fished and dove for
langosta.
See Timothy's grave..."
She was silent a moment, then said, "His grave? It would seem healthier to me if you put it all out of your mind. Think only about getting your sight back. That's the main thing, not some tiny, remote island and a grave."
I doubted she'd ever understand. I said, "Mother, I want to thank him again."
She said, "You can't thank a dead person. You have to say thanks while they're alive..."
I kept silent.
"Phillip, he's deadâgone! There are no such things as guardian angels. There is no communication from heaven. Or from hell. Maybe you need another kind of doctor." There was anger in her voice.
I didn't answer.
Then she let out a long sigh and said, "When I unpacked your bag last night I found that knife in the bottom of it. Any reason you brought it along?"
"For luck," I said.
"A knife will bring you luck?"
"Timothy's knife." I thought it might.
"I think you're possessed by that man. You know how many times you've talked about him this past week?"
"I loved him," I said. "I love him now."
"You loved a Negro?"
"Yes."
It was as good a time as any, up in that hotel room, far from the Caribbean, to ask, finally, "Why don't you like black people?"
There was a moment of silence. She seemed about to explode. Then: "Did I ever say that?"
"You've said it in many ways, Mother. You'd make a face when I mentioned them. You told me to stay away from them..."
"They're different, don't you know that? My grandmother knew it, my mother knew it, and I know it. They have their own way of life. That's why they live in a separate part of town."
Her grandmother knew it, her mother knew it, and she knew it?
"Maybe it's because we don't want them to live in our section," I said.
"That's nonsense. Most don't have the money to live in our area. And they wouldn't live around us even if they could."
"Why not?" I asked.
"They have their own music, their own food, their own way of dressing, their own way of talking, and they live happily in their own sections. Do you think Timothy would want to live in Scharloo?"
I had no idea. "He might." But I didn't think he'd want to live next door to my mother.
"Are you afraid of them?" I asked.
"Let's just say I'm uncomfortable around them."
"Why? Did any black person ever do anything to you?"
"Phillip, don't question me," she flared, the old tightness back in her voice.
"Timothy said that under the skin we're all the same."
"I'm not interested in what Timothy had to say about this subject."
That ended the conversation.
11. Obeah
OCTOBER 1884 âIn early morning, still thinking about what Tante Hannah had said the night before about slavery, Timothy was fishing in Wobert Avril's rowboat. They were anchored near the coral reefs off Galosh Point, hand-lining for grouper at about thirty-five feet. Also down there were snapper, jack, mackerel, barracuda, and bonito. But fat grouper was what they were after.
Later, when the sun was fully out, they'd be able to see the fan-covered reefs and the fish.
Though he was sometimes foggy headed after a night with Demon Rum, old Wobert knew more about fish and birds and the sea than any man alive. Timothy was sure of it. He knew the winds and the stars and the reefs. He knew the islands and cays all the way south to Trinidad and Tobago, west to the Morants and Providencia. Timothy wanted his knowledge.
Tante Hannah had told Timothy, "Lissen to de ol' mahn, all de ol' mahn, iffen dey wise. Den yuh be wise."
Timothy thought of Wobert as his grandfather. He looked like a grandfather and talked like a grandfather. He often said, "Riddle me dis, or riddle me dat..."
Wobert told the best stories about fish and
jumbis,
the evil spirits. Timothy both believed them and didn't believe them at the same time. Once, Wobert told him about catching a "barra" that was seven feet long. Timothy didn't think that any barracuda could be seven feet long. Four feet, maybe even five. Never seven.
Wobert
langosta.
See Timothy's grave..."
She was silent a moment, then said, "His grave? It would seem healthier to me if you put it all out of your mind. Think only about getting your sight back. That's the main thing, not some tiny, remote island and a grave."
I doubted she'd ever understand. I said, "Mother, I want to thank him again."
She said, "You can't thank a dead person. You have to say thanks while they're alive..."
I kept silent.
"Phillip, he's deadâgone! There are no such things as guardian angels. There is no communication from heaven. Or from hell. Maybe you need another kind of doctor." There was anger in her voice.
I didn't answer.
Then she let out a long sigh and said, "When I unpacked your bag last night I found that knife in the bottom of it. Any reason you brought it along?"
"For luck," I said.
"A knife will bring you luck?"
"Timothy's knife." I thought it might.
"I think you're possessed by that man. You know how many times you've talked about him this past week?"
"I loved him," I said. "I love him now."
"You loved a Negro?"
"Yes."
It was as good a time as any, up in that hotel room, far from the Caribbean, to ask, finally, "Why don't you like black people?"
There was a moment of silence. She seemed about to explode. Then: "Did I ever say that?"
"You've said it in many ways, Mother. You'd make a face when I mentioned them. You told me to stay away from them..."
"They're different, don't you know that? My grandmother knew it, my mother knew it, and I know it. They have their own way of life. That's why they live in a separate part of town."
Her grandmother knew it, her mother knew it, and she knew it?
"Maybe it's because we don't want them to live in our section," I said.
"That's nonsense. Most don't have the money to live in our area. And they wouldn't live around us even if they could."
"Why not?" I asked.
"They have their own music, their own food, their own way of dressing, their own way of talking, and they live happily in their own sections. Do you think Timothy would want to live in Scharloo?"
I had no idea. "He might." But I didn't think he'd want to live next door to my mother.
"Are you afraid of them?" I asked.
"Let's just say I'm uncomfortable around them."
"Why? Did any black person ever do anything to you?"
"Phillip, don't question me," she flared, the old tightness back in her voice.
"Timothy said that under the skin we're all the same."
"I'm not interested in what Timothy had to say about this subject."
That ended the conversation.
11. Obeah
OCTOBER 1884 âIn early morning, still thinking about what Tante Hannah had said the night before about slavery, Timothy was fishing in Wobert Avril's rowboat. They were anchored near the coral reefs off Galosh Point, hand-lining for grouper at about thirty-five feet. Also down there were snapper, jack, mackerel, barracuda, and bonito. But fat grouper was what they were after.
Later, when the sun was fully out, they'd be able to see the fan-covered reefs and the fish.
Though he was sometimes foggy headed after a night with Demon Rum, old Wobert knew more about fish and birds and the sea than any man alive. Timothy was sure of it. He knew the winds and the stars and the reefs. He knew the islands and cays all the way south to Trinidad and Tobago, west to the Morants and Providencia. Timothy wanted his knowledge.
Tante Hannah had told Timothy, "Lissen to de ol' mahn, all de ol' mahn, iffen dey wise. Den yuh be wise."
Timothy thought of Wobert as his grandfather. He looked like a grandfather and talked like a grandfather. He often said, "Riddle me dis, or riddle me dat..."
Wobert told the best stories about fish and
jumbis,
the evil spirits. Timothy both believed them and didn't believe them at the same time. Once, Wobert told him about catching a "barra" that was seven feet long. Timothy didn't think that any barracuda could be seven feet long. Four feet, maybe even five. Never seven.
Wobert
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