Finished now with raising the canvas, he slid the picture from his pocket. That’s Betty, his uncle had said at the spring. Check the smile. See the lean-mouth flex. And prip the cheeks.
Fire looked at her face now as it began to drizzle. He leaned inside the cab. It was dark there, but this picture must not get wet. I-nelik had a point … sort of. Yeah … the cheekbones in a way. They were pointy like arms akimbo … or the handles of an urn … a terra-cotta urn … a terra-cotta urn with flowers … tulips, maybe … or sunflowers. Baby, I love you and miss you so much.
But where was Ian? Fuck. He had to find him. He put away the picture, strode into the bar, and ordered a hot Guinness. The barmaid reached beneath the counter for a bamboo coaster and gave him the drink in the bottle.
“Is awright,” she said. He felt eyes on his back. Circles of heat like spotlights. “Make Teego and Buju gweh. Ian nevah have a right. Those are not things that supposed to talk.”
He looked around the room as if he were a stranger—the scuffed wooden floor, the sheet metal tables, the plastic mats, the strings of 45s hanging from the rafters—then took a sip. What were these men thinking now? He knew. Pussy Sucker. Masturbator. Baggy Follower. Mother Wanter. Big Crier. All the things they were themselves but were all afraid to admit. Man a wall, they liked to say. Man fe stand firm. He poured, raised the glass, and pressed his lips into the foam, whose warmth and yield and soft brown color recalled the fat on her inner thigh. Baby, he thought, what are you doing? Do you miss me? Are you hurting too? But man a wall. Man fe stand firm. He downed the glass and ordered another stout. He was ready to look them in the eye.
Shaking hands as he passed each table, trading “wha’appens” firmly, he discreetly searched the room for Ian. At the jukebox, which was by the door, he punched some Desmond Dekker, twirling a trail of ska in his wake as he walked back to his drink. He sat with his back to the counter and faced the room, silencing the whispers.
“Where Mr. Bartley?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Ah don’t know, y’know. Im gone from eight o’clock. Ah ope im come back soon cau is soon eleven an me haffe lock up.”
Mr. Bartley was the only one he’d directly ask for Ian. As a pastor he understood these things.
“You know what time him coming back?”
“Hol on make ah try fine out.” She jangled through the beaded curtain. “Ah hear him went to carry Ian go Kingston.”
“Oh,” Fire said. His gullet collapsed. He couldn’t swallow. He dammed the stout behind his teeth.
He told her goodbye, nodded to the others, and went outside.
As he opened the door and entered the cab, the night soaked up the mist of rain. But soon the rain was hard again, egged on by a vicious breeze that made the streaking raindrops hiss like sputtering, sparking power lines. At the main road, he thought of what to do. Wait at the Lighthouse or go to town tonight? Shit, man, he should’ve asked where Mr. Bartley had taken Ian.
Lightning crashed again. Struck a tree he couldn’t see but whose burning bark he smelled. Something dread was about to happen. He could feel it. There was a mystical power in all this flashing of lightning and trembling of trees. As he thought of this, a ton and a half of English steel was brushed aside beneath him as if the wind had found within itself the power of a hurricane. This wasn’t natural. The road to Kingston was treacherous. Especially around the double bend that folks called See Me No More.
He began to think of another night as his foot came off the clutch. So what you going to do? The question was I-nelik’s. They were driving along this very road—they’d just left the Jah-cuzzi—a few miles to the west, near Hope Bay, a little town on the edge of the sea with a train stop and post office. The sharp front end of the E-type Jaguar was chiseling through the darkness. The night had dropped from the setting sun like golden grains of sugar and hardened into caramel on contact with the soil, which was red like molten rock and held the heat of many days. The top was down. I-nelik was gangster-leaned against the door, stiff-arming the pearl white car along the narrow road, which dipped and curled as it shadowed the edges of bays and narrow inlets.
“So what you going to do?” his uncle asked.
He dipped into the bag at his feet. Peeled an orange with his fingers. Offered a piece. “I don’t know, dread. I really don’t know. I believe in destiny, and it’s clear that that woman is not for me. I shoulda did know better. I mean the whole thing wasn’t right from the start. Checking a woman who has a man is really not my style. But this one, man … this one … was just so … I just felt like I’d found the one, y’know. I didn’t know her very well, but there was a sweetness, man …”
“So what you going to do?” the dread interjected. He took off his tam and let the salt breeze take his hair.
“I don’t know …”
“You dealing with anybody?”
“No … not really. I mean, there is Blanche. We not together anymore. We started to work things out, reason things out while I was in England, but …”
“But what?”
“But she’s not the one I really want. I love Blanche, I-nelik … I’d be a liar if I didn’t say that. She and I have too much history. There were some fucked-up times, but I can’t deny the sweetness. But she’s not as dangerous as Sylvia. Well, she is, which is why she isn’t. I fear Blanche. I know what she can do. She’s charming and manipulative. So knowing this I keep my distance. I haven’t seen her since I left for London. We began to speak on the phone, but I haven’t seen her since I came back. Haven’t even spoken to her. She called, but I think Miss Gita cuss her off. I haven’t heard from her in a while. The easiest thing to do right now is to run back into her arms, I-nelik. I know that. If I should see her right now that’s exactly what would happen. Nobody likes to be lonely.”
“You know why that is, Fire? Blanche has always intimidated you. When you met her you were half-formed and she was more or less complete. It was a rookie gainst a seasoned vet. You’ve never really recovered from that spanking she gave you. That’s why you took her back all those times. It was more than love, man. It was awe. Cause there you were, this bright and talented guy who could charm the drawers off any woman, and then came this person who was that much quicker, that much more experienced, and able to control you. Make you want to come back for more. But you have to be careful with this Sylvia chick. I know what’s running through your head, y’know. Deep down you think that you’re smarter than her, more experienced. And you believe, then, that with enough time you can bend her your way. But before you say another word, I want you consider this. Considering how things end fuck up, you’da really waah deal with a woman like that? She have two major strikes against her as far as me concerned. She materialistic and she self-righteous. That’s two big flaw right deh so. And to make it even more complicated, she don’t know herself. She don’t know if she coming or she going. Y’haffe know yourself in this world, y’know, Fire. If you don’t know yourself you get caught up inna Babylon system. Y’see, when we was on the road with Bob in the early days—a-play de likkle small club dem—nuff people used to say we shoulda cross over cause this reggae thing couldn’t work. Cause nobody don’t know it, y’know. Like we shoulda play funky or rock or dem ting deh. But I-n-I never even consider that. I-n-I listen those music and like them, still y’know, and even borrow from them, blues especially for the guitars, but I-n-I wasn’t going get caught up inna Babylon system and sell I-n-I soul. Cause I-n-I know who I-n-I was. And I-n-I was reggae. And I-n-I come from Jamaica. And within six years to rass I-n-I was the biggest touring band in the world. Bigger than the Stones. The Commodores. Don’t run down what is not for you, Fire. Leave da girl-deh alone. She don’t know herself. And that is something that you cyaah do fe her. She haffe come to a certain understanding in the fullness of time.”
“I think you’re being harsh on her, man. As I told you, she’s been through a lot. I mean … how can we sit here and judge her and we’ve never had to live her life … never
had to make her choices?”
“I bet you any money that if she knew you was a big writer and have coupla dollars she woulda lef de bwai and come and deal with you.”
“How you know that?”
“Experience will teach you these things in the fullness of time.”
“I’m not convinced of that.”
“Because you in love.”
“Come on, I-nelik, man … think about the kinda life she had as a child. Scarcity will turn you into a hoarder, man. Look at people who came of age in the Great Depression.”
“Fire, I’m not saying that some rough shit never reach her, y’know. But who says these things actually cause her to be this way? I know nuff people who grow up poor and never turned out so. So wha dat tell you?”
“That we still can’t judge her so soon.”
“You’re making excuses for her, man.”
“These are not excuses, I-nelik. They are facts we must consider.”
“Sylvia has been away from Jamaica too long, Fire. She doesn’t understand how to share anymore. America is a selfish fucking place.”
“Isn’t that self-righteous?”
“No.”
“What is it, then?”
“Facts.”
“I see.”
“Listen to me, Fire. Have I ever steered you wrong before? Forget both Blanche and Sylvia and start afresh with someone new.”
“Come on, I-nelik, it’s not that simple. Is like she inside me. She’s like a part of the muscle fibers now. I can’t separate myself from her that easily. Trust me, if ah coulda do it ah woulda do it.”
“You can do it, Fire. You mind weak right now. You need to purge it then feed it again. Your body too. You should go on a retreat. Spend some time in the bush, man, and fast and cogitate and take long walks and come back to yourself.”
“You think so?”
“That’s the only way, really. Otherwise, you’ll go mad.”
“So a retreat then …”
“Yeah, man. Is not me say so y’know. Is Jah the Father. The one that sitteth on the holy throne of Mount Zion. I am just a messenger.”
He began to laugh … and sing: “Jah send me come / Jah send me come, come.” And suddenly lightning burst from the sky, raining down in white-hot sheets that burned away the darkness. Then there was thunder. And battling winds crisscrossed the rain like broken bicycle spokes.
“Jah!” the dread exclaimed. “Rastafari! King of Kings and Lord of Lords, the Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah, the Elect of God, Ever Living God, Earth’s Rightful Ruler, Negust Negast. Jah! Rastafari!”
The next morning Fire hitchhiked to St. Elizabeth, a gin-dry parish in the south. He shouldn’t drive, I-nelik had said. And he shouldn’t take more than a knapsack and whatever he needed for hygiene. For he was going back to nature. To himself. So he needed to leave the world behind and trust in the wisdom and goodness of God. Go to Black River, I-nelik had said, and no matter what time you get there, walk to Treasure Beach. When you reach, ask for Shiloh. He will know that you are coming.
How?
Cause there’s a natural mystic blowing through the air.
He arrived in Black River in the late afternoon, riding in the back of a flatbed truck, his fourth ride of the journey, whose long gaps between stages had given him lots of time to think. In work boots, T-shirt, and cut-off jeans, he walked in the middle of the asphalt road. Fifteen or twenty minutes would pass before he heard the sound of traffic, and sound traveled far and quickly in this place, which was flat like the Serengeti. The trees were low. The grass had been burned to a golden brown like wheat. The dirt was red, and brittle. Even the cry of a bird would stir the dust, coating everything: the gingerbread houses, the cows so lean they looked like horses. Even the people, it seemed. Their skin was coppery, like dust had clogged their pores, preventing sweat from washing away the base from which they were made, the form to which they would return.
He saw the beach after a three-hour walk and collapsed at the root of an old sea grape, sheltering beneath its skirt of leaves. He took off his boots and shirt and went for a wade in the water, which was deep and rough. Boys were kicking a football on the shore. Some older men were steaming fish and fixing their nets beneath a shed. He asked them for Shiloh after he finished his soak. One man pointed to the hills in the distance—he lived up so. The yellowtail snappers were simmering in a butter sauce fragrant with garlic and tomatoes. How much for the fish? he asked. If you going to see Shiloh, one of the men replied, you not suppose to eat … everybody know dat. Hurry up, the man added. When night come nobody cyaah see you and car might lick you down. How long will it take to get there? he asked. The man said about four hours. Most of it was uphill. Y’have any water? The man pointed to the sea. Fuck, I-nelik had told him not to bring any money.
There was a small hotel down the beach. He could go there and call someone collect. He thanked the men, who gave him directions, then gathered his things. His stomach grumbled. His tongue was a strip of leather. It not far, one of the men said from behind him. You know how far man did haffe walk inna de days of slavery? True dat. He went into the hotel lobby and walked out again. What was his load compared to the burdens of his forefathers? Those men who would have seen in this place the savannas where they’d been trapped like antelopes. Do you remember the days of slavery? He began to hear Burning Spear in his head. Heard the bass and the horns, the marshaling of the troops, and he began to march from the beach to the road, which he followed all the way to the top of the hill. There, in a clearing among some acacia trees, was a wattle-and-daub hut. Below him, night was coloring the plain like ink dispersed in a glass of water. He ambled forward on burning feet and called out hello. No one answered. The place seemed deserted. He walked around the hut and peered through a window. There was no one there. What would he do now? It was eighteen miles to Black River. And he was tired and hungry. And broke. And dizzy. He slumped down against the side of the hut and opened his bag, hoping to see something he hadn’t packed there. He could eat a little toothpaste, but that would only increase his thirst. No, not the soap. Not the soap. Do you remember the days of slavery? He began to sing in his mind again. Do you? Do you? Do you? Black River was a clump of lights to the left. The others he was sure were fireflies in the nearground. In his mind he saw tall ships in the estuary, unloading men in chains. Men like Marcus Garvey and Bob Marley and Michael Manley and Harry Belafonte and Colin Powell and Claude McKay and Peter Tosh. Do you remember the days of slavery? This was hard, he thought. But he would overcome. For he was descended from kings.
There was a flash on the edge of his vision, and he looked up to see the lights of a jetliner smearing a path through the maze of stars. From the outline of the landing lights he could tell it was a 737, and from its bearing he could tell that it was headed for the Caymans. His mother flew that route for years.
What would she think of all this? he wondered. One of the things that had always perplexed him, and which he’d begun to consider more seriously as he entered his thirties, was the ways in which his relationship with his mother had affected his relationship with women.
Of all the women he’d been involved with, he wondered, how many of them had been like her? As he thought about that he began to remember the women he’d slept with. In his mind his lovers were gemstones strung together like a necklace. He counted them now for the first time, touching the tip of one finger after another to his lips as he called each name in his head and saw a face that triggered the memory of a time and place that seemed so distant now, so unconnected to this person that he’d become. He stopped counting, surprised, when he’d run out of fingers. One should be able to count on one’s fingers and toes, he said to himself. And I don’t believe I can.
He’d had sex for the first time at the age of fourteen—with Nan. She had come to Jamaica to spend the summer at his mother’s farm as he’d spent the previous summer with her family in London. She was awkward-looking then, pimply faced and knock-
kneed, and her new-grown breasts did not have the effect she had anticipated. Instead of drawing attention to themselves, they drew attention to the tabletop flatness of her ass. It was bad sex, he was thinking now. He did not want to do it. He’d only done it because she’d said she’d heard a rumor that his father was gay, and asked him quite frankly, as they built a kite beneath a tamarind tree, if he was too.
“No,” he said.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t seem sure,” she said. “My friend said only gay boys like to paint. If you’re not, then let’s fool around and prove it. You don’t have to use a rubber—Mum put me on the pill because she’s scared I’ll get pregnant.”
So they did it, right there, she bracing herself against the tree, he glancing around to see if anyone would catch them as he pulled her panties to the side and took her from behind. It saddened him that he was glad she couldn’t see his face … the pain there … the anxiety … the disappointment that she was not someone he cared about in a romantic way.
He would feel this way several times in college. He would sleep with women he did not love, but who, he knew, loved him. Why was this? he wondered now.
In the clarity of the night it came to him that he’d been involved in these relationships to save himself from disappointment. Deep down, in his core, he was realizing that that was why he’d grown so attached to Blanche. In a sense I-nelik was right. Blanche had been his mum in many ways.
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