“I couldn’ close me eye at all las’ night, boy.” Adrenaline-shaky, Thomas waits for the police to arrive again. He had wanted to put things back in order but they told him not to, till they take the prints. “Watch how de place rample. They could’a do they wuk last night, that’s what they supposed to do. If was overseas, first, they would’a come straightaway and next, they would’a do everything one time. Not here, boy, eh.”
Vernon mumbles something but Thomas don’t quite catch it. His voice just rumbles through the open garage, broad and reassuring. He glances secretly at Thomas’s bloodshot eyes and looks down at the ground solemn, thinking he don’t need to tell Thomas how assish the police really are, and not to bother with them. Vernon leans against the parked car. He spots the hill watching the back of the house, poui trees waving light, morning breeze all wet and happy, but keeps looking at Thomas furiously sweeping the drain.
The police arrive just as Pierre and Ata come down the stairs. Five of them, big and strapping, unfold from the police car. Vernon and Thomas watch them stepping out and looking around the place important-like. The inspector, the one with a little stick made just for police inspectors, walks up to them. “Where is the owner?”
“He coming jus’ now,” Thomas says without budging. “They pass from so, up de hill.” He points, for the benefit of the officers stalking the corners of the yard and looking down the hill.
“Unh huh, we have a full report from last night.” The inspector takes off his hat and tucks it under his arm, with the little stick.
Ata and Pierre appear in the kitchen doorway together. The inspector wipes his forehead and bald head with a kerchief and follows them into the house.
Vernon smiles, watching the man mopping his head even though the morning still cool. Them hats does give they heads some pressure. That’s what must be making them bazodee and stupid so.
The officers make a big show of stamping shoes and wiping them on the doormats before stepping inside. Bits of wet cut lawn grass cling to their polished black boots. One bends down and wipes his off with a rag. Then they set about making a mess with their powder, all over the house. When they finish, and the inspector “concluded inspecting the crime scene,” they head to their car, ready to squeeze back in.
“They not even going to look up de hill!” Thomas exclaims, incredulous. “Last night, they say they will go in the morning.”
“Aren’t youall going to see where they passed on the hill?” Ata asks the inspector.
He pauses, about to get in the front passenger seat, and looks up at the hill.
“If you go to the back now, you will see clearly where they passed to come down—”
“That’s not necessary, ma’am. The grass is wet and I doubt we would find anything. We have the serial numbers of your stuff, so if we come across anything, we’ll be in touch.”
Vernon chokes a cough and Thomas’s jaw drops. They all watch the car reverse, turn, and slide away down the drive.
“Ha! De grass wet! Yuh hear dat, Vernon? De grass wet, so they can’t go up there.”
“Can you believe this?” Ata turns on Pierre. “Their boots might get dirty, or their pants hems might get wet. God forbid, one of them might even slip and fall, because wet grass is dangerous.” Ata raises her voice at Pierre’s silence.
Pierre turns and goes back in the house.
“I know long time, dem fellas is jokers.”
They all know the uselessness of the fingerprinting exercise, since the record of prints at the police stations is so limited compared to the number of criminals roaming about.
“Leh we go up there, Thomas. Bring yuh cutlass.” Vernon heads to the jeep for his.
* * *
When they come back down, Pierre is greeting the security officer, to go over what system they could put in place, and Ata’s on the mobile to the telephone company.
“They was eating and drinking up there on de hill, if you see juice box and t’ing — they had a party, a picnic! You could see clear-clear where they sit down and relax. And where dey come up from — Boissiere Village.”
“At least you know now that they didn’t come from one of the trails further up in these hills.”
“T’ank de Lord for dat,” Thomas breathes.
“Criminals hide out up there. Youall should really fence that side of the property too…”
Pierre instructs them to go ahead with all, no matter the cost. Secure the place, without making it look like a prison, and then they could try to live in peace. They all agree, brave-faced — you can’t live in fear.
Thomas busies himself cleaning up at last and doesn’t even want their help. Do like Sammy, keep busy and moving. Work it out.
Vernon hangs around Pierre and the security man in the yard, listening to fence options being discussed. “Tiger wire,” he rasps.
“Yes, razor wire,” the security man translates for Pierre.
“Dat will ketch any man tail.”
~ ~ ~
“I WANT A MAN come and ride me rhydem!” Allison Hinds screams on the radio but the woman wining down to the ground, sandwiched between two men in the mas camp, shouting “I want a man come and ride me belly…”
Flat on the ground, juking and grinding in a heap, and the other workers start shouting encouragement. The manager says, enough. “Youall could keep that kind of energy for the fete, please, come on…”
“Yes, get allyou ramping backside back to work!” Queen of the Band shouts, more authoritatively than the manager ever could.
An artist who has just returned from Canada, and her volunteering girlfriend, look away sheepishly and turn back to the pieces of the Queen’s costume.
Queen of the Band holds out her arms again, towering above and beyond the little group of the most talented around her. “Pull it tighter,” she orders and two women cinch the laces across the back of her bodice. Her spine, set deep between gold muscles, flexes. The strapless whiteness of the almost bridal dress pops her bosom and broad shoulders out at the top, glowing and strong. Ata could almost see her dazzling on the huge Savannah stage already.
They lift the first fifteen-foot fabric wing and struggle to squeeze the fiberglass spine of it into the casing on the back of her bodice.
“Ah think allyou will have to loosen me again to get them things in.” Queen places one arm across the bust of her dress to hold it up.
Fifteen feet are the shorter ones. It takes another forty-five minutes to fit the taller, feather-like wings and secure them.
Queen releases her bussom and breathes in deeply. Her flesh threatens to burst out but the laces hold. She bends forward from the waist and sweeps around and back up. The wings suddenly flicker alive and flag a most graceful arc.
“It works!” All the workers watching now as she tests and flexes the eight tremendous wings. The fluttering sight hushes them — an angel has sighed. When she spins, the soft fabric sings the sea and heavenly freedom of sails spinning by. The sound of swift bat wings, invisible in the night. They can see the Savannah breeze lifting them wings, bending and spreading them, in majestic flight.
“So, is more have to strap to my legs?” Queen’s feet are planted wide under her skirt as she stretches her torso side to side.
She enjoys the sound of kites, a child’s thrill in the paper-buzzed breeze, the tugging string.
“No, two more for your arms. And then the skirt frame and trail,” the manager says.
She holds the imaginary wing wands and waves herself across the floor. They see horizontal wings transforming her from angel to star, with a blaze of frothing white surf sparkling behind.