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  “They think I have gone mad now,” he said slowly. Ferron could hear his smile. “So how the hell I must explain to them what I am doing when I don’t even know myself, eh?” He laughed softly. “You just do what you have to do.” That was one of the old man’s stock lines. Ferron caught it, so did Clarice, sitting in the telephone room. They started to laugh. Lucas laughed with them.

  Then they grew silent, at first trying to find something to say, but gradually accepting that there was nothing to say, that the darkness was a shelter. They sat in the dark for a very long time.

  Unpublished notes of George Ferron Morgan

  I have been taking taxis to work every day. I need a car. I think I will get a white Toyota Corolla. That is what all the political thugs are driving. They must be quite reliable. It is a long way from the Rover three-liter. But we are a long way from those days. I am spending a small fortune on taxis. The strange thing is that I don’t feel the urge to drive myself anymore. I want to be looked after. I used to love driving. That summer we drove across Europe to Moscow and then across Russia, that feeling of command of the road, that adventure, it seemed like second nature. But we are a long way from all of that now. A white Toyota Corolla.

  The difficulty here is that I have never worked in a firm or company before. It has nothing to do with whether one is making money for the company. That is fun. It has to do with the structure and relations in the office. I find it incredible that this office is set up as a large room, with some sixty or seventy chairs and about forty desks. The first problem is noise. The perpetual clicking of typewriters (I have to type at great pace, writing nonsense, to avoid going mad) and the jabbering of people on the telephone or the interviewing of and by working-class voices inhibits any kind of creative work. What we have is noise as in a garment factory and the quality of the output is similar.

  FOUR

  When Ferron came home the night after the Mandeville journey, Lucas was slumped in the corner, his head thrown back, with a book in his lap. He snored with a slow untidy asthmatic wheeze and grunt. A cigarette smoked in the remnants of his supper which was catching flies on the floor. It was hot and Lucas was sweating. They did look alike, Lucas and the old man: the nose, the thick glossy beard, the high forehead. Lucas, however, lacked the haughtiness—the old man’s condescending confidence. Even in his sleep, Lucas looked humble, almost defeated.

  In the kitchen Ferron found his way around with the help of the refrigerator light. He was afraid to turn on the fluorescent bulb which hummed loudly and startled roaches into scurrying and flying around the room. The noise would bring someone out. He did not want that.

  He ate the cold curried chicken and a few clumps of rice, quickly. He could see the line of light under the door of his mother’s room. He considered going in to tell her he was back, but decided against it. The stillness of the house was why he had lingered in Half Way Tree for more than three hours after Cuthbert had dropped him off. He had missed the last bus and was forced to take a taxi home.

  He took a glass of water to his room. His stomach had already begun to churn by the time he had taken off his shirt and trousers and thrown himself on the bed. He tried not to think about it there on his back, staring at the slanted lines of light from the street on the wall. Music from the bar across the way drifted into the room. The pattern of dog’s alarms relayed from fenced-in yard to fenced-in yard. He listened instinctively for the sound of barking to fall into a lull, then he relaxed.

  The old man would be on his back on the stained sheet in that funeral home where they had left him as if fast asleep. Or perhaps he was in heaven trying to understand what to do with so many years of paradise. Maybe he was waiting for the ancestors to construct that long bridge of light with strips of material from the moon, peeled off like onion skins, a path for him to walk from soil to soil, to the Port Harcourt black earth where the pebbles would be familiar again, and the sound of feet, stepping above, comforting in their rhythm. If not there, he would have to be in hell. No fires, just the waiting, a sad desperate waiting, surrounded by illiterates. Like the rest of them, Ferron needed a narrative for his father’s afterlife.

  Family story had it that the old man had confessed Christ a month before his death. Ferron had noticed him listening to late-night sermons on the radio, and once, three weeks before, the old man had spoken during a family prayer hour. To call it a prayer would not have been an accurate description of what he said. He simply spoke. His eyes were open and he was smiling:

  “We need some peace in this house too.”

  This was his addition to a list started by Clarice and extended by Mother. Lucas, who was muttering in tongues and flavoring each insightful utterance with a heartfelt “amen,” went completely silent after the old man had spoken. It was Ferron’s turn, and he quickly thanked God for everything and ended the prayer time.

  The old man was beaming. Nobody spoke. It was hard to tell whether his look was of irony and self-mockery, and an awareness that he was messing with the minds and hearts of his family, or whether he was sincerely seeking peace with his maker. The problem was that the look was a well-cultivated one. Clarice had been certain that it was mockery, because she walked off muttering how it was no wonder the Lord never took any of them seriously. But Ferron thought he saw something else, something like peace in the old man’s eyes. They never spoke again about that moment until after his death; then it became evidence of his salvation. They were grasping. Everybody knew this.

  So, it was possible that the old man was resting in the bosom of Abraham, somewhere in Zion. The old man would find it all quite funny.

  * * *

  Although he was expecting it, the first wave of pain in Ferron’s stomach caught him dozing. He got up quickly and ran to the bathroom, grabbing an old Star from the dresser.

  It was impossible to read it—the pain was so intense. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his stomach. With his head between his knees, he could smell the stench from his uneasy stomach. The smell made him more nauseous. He shivered, rocking his body, talking to himself, praying: “Oh God . . . no Lord . . . Can’t take it . . . Can’t . . .” He felt light-headed, weak, yet he was acutely aware of everything around him. The silver of the taps, the red in the shower curtains, the pink of the toilet mats were all vivid, clearer than normal. He was able to focus on details like the pattern of black spots in the tiles at his feet. He was waiting for the break—the sudden calming of the body after the pains. You accepted its coming with faith.

  * * *

  There was a lull in the pain. He tried to focus again, wiping sweat from his forehead. Then he felt his stomach heave upward. He ran to the tub and retched. Everything came spewing out. His stomach continued to contract as if trying to force the emptiness out of him. The effort weakened him and he sat on the floor, leaning against the tub, trying to slow his breathing to calm down, to stop the hiccups. He cried. He cried sitting on the floor; a full-throated crying. He cried as he washed away the vomit from the bathtub. He cried as he stumbled slowly to his room.

  He opened the lower windows in the bedroom and tried to stop the crying. It was useless. He lay back on the bed, now naked, and felt the tears run into his ears. He felt nothing, just this longing to stop trembling, to stop the pounding in his head.

  He drifted in and out of sleep, his stomach was still uneasy. He dreamed of warm places, white mint milk caressing the pain in his stomach. At four o’clock, he heard Lucas coughing in the bathroom. After that, Ferron slept.

  Unpublished notes of George Ferron Morgan

  There is a man who has worked here for about forty years, a Jamaican brown who obviously thinks he is white. He is incredibly opinionated. He evidently thinks the paper has deteriorated since the time of de Lisser and he is fighting a stubborn battle to get it back to that style. He considers himself the authority on good English and his manners are atrocious. After working here for forty years he was, up to the time I joined the staff, only a senior reporter.
His resentment was very deep. Recently the editor promoted him to the post of assistant editor and he is very pleased because he can now say that he is running the paper. I pity the editor. Scattered through the office are browns holding on to their past status, contemptuous of the young blacks who pack the office, earn large salaries, converse in very harsh patois, and are essentially noncreative. A few of them have been given encouragement by the editor. He has little to choose from. One girl got a First Class Honors at UWI in English and it seems to have killed her manners. At any rate she is not at all attractive. Another (I do not know his background) writes a column occasionally. He cannot write. But he maintains the kind of arrogance which he thinks a columnist should have. He is pathetic. He types at great speed, churning out badly written stuff.

  FIVE

  Ferron was standing on the sloping concrete ramp waiting for them to wheel out the body on the metal tray that was stained with the blood of somebody else. The old man had bled, but it was all internal.

  The morgue squatted on a hill. It was a square, flat-roofed, single-story building set off from the hospital like a glorified outhouse. One expected to see the words DANGER: HIGH VOLTAGE. KEEP OUT painted in red on the walls. The slopes leading to the white building were lush Mandeville-green, and neatly kept. The narrow concrete path, just wide enough to hold a hospital trolley, was lined by a blooming hibiscus hedge. A woman in black stood to the side of the building, staring at the grass at her feet.

  She seemed to be waiting for something. She held an olive-green rag over her face. Ferron, tired of waiting and deprived of Cuthbert’s somewhat distracting humor—he had gone into town to try and do some business—became fascinated by this woman. She did not seem to notice him, as if she thought that the rag over her face made her invisible. Ferron wondered if there was something wrong with her teeth.

  She removed the rag from her face, spat, then assumed the same posture. It was a familiar gesture. Spitting like that was something people did when they were near something foul-smelling. They did not have to smell it or see it; they just needed to know that it was there. Soon she added a few more ritual gestures: the short but audible exhaling of air through the nostrils, the waving away of nonexistent flies, and the grunt of distaste.

  Ferron was surprised at his annoyance with her. He wanted to ask her to wait somewhere else if she was so damned uncomfortable. He turned impatiently to the doorway of the morgue. A policeman in uniform strolled out, wiping his face with a handkerchief. He walked by Ferron and spat into the lawn outside the building. He was followed by a short, barrel-bellied dark man, another policeman, who kept wiping his hands on his trousers.

  “Sunday, eh. Sunday. Kill a man ’pon a Sunday. Is like them do it to spite we, man.” He was talking to the fellow in full khaki who brought up the rear. Ferron recognized him as the morgue orderly he had spoken to earlier. “Shit, man. Is like dem jus’ say, officer, Monday is a workday, Blodoi!” He formed a gun with his fingers and jerked the arm back. “See work here.”

  The woman walked tentatively toward the two officers.

  “Close casket, man,” the uniformed officer said.

  “Nobody can fix dat face,” the other policeman laughed. “Unoo mus’ fix dat air conditioner, man. In dere stink.”

  “Officer . . .” The woman suddenly looked very old.

  “Oh, lady,” the plainclothes officer turned to her as if he had remembered something.

  “When I can tek him, sar?” she asked.

  “You can tek him anytime,” the officer said. “You sure ’bout the statement, now, right?”

  “Yes sah,” she nodded.

  “Is yuh son?” he asked.

  “Yes sah.”

  “An’ is t’ief shoot him?”

  “Yes sah. Goat t’ief. Dem come in an’ shot ’im, sah . . .” She took a deep breath to continue.

  “An’ yuh sure yuh neva see dem?” the policeman interrupted before she could continue what was obviously going to be a lament.

  “No sah. Neva see nobody, sah.” Her head was bowed. It was clear she was lying. It was as if she wanted them to know this.

  “Tek ’im, then,” the officer said, sighing. She nodded, avoiding their eyes, and started down the path to the hospital complex.

  Ferron could see a broken-down Morris Oxford parked on a grassy embankment beside a cream-colored Toyota Corolla. Two men sat in the backseat of the Toyota. Another two men sat on the hood of the Morris Oxford staring up the hill. They wore long black rubber boots and tattered hats. Farmers. She walked toward them.

  “You gwine look at the nex’ one?” the khaki-clad orderly asked.

  “No sah. Later. Enough fe this morning, boss.” The officer was already making his way to the walkway. His uniformed companion was staring down at the group by the Morris Oxford. The car had started and was moving toward the main gate.

  “What the rass!” He scratched his head. “Them gone.”

  “Oh shit,” the khaki-clad man said, looking at Ferron.

  “Funny business, eh? Ah tell you, man, is one of dem man deh do it. I know it. She have ’bout eight son. Dem always a fight. See down there? Is a murderer down there.” He was pointing to the Morris Oxford.

  “Look, I gone,” the senior officer said as he strolled off.

  The orderly winked at Ferron, who was about to blow up. He had been waiting all morning and now they seemed intent on letting him wait for the entire afternoon as well. The orderly followed the two policemen down the path. “Wait deh, officer, jus’ look on one more nuh. This man come from morning, an’ . . .”

  The two officers stopped and turned in a smooth, almost rehearsed fashion. They looked at Ferron as if they were noticing him for the first time.

  “Which one this?” the officer asked, still looking at Ferron. Ferron stared back.

  “The man weh drop over by Whitehall.” The orderly was moving back to the morgue door. “Simple thing. The doctor look on him already, them say ‘nothing strange.’ Yuh jus’ have fe sign. Look an’ sign.”

  “Your old man?” the officer asked, moving back up the path. Ferron nodded. “Hell of a thing. Hell of a thing. Rum is a terrible thing.” The three disappeared into the morgue. A few minutes passed. Ferron watched the Morris Oxford crawl along the main road and disappear around some buildings. He wondered whether they had abandoned the dead man.

  The officers walked out, the taller, uniformed one first. He spat into the grass and continued down the path digging into his pocket for keys. The shorter officer followed, nodding at Ferron as he passed. Ferron could hear the squeak of wheels as the orderly pushed a trolley out. The smell of blood filled Ferron’s nostrils. It was not a smell of decay, it was cleaner: fresh blood.

  “Ready?” the orderly asked. Ferron noticed for the first time that his clothes had bloodstains. Human blood, Ferron thought. The short man was businesslike. His forehead shone with sweat as he worked with quick jerky movements around the trolley. He kept reaching to swat away something from his overlarge ears. He looked up at Ferron with old, bored eyes. The irises were light brown. “Ready?”

  The body was tightly wrapped. The old man seemed smaller, thinner than Ferron remembered. He wondered what his father was wearing underneath those sheets. It was hard to tell if he had on anything at all. He did not ask. He wanted to ask if they would let him take the sheet, but he hesitated. He thought of the newspaper in the back of the Volvo station wagon. They would need it if Cuthbert’s car was not to reek of the dead. The body did not appear to be frozen. The old man would smell.

  “Yes . . . Alright, business time now . . . let me see now . . .” The orderly flipped through some sheets sloppily clipped onto a piece of plyboard. “Morgan, nuh?”

  “Yes,” Ferron said.

  “Well, yuh better check him out . . .” The orderly looked up at Ferron and smiled smugly. Ferron felt as if he was being dared. “You have to make sure is de right one.” It was like a commercial transaction. “Father, nuh?” he asked cas
ually, still studying Ferron’s reaction.

  Ferron assumed a nonchalant air. “Yeah.” He looked at his watch. The orderly searched for a pencil, found it in his breast pocket, and began to write.

  “Name?”

  “Morgan, Ferron Morgan . . .” Ferron stopped. “Whose name?”

  “Yours . . .” The orderly smiled.

  “Well, they are the same.” Ferron tried to laugh.

  The orderly had not heard. “Name,” he said, peering at the sheet in front of him.

  “Morgan, Ferron Morgan . . .”

  “Spell it . . .”

  “F-E-R-R-O-N,” Ferron said slowly.

  The orderly wrote, pausing after each letter or two to admire his work. Then his brows tightened. “Then nuh the same name this?” He compared the two words. “Cho, man, me say your name. Your name, boss, your name.” The orderly was erasing furiously.

  “That is my name, Ferron Morgan. We have the same name.” Ferron was becoming uncomfortable. He was worried about the sun beating on the body in the trolley between them. He was aware of the absurdity of the dialogue. There was something dreamlike about the whole affair. “I just said—”

  “You mean you and the man name . . .” he frowned at the clipboard, first sounding out the syllables, then saying them, “Ferron Morgan?”

  “Yes, sometimes fathers do that.” His sarcasm was lost on the man, who was now smiling. “What?”

  “Shit,” the orderly laughed. “Then somebody might read this an’ believe say the dead man nuh tek out him owna self.”

  It did not matter that Ferron was not laughing. The orderly chuckled at his own little joke for the remainder of the time the two were together. Later, Ferron would tell the joke to Cuthbert, pleased with himself.