He get him going easy — talking the real facts about them street-name heroes. The way he put it can’t compare with them ole fellas’ rumshop version. It even better than the radio programs, ’cause the man quoting book and history lines just like Bible. Sam wonder if Father have any lines for the famous boasting subject — Trini women — even though is a ticklish thing to ask such a man. He try.
A deep chuckle come out from under Father lil’ white collar. “‘For gait, gesture, shape, and air, the finest women in the world may be seen on a Sunday in Port of Spain.’”
In church, of course! But was a quote, he explain, that a writer had dig up about the beauty of mulatto women. A Englishman report is because the “French and Spanish blood seems to unite more kindly and perfectly with the Negro.” He say the English does “eat too much beef and absorb too much porter for a thorough amalgamation with the tropical lymph in the veins of a black.”
“So that’s why,” Father explain kindly, “the British mulatto females looked to them like ‘very dirty white women’ compared to the ‘rich oriental olive’ of the ‘haughty’ French and Spanish half blood.”*
Father overexcel in this by-the-book business. Sam hope he don’t go and pull too many Bible pages upon Fraser, ’cause he know Fraser don’t like that so much. Maybe he do now, though. People does change when they know they time come, and it really looking like Fraser bringing on he time to come. Sam could almost say Fraser lucky, to a point. Lucky ’cause he have choices and he can even ask for blessings and prepare. Sammy don’t talk again. The priest stay quiet too.
* * *
Ata calls the police station in Blanchisseuse. They say, because she can’t reach Pierre by phone it doesn’t mean he’s missing. But they would pass by later, if they have a vehicle available. She calls the restaurant across from the cottage. The kitchen assistant says they will send somebody to check and give him the message. Ata tries to keep the terrible feeling out of her voice, so it won’t be part of the message. If she stays positive enough …
* * *
Alan explains to Father, quietly in the kitchen, that Fraser is beginning to convulse, and so needs this blessing before he loses all lucidity. Father doesn’t ask any questions, he just rests a hand on Alan’s shoulder and calmly hangs his holy scarf around his neck. He smooths the familiar fabric as he enters Fraser’s bedroom.
* * *
Sammy find himself in the yard with Vernon. Vernon don’t pay him no mind, he continue hosing down the steep driveway.
“It is he.” His phone, again. This time Sam’s voice change instantly. He start moving around jerky.
Vernon turns off the hose.
“What, yes, no!” Twisting. “I just bring Father by Fraser.” He hop up the drive, hushing his voice so inside can’t hear. “No, yes. But I could come.” Sam pull the phone away from his ear, pointing to it urgently.
“Who dat?” Vernon asks.
“You sure, Ata? You—” Sam flings the phone into Vernon’s outstretched hand.
“Yeah, wha’ ’appen? Ah, coming now,” Vernon says to Ata, snap the phone shut, shove it back to Sam, and stride away.
Sam try calling her back — voice mail.
Vernon, now with a shirt on, go inside and talk quickly with Alan.
“Not a word to Fraser,” he threaten Sam as he leaves.
* * *
“Thanks for coming, Father. I know it was short notice.” Fraser’s weak voice trembles in the dim room.
Father McBarnette stands by his bedside just letting his strong solid self warm the gloom. He holds Fraser’s hand in his, rosary bead pearls between their oyster palms.
Fraser feels their cool smoothness trapped in the silky intimacy. He sighs. “How’s the church coming along?”
Father sits on the stool close by. “It’s slow. We had some holdups with planning approval—”
“My guys told me, sorry.”
“But we’re getting there. Everything in a timing.”
“Inner timing, hunm.” The sedated turtle smiles.
“There was this one old Negro, Jacquet, the commandeur of Bel-Air sugar estate, owned by Dominique Dert — yes, Dert Street in town.”
Fraser nudges his pillow and waits for the light to unfurl. Stained-glass altar light, red, blue, and green.
Father’s words filter down softly. “Poisoning was a special form of revolt that outdid the master’s whips and chains. Jacquet was well liked and trusted by Dert, but slowly he killed off one hundred and twenty-five fellow Negroes. Eventually, he went too far with his poisonings, then he went off. Dert never suspected him, but the slaves came to know that their commandeur is the poisoner.
“Jacquet gave himself up. He said he wanted to die. It was never quite clear, however, if he was poisoned by someone else or if he took his own poison, himself.”
Fraser’s eyes are large eggs in glass cups.
“Poisoned blood is in our veins. The Caribs before that. It is not our fault … Do not be afraid … Let us pray.” Father stands and waits a moment for the white rushalings to settle. He kisses his wooden cross.
* * *
“I coming wit’ you,” Thomas announces before Vernon arrives, hurrying out, cutlass ready. Ata’s eyes widen. “Don’ worry, is jus’ a caution.”
Vernon grunts approval, taking off as they hop in.
Ata’s heart rattles in her mouth as the old jeep tears along the hills. She swallows it when they stop outside the little gate and it drops heavy to the bottom of her stomach.
The empty cottage breathes gappy and loose as they enter. It has no clue and was not responsible, sunning itself and stretching open carelessly. All his things are there, the bed unmade, unlike him. The deck draws them out. Instinct steps lead them down to the sea. Biley reflux wave-sick, she gags. She scans, panicking, where? WHERE?
“LOVE LIFTS US UP WHERE WE BELONG.” Fraser wants to hear the Joe Cocker album over and over, and it’s making Alan crazy. And then Nina Simone. And the moanfulness, the crusty voices … it’s too much, too much.
No, they couldn’t tell Fraser yet, but with all the confusion he must sense it. Helen and Marriette are around all the time and has set up a stream of people between Pierre and Ata’s home and Fraser’s. Mrs. Goodman has even reappeared, flitting in and out. All of Ata’s family has descended, pulling strings for search parties, the army, lawyers, embassies. Pierre’s brother flew in from France and whipped the U.N. might up into a frenzy, with the police. Nothing showed. Three, four days later, not a sign.
“We have to tell Fraser,” Alan argues. “He’s slipping.”
“NOOO!” Fraser screams, “NOOO!” in a voice none of them recognize. “I was supposed to go before him! ME … aagh … take me, take meeah.”
* * *
A week passed. And still nothing. Nothing. A nothingness as solid as fat around her. The custardy layer fills Ata’s mouth whenever she opens it, seals her eyes, but traps her screamy dreams instead of sleep. She refuses to leave and go back to her family home with her three sisters, though. They let her sit out in the sun some more.
Her long-gone mother soothes her, smooths her hair, and croons to her. She had liked Nina’s voice too. Ata can hear her singing “My baby just cares…”
* * *
An iguana scuttles across the crispy lawn in front of Ata. Heat like Vallot’s baking jail. Pierre. Pierre a Negro chained to the stake with a headless body: “He was made to put on a shirt. The shirt was filled with sulphur … The executioner lit the fire.”*
The stench of burning sulphur and flesh sears a hole through Ata’s fat. Burns hot torture. A Bergorrat and French planters’ ritual. Silk cotton limbs. Cursed deep. New Orleans weep. Trees waving strange fruit, “blood on the leaves, and blood at the root.”