The dolphins were grouped in a circle toward the bow with their heads above the water, chattering. They are spirits, Fire thought, coming forth to carry him home. Bracing himself against the thwart, he rose on his unsteady legs, holding the urn across his chest, and slipped. He ducked down to keep his balance and the boat tipped a bit, then settled. He rose again, much slower this time, gripping tightly with his toes, aware for the first time of the smell of blood and death that was soaked into the belly of the boat.
“Ian, my friend,” he began. “Only you really know what you went through, and why you made certain choices. And as you go now, my brother, I want you to know that you are loved, that you are blessed, that you are remembered. How did life happen so fast? We were boys only yesterday. Little boys with a jawfulla sweetie and pocketloadsa marbles and a headfulla Anansi stories. And boom! here we are now, men … without the young boy’s simple optimism or the elder’s crystal wisdom. As I was coming out here, Ian, I thought about the sea, y’know, and great writers who loved the sea. Like theirs, my work is filled with heroic figures, people who fight on for their boon, who understand the cosmic truth that life is struggle. Life is struggle. One trial after another, and that is why we need heroes, for they remind us of how much we can endure. You are gone now, Ian, and I must go on. I must do what you did not do. I must learn from the errors of your ways. It is so easy to give up … and to give in. I must endure. How is it that we grew up listening to Marley without understanding this? What did we think the man was saying when he said: ‘Everything’s gonna be all right.’ That he was wishing that fate would fix things? Naw, man … Bob was saying that things would be all right because Jah would give him the strength to make it all right. We have to ask for the strength sometimes, Ian, but the choice is ours—to fight or surrender. And I will not surrender. I have a whole life in fronta me. A whole life of struggle … struggle I will endure … because I have the blood of survivors in me. Today is a new day. We are born again.”
* * *
A breeze picked up on the way back to shore. Thirsty and hungry on top of being cold, Fire tried to distract himself by singing and making lists of things—cars, books, countries, airlines, anything to stop thinking about the single knot of pain that had formed in his heart as he admitted to himself how deep the absence of Sylvia would be in his life. Even though he had grown to accept the notion of life as a series of struggles, he was still finding it difficult to return to the place where he had just lost her. As he began to feel depression claiming him, he willed himself to sleep, hoping he would dream of her. Cutting off the engine, he made a pallet out of rope and burlap sacks and lay there rocking in the bosom of the humming sea.
The stench of the blood in the wood and the searing memories of Sylvia’s love prevented him from sleeping deeply, so when he heard Teego’s anxious call, which came an hour after he’d decided to anchor and rest, it sounded like something supernatural.
“Yow, Fire! Yow, Fire! You deh-deh? You deh-deh?”
There was an insistence in the voice that told him that Teego had been trying for a while, so he made an effort to sound relaxed when he reached for the radio.
“Yow,” he said. “You save any fish for me?”
“Everything awright?” Teego asked. “Cause people start get worried, y’know. And the next thing was gweh happen was a search party. A whole heapa people start worry if you dead or something. Whappen to you out deh?”
“Everything cool,” Fire said, gripping the bench to keep his balance. “I was just out here meditating, y’know, on life and dem ting deh. As a rastaman you supposed to understand dem ting deh.”
He heard Teego’s voice relax as he asked where he was and he told him.
“Well,” Teego said, “we might be able to see you from here, then. Flash the spotlight lemme see.”
Fire flicked the toggle switch a few times. “You see dat?”
“No,” he said. “Do it again.”
After a few seconds, Teego said that all was well, that he could see him now.
“Okay then,” Fire said, settling down to try and sleep again. “I’ll just be another few minutes. Tell everybody to just gwaan enjoy themself.”
“Anyway … is not only that I call you bout still. Somebody waah talk to you.”
“Who?” Fire asked.
“Just cool,” Teego said as Fire began to protest.
“If is I-nelik, tell him that I will deal with him tomorrow. I cyaah really deal with that now.”
“Is not him,” Teego said.
“If is my old man,” Fire said, still feeling angry, “tell him it will just have to wait.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, man. I’m sure. Soon come.”
“Ten-four.”
He lay down again. Fucking Humphrey, he thought. Why does he feel he can talk to me that way?
He began to think of the time he’d asked his mother. She had just taken off from Tinson Pen in her Lockheed Electra and was leveling off over Kingston harbor. “He is jealous of you,” she said. “He thinks I love you more than him.” He asked her if she did. She didn’t answer. Could that be it? he was thinking, as the radio squawked again.
“Fire!”
“Yes, Teego.”
“I don’t mean to pressure you but … I think you should take this call.”
“Let it wait,” Fire said. “You don’t understand, Teego, I’m in a vibes right now where I just need some time to myself. I have things on my mind, Teego. Things that bigger than me or you.”
“In other words, woman business,” Teego said.
“Yeah,” Fire said, hoping this concession would give Teego a sense of victory and make him leave him alone.
“I don’t mean to pressure you, Fire, but chuss me … you should take this one. Seen.”
“Okay,” Fire grunted as he restarted the engine. The world had proven too insistent for sleep. As the boat nosed through the water, he said, “Gwaan.”
Then there was a new voice, saying in a scolding tone, “Why are you making me worry that I’ll never see you again?”
To which he could only reply, as a smile washed across his face, “I love you. I love you. I really, really do.”
“Is that your smile or the reflection of mine?” she asked. The texture of her voice was soft now, like leather soaked in water, creating in him a momentary connection to her consciousness, enabling him to picture her as she was, standing barefoot, at the water’s edge, her shoes in one hand, the radio at her ear, feeling the menthol coolness of the surf licking and lapping her toes. Behind her, beneath the thatch-roofed pavilions, the guests were skanking to old rock-steady choons and slamming dominoes on plastic tables and telling duppy stories and teaching the children old ring games.
“How do you know I’m smiling?” he asked.
“Because I can see you,” she said. “I can see your beautiful face as clearly as I can hear your beautiful voice. And,” she said jokingly, “what else could you be doing? Well, you could be laughing at me, because I got as far as the next parish over—St. Thomas—and decided to turn around. And I’m glad I did, because I can’t think of calling any other place home, because people I’ve known for less than an hour have been calling me ‘darling’ and referring to me as ‘friend’ when they introduce me to other people who’ve been telling me I’m the ‘dead stamp’ of so-and-so from over, so, so we must be distant cousins. So, no, Fire, I’m not going to St. Lucia. I’m staying in this place. And Jamaica is only four thousand, four hundred and eleven square miles, and that’s too small for the two of us. So what does that mean, buster?”
“That you are such a silly woman. Such a wonderfully missed and loved and needed silly woman.”
“You forgot to add ‘single.’ ”
“Did you say single?” he said, laughing as he gunned the engine, speeding toward her now. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Why didn’t you ask?”
“I just thought—”
�
��No, you didn’t,” she interjected. “If you’d thought you would’ve asked me.”
“I’m asking now,” he said. “So tell me again.”
“I’m single … well, until you get here. So you better hurry.”
“I came looking for you, y’know. After I watched you leave I dashed after you. But I went in the wrong direction.”
“The story of our lives to this point.”
“So there you go—we belong together.”
“By the way, are you still smiling?”
“Yes, I’m smiling, Sylvia.”
“Why are you smiling, Fire?”
“Because you are my woman, Sylvia. And I am your man. Tonight I will fall asleep inside you. And I want to take you to meet my father.”
“I can see your light, by the way. Can you see me?”
From two miles away he couldn’t make her out in the crowd on the beach; at half a mile he could see her waving; at fifty yards he could see her face; at twenty-five, where he anchored and rolled up his trouser legs to step into the water, he could see her smiling.
As the boat drew near, she wanted to rush out to meet him, to splash in the foam and wet up her clothes with girlish excitement. But she didn’t. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t even breathe until he took her in his arms and hugged her, as the mourners began to nudge and whisper: “Is de girl dat, y’know.” “She’s a nice girl, man … we did really judge her wrong.” “She look like she woulda make some pretty baby too.” “From de way dem carrying on it might be nine months from now.”
“So, single woman,” he said as he held her chin. “You have a date tonight?”
“I’m not single anymore,” she replied. “My man has come to claim me.”
“So you’ll have my eighteen children, I take it, and do the laundry by hand because I still don’t have a washing machine.”
Tears scrambled down her face. “Only if I get the chance to be the one to wash your hair.”
“It all depends on how you behave,” he said. “I don’t give that privilege to any-and-everybody.”
“Every day won’t be like this, you know. Happy and sweet.”
“I know that. But these will be the moments that we’ll live for.”
“I love you, Fire.”
“I love you, Sylvia.”
“By the way, is that your smile or the reflection of mine?”
acknowledgments
Mummy and Pearson, I love you both. Addis and Makonnen, you’re the sweetest children a father could have. Marie Brown, you are more than an agent. You are mother, friend, nurturing spirit, and guiding force. Cheryl Woodruff, my first editor, every new author is a gamble. Thanks for taking a chance and working to make me deserve it. You are Pat Riley to my John Starks. Gary Brozek, Kristine Mills-Noble, Beverly Robinson, and the entire staff of One World/ Ballantine, thanks for your care and patience.
Many people took the time to read early drafts. Respect is due to you: Oliver Smith (yes, King Jammy), K. Maurice Jones, Donette Francis, David Pilgrim, David Eason, Susan Burrell, Paul Tulloch, Barbara Serlin, Gary Oates, Steve Elliot, Michael Bennett, Sherman Escoffery, Clinton Reynolds, Marlene Hanson, and Kim Barrajanos.
David Winn, my writing professor at Hunter College, thanks for raising the bar and forcing me to jump higher. Janet Fouche, my mother-in-law, your dal and curry sustained me through this. Ben Bailey, Danny Abelson, Jennifer Peerless, and the extended family at the Abelson Company, thanks for feeding my imagination and drawing me into that wonderful place of fun and learning. Kevin Powell, you opened your Rolodex to me. Now, that’s class.
Patrick Synmoie … cho man. Monte Bartlett, you’re a major part of this. Donna McKoy, nuff respect. Peter Tulloch, my bass teacher … Val Douglas the bass father, X-amounta vibes. Loris Crawford and Byrma Braham and the crew at the Savacou Gallery, you’re such wonderful friends and godparents, and your knowledge of art informs so much of this work.
Rohan Preston, Kwame Dawes, and Geoffrey Philp … me haffe lef oonoo fe laas. Ro, you are my Coxsone Dodd. Thanks for allowing me to use your poem “Dreaming of Mango.” Kwame, I am Gong to your Scratch. Thanks for writing all of Fire’s poetry. Geoffrey Philp, the only person who can tell a funny narrative like you is Pluto Shervington. Thanks for allowing me to use your poem “Exile.”
Special thanks to Bernardine Evaristo, George Harvey, and Dylan Powe.
John Updike, David Malouf, Caryl Phillips, and Derek Walcott, you humble and inspire me.
To the people of Jamaica at home and abroad … one love. I am one of you … a likkle yute from Hughenden.
Thanks be to God.
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