Stealing Flowers by Edward St Amant Page B

dramatic effect and took to the pulpit sometime
afterward.
    “Today, I’ll talk about Jesus’ best friend,
Simon Peter,” he said, his face a mask of reverence, accented with
his short grey hair and his fiery eyes, “the man who built the
church, and the most important apostle. Jesus appointed Simon to be
the first pope, making every pope a friend of Jesus. Simon was the
rock the church was built on. He suffered a martyr’s death in Rome
at the hands of Nero and was given the keys to heaven by Jesus
himself.”
    He spoke of Simon for some time. I was
rather disappointed. I’d hoped to hear more about Jesus. When the
mass was over, Mary took me to see him. I shook his hand.
    “Jesus visits me in my sleep,” I said
proudly to let him know we could be friends, but this seemed to
make the priest unhappy and Mary embarrassed.
    “Jesus attends to his whole flock through
his ministers,” he said kindly. “To say he personally comes to
earth to visit you is incorrect.”
    “What does that mean?” I asked.
    “The church is Christ’s institution in the
world. Through it, the Word of God is spread. He’s the way and the
light, but you must walk a path to him following the rules of the
church. You can’t make up your own like some Protestants do.” He
put his hands on top of Sally’s head. “How are you Sally?” he asked
gently.
    “I believe Christian,” Sally said. “Jesus
comes in his first sleep and fills him with love which he passes on
to me.”
    “As you can see, much has changed in our
household,” Mary said. “They’ll come around, Father.”
    “I’m sure,” he said softly. “Hello, Una,
how’s your mother?”
    “Much better now.”
    They chatted for a time, and I stared at
Sally in wonder. I loved her so badly in that moment that I became
short of breath. Later, we arrived home and swam in the pool.
Already I could use the slide and kick myself to safety. We laid
out in the sun afterwards and Una brought us cold Coca-Cola and Mr.
Salty potato chips. Una wore a white and red dress and a white
kerchief over her head. She dangled her big black feet in the water
at the shallow end and smiled over us like the happiest creature on
earth.
    “Tell me about your mother?” I asked.
    “Clara is her name,” Una said. “She’s a
little tiny woman, hardly a shadow of her big Una. She’s been
ornery this last year and not herself. I recently found out why.
She had to go to the hospital for a heart operation, but she’s
alright now. I may have to return to the island for a few weeks to
look after her though.”
    “What happened?”
    “She’s getting old.”
    “Tell us about your life in Jamaica,” I
asked.
    “The island is full of bad men,” she said,
looking sadly into the water and then up at the sun. “They sell
drugs and weapons. I returned to the island in the first month of
1960 and worked at a jerk shop, one which later, I bought. Under my
guidance, following my recipes and prices, and with the former
workers, it did well. I didn’t buy into the boss-racket and didn’t
pay tribute-money. My first place, The Kingston Jerk Shack, became
well known on the island. Within years, I’d seven of them from
Montego to Santa Cruz to Spanish Town.
    “During this time, I fell in love with a man
who also tried to find success in the eatery business. In Kingston,
it’s a singularly difficult thing to do. He was a master chef,
Acomite Williams, and could cook up wondrous recipes. He was a
small thin man with a moustache and a teasing smile, my catchaman,
and I called him Sweet Peewee. Aco was a kind gentle man, not these
la-di-da bag of vain-glorious Rastifarians, who run on the beach
half-naked, and smoke Guanghua, dancing Reggie through the
night.
    “His specialty was cooking for large groups,
weddings and such, and some of his creations were in great demand.
His Pepper Crawfish from the Pit was first-rate. He did Étouffée
with Seafood and Veggies. I remember a Jambalaya recipe, a spicy
rice