie. Fire wanted to break his jaw for that … crack his teeth … bust his lip … spill his blood. The Glock was heavy on his waist. Shoulda gunbutt de fucker fe dat, he thought. Fe diss de man like dat. You cyaah call a man a coolie. No man. Dat nuh right.

  Ian returned. “Tell you what,” he said. “Just give us back de money then and call it quits.”

  “What you talking about?” Donovan replied. “A deal is a deal.”

  “Gi wi back de money now.” Ian hammered the desk.

  Donovan sucked his teeth.

  “Okay, then,” Ian said. “We’ll come for it next week.”

  “Can’t do that either,” Donovan said nervously.

  “Why?”

  “It’s kinda tied up.”

  “In what?”

  “Well … I had to give some money to this chick I have.”

  “So wha appen to de money you get from whoever buy de washer and dryer from you?”

  “I gave her that as well.”

  “Suppose I just kick you in you face right now, Donovan?” Ian asked. His voice was calm but purposeful, as if he were asking the time.

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “No. I’m just asking a question. Suppose I just kick you as an individual in your particular face right now? Would you cry? Would you run? Would you try to fight me and get kicked some more? Or would you just go into a drawer somewhere and get the money and hand it over? Tell me, because I don’t want to waste a good kick. I mean, instead of kicking you I could kick my nicotine habit.” He paused to light up a Craven “A.” “So tell me, what will it be? Money or kick-up? Kick-up or money? How many kicks you think de money worth? I think about seventy-nine. What do you think, Fire?”

  “Just cool, Ian,” Fire said. He was thinking of the sketch pad now.

  “You think ah fraid for him?” Donovan said to Fire. “Let him try nuh. I have my connections.”

  “Donovan, shut you ass before de man mash you down.”

  Donovan began to mutter to himself while shuffling some papers to show that he wasn’t concerned with whatever was on their minds. “Dis likkle coolie bwai feel say … cho—”

  “Weh you say?” Ian asked. “Is me you calling coolie?”

  Donovan sucked his teeth.

  And Ian sprang on top of the desk and kicked Donovan in the face.

  “Gimme de fucking money, Donovan,” Ian whispered as cocked his boot again.

  “I don’t have it,” Donovan said, clutching his broken nose.

  “So who have the fucking washer and dryer?” Ian asked, pulling the smoke in deeply.

  “Dr. Lewis at the children’s hospital,” Donovan replied. Blood was splattered on his light blue shirt.

  “Good. Make him fix you up.”

  Fuck, Fire was thinking now. How did it get to this?

  At the same time that Ian and Fire were hustling out of Donovan’s office, Humphrey Heath was finishing his figure drawing class at the Edna Manley School of Visual Arts. Puffing on his Hoyo de Monterrey Double Corona, he spared some time for the students’ questions, then went to have his lunch.

  Although he was approaching his seventy-fifth birthday, Mr. Heath was still a handsome man—tall and willowy. His salt-and-pepper hair was swept away from his face in an exuberance of curls, and his white beard clung to his face like ivy on a parish church.

  He walked slowly—but lazily rather than feebly—with rounded shoulders and the slight limp that he’d been carrying since the Libyan campaign of 1942. He liked to tell students that he’d been hit by a Mauser slug at El Alamein, but in truth his patella was damaged during a pickup game of cricket in a rearguard supply station.

  He sat in the outdoor amphitheater at the drama school and broke off bits of bread with his gnarled hands. A class was rehearsing a play onstage, and when they had a break, the students came to sit with him on the limestone tier. He had been teaching at the school for some twenty-five years and was immensely popular. Budget cuts and arthritis had forced him to reduce his hours, but he could always be found at the school, usually in the center of a group of young artists.

  Mr. Heath left the amphitheater after about a half hour, and walked across the campus to the gate, stopping every few yards to talk with the groups of students who called out to him.

  He crossed the street and walked on the shady side of Arthur Wint Drive down to Tom Redcam Avenue and sat on a bench in front of the library and smoked another cigar, relaxing in the shade of a poinciana tree as traffic crawled by. He resumed his walk over to the military headquarters at Up Park Camp where he was due for his afternoon scotch with Major Daley. The corporals on duty gave him a mock salute and admitted him without question. He returned their salute jokingly and hitched a ride in a jeep to the major’s house, a cream-colored clapboard bungalow with sky blue trim that had been built by the British army in the 1940s.

  Damian, the major’s six-year-old grandnephew, leaped off the verandah
and ran to meet Mr. Heath, who couldn’t help smiling on seeing his vigor.

  The major admonished Mr. Heath for being late. But being casual about time, like his son, Mr. Heath shrugged his shoulders and asked for his tonic. Soon the maid brought out a decanter of Johnny Walker Black and left the two men to chat and bicker and watch the boy play.

  “I saw your Fire the other day,” the major remarked. “I was going up to Newcastle and I glimpsed him flying off Mammee River Road. I blew him but I don’t think he knew it was me.”

  “When I look at Damian,” Mr. Heath said, “I see Fire. He was such a strong boy. Full of life.”

  “He’s so much like you,” the major said. “Loves to talk to people and always late.”

  Mr. Heath sucked his teeth.

  “But it’s true. Both of you have no concept of time.”

  Mr. Heath sucked his teeth again and poured another drink. “You know Ian is here too?” he said ominously.

  “No,” the major replied.

  “I haven’t seen him yet, but I spoke to him on the telephone. Maybe he’s too embarrassed to come and see me, since he ruined his life in America. I don’t know why that boy doesn’t come home. What is holding him in America?”

  “I don’t know,” Major Daley replied. “But who cares? Why do you even bother with him? You took in that boy like your son and tried to point him in the right direction. But he’s just born to be bad. Listen, some people just come from bad seed.”

  Mr. Heath shook his head. “Sometimes I’m inclined to believe that bad seed thing,” he began. “If Ian is from bad seed, though, is from the mother, not the father. The father was a good man. I don’t know …”

  “Don’t even bother,” the major said. “You’re old now, and Fire and Ian are grown up. Rest.”

  Mr. Heath took a sip and shook his head.

  chapter eleven

  Although Sylvia had assured Diego that she wasn’t going to change her mind, she called Lewis as soon as she was alone. Without Diego’s counsel she began to feel unsure, and she wanted to be able to blame her change of heart on someone else.

  She could have called anyone for the second opinion. But Sylvia wanted to discuss things with Lewis because she wanted him to give her a reason to stay. After all, he was the one who stood to lose the most if she should see Fire again. Because she knew that even if nothing happened between her and Fire … even if all they did was talk … even if she never got close enough to his neck to inhale the subtle aroma that clung to his skin … she knew she would return to Lewis with less of her belonging to him than when she left.

  Since reading through the press kit, she’d begun to feel more intensely for Fire than she ever had. It wasn’t that she realized he was somebody and not a loafer. The package filled in some of the blanks in his biography, and the knowledge eased her apprehension. From the sheaf of clippings enclosed, she learned a lot about him.

  She was very impressed with his work and academic credentials, but what impressed her most of all was that he hadn’t used them to attract her; he didn’t wear them on his chest like medals, as most men would have. He just approached her like an ordinary guy, just a bredda who liked her off and wanted her to like him off too. And he didn’t solicit advertisement from her either. He didn’t ask her about her position at Umbra or where she went to school; neither did he engage her in name-dropping, although he could have littered a field with names like John Barnes, Derek Walcott, Euzhan Palcy, and Garth Fagan. He just liked her. Basic her. Stripped down. Base model without the options. Plain bullah cake without even a piece of pear.

  Fuck, she was still in love.

  Diego had made some good points during their conversation. “How would you feel,” he’d asked, “if the shoe was on the other foot and you didn’t know how he was feeling about you? And he was involved with somebody else? How would you feel if you were really feeling a connection with a man and then he came and crapped some reality on your little romantic fantasy—you know, like his woman turned up. And then while you were feeling hurt because you realized that the other person was more important than you, he accused you of some stupid shit? How would you react?

  “The man was right,” he added. “Look whose rock you’re wearing.” Then he said something that made her feel very small.

  “Mi hija, your relationship with Lou-Lou is like your relationship with Umbra. You are not there because you wanna be. You are there because of status. In both cases you really want to do something else that you’re scared of doing because stupid appearances mean too much to you. Ask yourself this question about your man and your job. Do you love them? If you say no, ask yourself why you remain. And if the answer is too embarrassing, you do not have to answer aloud.”

  They didn’t talk about it anymore. Diego left hours later.

  Just as she was about to call Lewis, he called her and invited her over for dinner.

  As she’d requested, the driver woke her up when the bus reached her stop. A low murmur vibrated through her bones as she alighted on the sidewalk, and she looped her scarf around her head against the cold. She seemed frail as she walked, frail and unsure, her usually confident stride replaced by ginger steps.

  Lewis got out of the Range Rover and walked toward her. Greeting her warmly with a hug and kiss, he led her by the hand to the vehicle.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, noticing her quietness.

  “Yeah … kinda,” she replied with a forced smile. “I think I’m probably just hungry.”

  “Well, I cooked,” he said. “Poached salmon.”

  He served dinner in the kitchen of his rambling house, and they sat on stools at a small high table next to a picture window that framed the sundeck and the covered pool. The backyard was professionally landscaped—islands of shrubs in lakes of grass. There were no leaves on the ground.

  “How is it?” Lewis asked, pointing at her plate with his fork.

  “Good,” she replied.

  “And the wine?”

  “Good.”

  “It’s a cabernet sauvignon from an Argentinean cellar, believe it or not,” he said, trying to make conversation.

  “Oh.”

  “You know who turned me on to it? Marlon Gaines. He sorta discovered it when Citibank sent him to Buenos Aires last year.” She held her face down as he spoke. “When I tasted it I couldn’t believe it was from Argentina … actually I didn’t know what to expect from Argentina … I always choose a French cabernet.”

  “Yeah. I have noticed that.”

  “A few California wineries have produced some decent bottles … but generally the California wineries are inconsistent.”

  She wished he would shut up, but he went on and on about the frigging wine. She felt an urge to smack him. Or jab him in the Adam’s apple with her fork.

  “I think Washington State is going to begin outdoing them soon,” he went on. “Look at what Beringer is doing. The first time that I had one of their wines was at this restaurant in Toronto called Jump, greatest place you could ever imagine, right on Bay Street, I think, and the waiter presented us with the wine list, we meaning me and Joe Strong, I don’t think you know Joe—do you know Joe?—well, whatever, and before I could make a decision, Joe says, ‘Bring a bottle of whatever you think goes best with this,’ and the waiter brought out this 1989 Beringer cabernet, and I couldn’t believe it. So … Washington State … look out for them.”

  She didn’t answer and they finished dinner in silence. They went to the den and she took a seat in a leather club chair, and he went poking around his Sony ES system.

  “Wanna hear some Luther?” he asked as he flipped through his CDs.

  “Not really,” she replied, tucking her legs beneath her.

  They went on like that for a little while, he asking if she wanted to hear something and she saying no.

  “Wanna hear the radio, then?”

  “Sure.”

  He pressed the scan button and told her to tell him when she wanted him to stop. She lis
tened disinterestedly for a while as the KEF speakers aired New York’s Babylon of beats, accents, and points of view. Then she heard some calypso.

  “Yeah, there,” she said. It was a low-power college station on the Island. The host was a Bajan kid who talked a lot—too much, in fact—in the rhyming patter that has become the signature of Caribbean radio because of the influence of 1950s American rock ’n’ roll deejays.

  Sylvia chuckled to herself as she listened, because to her the kid was a recognizable type. Lewis, though, found the kid irritating. The music as well. And after about fifteen minutes he hinted that he wanted a change.

  She didn’t protest, but it rubbed her the wrong way. So she decided not to talk about her trip until she was in a better mood, because she didn’t want them to have an argument if they happened to disagree.

  Sylvia woke up early the next morning after an uneven sleep and lay quietly for a few minutes with her eyes closed, in the position in which she had fallen asleep: prostrate on top of Lewis. As she listened to his heart she wondered how it would sound if she ever told him about Fire. Would it beat faster and faster, then end in a crescendo? Or would it beat slower and slower until it faded into a sizzle like an old 45?

  Peeling herself away from Lewis stealthily, she slung a robe around her shoulders and stood in front of a mirror and examined herself: her face, which needed a good ironing … the archipelago of hickeys across her breasts and shoulders … the crusted semen in her belly button. She looked a mess. As she considered her reflection—the Fezza silk robe, the diamond ring she couldn’t have afforded, the background of bedroom as large as her childhood home—and listened to the satiated breathing of a man she didn’t love, tears began to spill over the rims of her eyelids and run down her cheek. She went downstairs to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee, gathered the Sunday Times, and went to the den. She reclined on a divan to read the paper, but try as she might she couldn’t get comfortable. After shifting and stirring in vain, she went to lie on the thick Berber rug in the middle of the room and switched on the television.