touching until she pushed him away.
“You’d better go before someone sees us.”
“You’re right,” Gibbs said, leaning into her one more time, then pulling away.
After that, Covey was alone in the house until after dawn, waiting and worrying. Lately, Covey had spent most of her time steering clear of her father, dreaming of the day when she and Gibbs could get away from the island together, but on this night, she only wanted to see her pa walk through the front door. Her mother had left, but her father had stayed. Her grandparents had passed on, her uncle and aunts and cousins had moved away, but her pa was still there. That selfish, bad-tempered, narrow-minded man was all that remained of her family.
In the light of day, some of the men from the neighborhood helped Covey’s father and the other merchants pick through the mess. Four shops had caught fire, in all, including one of her pa’s two stores. No one knew who had set the blaze. Or, at least, no one was saying. They all came back to her father’s backyard, shirts and Bermudas covered in soot, her father walking with one foot bare and a broken sandal in his hand. Covey ran to the washroom to wipe away her tears.
The men rinsed their hands and faces with water from the garden hose and settled into chairs, or perched themselves on the veranda steps. Pearl and Covey brought them glasses of ice water and plates of chicken and rice and peas, the scents of coconut milk and garlic mingling with the distant smell of burnt wood and metal. Covey’s father was muttering to another shopkeeper about the man who had reportedly beaten up his employee.
“Is not the first time him rough up somebody,” her pa said. “Dat man only causing trouble for the lot of us.” Covey’s mummy would have glared at her pa for slipping into patois that way, but Covey’s mummy hadn’t been home in five years.
Hadn’t telephoned.
Hadn’t written a letter.
Hadn’t come back for Covey.
“And this won’t be the end of it, either, Lin,” the other shopkeeper said.
Covey wanted to hear more, but Pearl called her into the house. If you wanted to know what was going on around town, you either hung around the men in the backyard or, once your body had sprouted points and curves and you were no longer permitted to linger, you sought out the women in the kitchen, especially on laundry days. There was usually a lull in the afternoon after school, when the white clothes had been laid out on the patio to bleach in the sun and Pearl had time for a piece of fruit and a chat with other helpers from up the way.
Like everyone in town, Covey had heard complaints about Chinese merchants who didn’t pay their employees their due or who had made advances toward the women. But they weren’t the only ones doling out mistreatment. Covey knew this because the women had always passed stories of such difficulties among themselves. This was the kind of thing that happened to them or to someone they knew all the time, wherever they worked, or shopped, or went to school. No difference if they were dealing with chiney or blacka or dundus.
Pearl said the human being was born to be a ginnal and it was a rare person who didn’t take advantage of a weaker one, or pretend to be the friend of a stronger one just to reap the benefits. But even Pearl said Covey’s father wasn’t a real rat, not like some of those others. Take Little Man Henry and all his badness, for instance. Little Man, Pearl said, had taken his delinquent behavior well beyond the limits of their parish.
According to Pearl, it was common knowledge that Little Man was tekkin’ money from the politicians to help stir up violence on the west end of the island. But that was not the worst of it. Little Man was capable of murder. More than one unlucky soul who had benefited from Little Man’s so-called generosity had turned up dead after failing to pay him back. Others had limped home, all mashed up and not telling.
“Where money is
“You’d better go before someone sees us.”
“You’re right,” Gibbs said, leaning into her one more time, then pulling away.
After that, Covey was alone in the house until after dawn, waiting and worrying. Lately, Covey had spent most of her time steering clear of her father, dreaming of the day when she and Gibbs could get away from the island together, but on this night, she only wanted to see her pa walk through the front door. Her mother had left, but her father had stayed. Her grandparents had passed on, her uncle and aunts and cousins had moved away, but her pa was still there. That selfish, bad-tempered, narrow-minded man was all that remained of her family.
In the light of day, some of the men from the neighborhood helped Covey’s father and the other merchants pick through the mess. Four shops had caught fire, in all, including one of her pa’s two stores. No one knew who had set the blaze. Or, at least, no one was saying. They all came back to her father’s backyard, shirts and Bermudas covered in soot, her father walking with one foot bare and a broken sandal in his hand. Covey ran to the washroom to wipe away her tears.
The men rinsed their hands and faces with water from the garden hose and settled into chairs, or perched themselves on the veranda steps. Pearl and Covey brought them glasses of ice water and plates of chicken and rice and peas, the scents of coconut milk and garlic mingling with the distant smell of burnt wood and metal. Covey’s father was muttering to another shopkeeper about the man who had reportedly beaten up his employee.
“Is not the first time him rough up somebody,” her pa said. “Dat man only causing trouble for the lot of us.” Covey’s mummy would have glared at her pa for slipping into patois that way, but Covey’s mummy hadn’t been home in five years.
Hadn’t telephoned.
Hadn’t written a letter.
Hadn’t come back for Covey.
“And this won’t be the end of it, either, Lin,” the other shopkeeper said.
Covey wanted to hear more, but Pearl called her into the house. If you wanted to know what was going on around town, you either hung around the men in the backyard or, once your body had sprouted points and curves and you were no longer permitted to linger, you sought out the women in the kitchen, especially on laundry days. There was usually a lull in the afternoon after school, when the white clothes had been laid out on the patio to bleach in the sun and Pearl had time for a piece of fruit and a chat with other helpers from up the way.
Like everyone in town, Covey had heard complaints about Chinese merchants who didn’t pay their employees their due or who had made advances toward the women. But they weren’t the only ones doling out mistreatment. Covey knew this because the women had always passed stories of such difficulties among themselves. This was the kind of thing that happened to them or to someone they knew all the time, wherever they worked, or shopped, or went to school. No difference if they were dealing with chiney or blacka or dundus.
Pearl said the human being was born to be a ginnal and it was a rare person who didn’t take advantage of a weaker one, or pretend to be the friend of a stronger one just to reap the benefits. But even Pearl said Covey’s father wasn’t a real rat, not like some of those others. Take Little Man Henry and all his badness, for instance. Little Man, Pearl said, had taken his delinquent behavior well beyond the limits of their parish.
According to Pearl, it was common knowledge that Little Man was tekkin’ money from the politicians to help stir up violence on the west end of the island. But that was not the worst of it. Little Man was capable of murder. More than one unlucky soul who had benefited from Little Man’s so-called generosity had turned up dead after failing to pay him back. Others had limped home, all mashed up and not telling.
“Where money is
Similar Books
