The Jamaican Writer

The Last Laugh

She slapped the covered dish down on the rough, wooden table, unmindful of the soup slopping over the edge. The thin liquid formed a yellow pool that slowly seeped into the unpolished wood.

From his position on the bed, Henry watched as she glared at him, resentment plain in every gesture. Her nostrils flared from the rank odour of stale urine that surrounded the bed and hung in the air. He’d wet himself repeatedly the night before and during the early morning. It was an everyday occurrence.

Henry looked forward to dying and leaving his present misery. Locked all day in the hot, weather-beaten cottage, he kept himself sane by thinking about his misspent youth. The heat made him miserable and his thoughts took him away from his wretched condition.

He often wondered where his children were. Three of them he knew and had not supported during his working years. He was aware of two others, but had never met them. He had left town when news had reached him that their mothers were on his trail with ideas that involved tar and feathers.

Henry was convinced he was born without a conscience. He felt not an iota of regret at the treatment of his progeny. None of them had heart anyway. Only one had stepped forward when he’d heard about his father’s plight. Mr. High and Mighty, as Henry thought of him, had visited once out of curiosity and never been heard from again.

Henry Marshall had fallen a long way from his roots. He was born in a small, rustic village and had barely waited for his sixteenth birthday to bid his hometown farewell. He lived a shiftless life, working only when necessary and moving from one end of the island to the other.

His irresponsible nature would puzzle him all his life. He came from good country stock, his parents were hard-working farmers who took care of their children; but Henry was far different from his 3 brothers and 2 sisters. He made irresponsible behaviour an artform. The irony was that he’d heard all his children had turned into responsible adults. He was sure they didn’t get that from him.

He was dragged from his reverie by a rough shake. Carlene, his care-taker, was urging him to get up. His 87-year-old bones revolted at being jarred. He raised himself to a sitting position as slowly as he could, knowing it was maddening to his unwilling caregiver. She stood, arms folded, gritting her teeth in frustration. Henry cackled under his breath, thin lips receding from his toothless gums.

He knew he made a horrible sight with his brown gums on display and grey tufts of hair standing out every which way. Carlene glared at him in disgust and grabbed his scrawny, rope-like arm in a strangling grip.

“Ol’ man, you t’ink I have all day?” she asked.

Henry muttered something unintelligible and leaned forward on the edge of the bed. Carlene grabbed the hem of his once white undershirt, now an ugly grey, and yanked it, jerking his frail body forward.

“Put up yuh hands!” she yelled, pulling up the merino that was riddled with holes, long eaten by a gathering of voracious ants.

Henry obliged her, but waited until his head emerged from the wide neck opening to hack directly in her face. He got her good. She was short, so her face was only slightly above his head. She sprang back as a jet of air and spittle bathed her face. His rancid breath caused her face to twist into an ugly mask. She shot him a look of disgust, as she violently rubbed her shirt’s collar over her nose and lips.

His rheumy eyes gazed innocently up at her and he recognized the look she wore. She was holding herself back from thumping him. He tried not to look too pleased with himself or she would make him regret his fun.

She muttered threats and curses against ‘nasty old men’ the entire time she sponged down his wrinkled, shrunken, age-spotted body.

When she was done, she placed the dish on a small, rusty metal tray. Then she shoved both the tray and a dirty tablespoon into Henry’s lap. She flounced out, slamming the frail door so hard, Henry wondered whether she was trying to deafen him and collapse his entire house with him inside it.

Henry settled in the parish of St. Julienne in his later years. He bought himself an acre of land, planted some vegetables and built his little house. Years passed. He made no improvements to the house, which fell into disrepair and aged as badly as its owner.

Henry Marshall was lecherous. He liked looking at younger women as he thought about what he would do to their supple bodies if he were still capable. Carlene, being an opportunist, capitalized on Henry’s weakness. As he sat framed by the doorway of his cottage each afternoon, she would stroll past, swishing her hips in a slow, sensuous rhythm. She was pretty and would throw him come hither smiles that made Henry’s blood pound in his head. His thoughts would turn to the ecstasy that would be his if he were forty years younger.

After a time, Henry and Carlene broke their silence and introduced themselves. Each had something the other wanted. Soon Henry had the privilege of trailing a claw-like, dirt-encrusted hand over Carlene’s youthful arm. She tolerated his clumsy advances, knowing he could go no further.

Time passed and Henry found it more difficult to take care of his personal needs. Being a practical man, he propositioned Carlene one gloomy afternoon as she sat on the only chair in his home.

“How old do you think I am Carlene?” Henry asked, nose hairs twitching.

“I don’ know,” she answered, but her face asked why he thought she’d be interested to know.

“I’ll soon be eighty-two and I’ve lived a hard life,” he said.

Carlene looked mystified, but she remained silent.

“Soon, I won’t be able to care for myself properly,” he continued.

Carlene sat up straight.

“I want to make a deal with you,” he said.

“What kind of deal?” she asked, clearing her throat. Her eyes flashed inquisitively and she leaned toward him, ignoring the slight smell of urine that hung about his person.

“If you will take care of me – bring food, wash my clothes, bathe me – I will give you my land in exchange. You will own it when I die.”

This was what Carlene was waiting for and her eyelashes batted at Henry in spite of herself.

“It will be a simple agreement,” Henry continued, “I will give you the wording and you will write it down. I will sign it and you will keep it, until such time as I pass on. We will need a witness,” he continued, “Can you think of anyone?”

After a few moments of thought – it wouldn’t do to appear too eager – Carlene nodded slowly.

“I can arrange for a witness to come. I’ll ask a friend of mine,” she hastened to reassure him.

This was what she had swayed and sashayed for all along. The old buzzard couldn’t last much longer. But last he did.

A day later, Henry dictated his wishes in the presence of the stranger she brought with her. The document was signed by both parties and witnessed by the middle-aged man.

Over time, Carlene’s patience with Henry stretched thin. She grew disgusted by his advances and did not hesitate to rough him up when frustration overcame her. Henry refused to die, through no fault of his own. Night after night, he lay down hoping it would be his last, but against his wishes a new day of misery would dawn.

Carlene delivered one meal each day – usually midmorning – that was intended to last twenty-four hours. Henry did not mind much. He was a light eater. What he did mind was that his raggedy clothes and bed sheets reeked of urine. Carlene did not like washing and so Henry grew used to feeling unidentified insects meandering all over his sheets and in the crevices of his wasted body.

The sponge baths he cherished soon dwindled to one per week. Chafing of his neglected body did not occur simply because he was so thin, he had little flesh in which pockets of moisture could form. Henry’s entire existence revolved around his smelly, vermin-infested bed.

After five years, a ray of light came in the shape of a tall, bearded Rasta man who claimed to be Henry’s relative. He turned up one day, ushered in by a sour-faced Carlene. He said he lived in America and was constructing a family tree. Henry was his grand-uncle and his search had led him to St. Julienne.

Henry was ecstatic to have a visitor and exhausted himself giving his grand-nephew a litany of complaints against life and his condition. Carlene was not unduly worried. Her agreement was safely locked away, but all the same she glared at Henry as she stood beside his relative. Henry ignored her.

There were two more visits between Henry and his grand-nephew, who brought another visitor with him on his second trip. Carlene, tired of Henry’s gabbing, left them to catch up on family history. His grand-nephew asked many questions about Henry’s background, in which she had no interest. If anything, Carlene was glad that he was talking someone else’s ear off. She did wonder if the Rasta man was not aware of the awful smell that pervaded the miserable little room. If he was, he gave no sign of it.

Real concern set in when the Rasta man returned a few days later with a van full of people, who claimed to be Henry’s relatives. Worry gnawed at Carlene’s belly as she thought about how she had treated Henry and whether he would say anything to expose her.

The nephew, who called himself Ras Michel, treated her respectfully. He sought her out in her little house half a mile down the road before going to visit Henry. Carlene’s mind ran in circles as she remembered that for years, the old man was alone. Then, a man who resembled Henry had turned up, saying he was his son. He had left money, now long gone and had never returned. Henry had become her burden and she had no intention of not collecting for all the foolishness she had borne from him over five long, agonizing years. She would collect what was hers.

She hopped in their van and rode the short distance to Henry’s house with them. There were close to a dozen of them. Most of them lived on the island and three of them, including the Rasta, lived abroad. Her calculating eyes told her that they had little need of what Henry owned - they were all nicely dressed and looked prosperous - but the gnawing in her gut continued.

During the entire visit, she wondered what to do about what she felt were slowly shifting circumstances. She told herself not to worry; everything would be all right, but she could not shake the feeling of dread that lingered.

Henry was the liveliest Carlene had seen him in a long time. She watched him interacting with his relatives and hoped he didn’t plan to go on living for much longer. She was getting heartily sick and tired of him. As she eyed him, hate and revulsion rose up as an almost tangible lump in her throat. She would have to do something about him.

She composed herself and endured the rest of the visit. As the group left, Henry’s grand-nephew told her they would be back in a few days to visit. He was scheduled to leave the island at the end of the following week and wanted to see Henry once more before he went back to the States.

That night, Carlene lay down, thinking about her options. She could not run the risk of letting the land slip through her hands. She had too much at stake. Wracking every corner of her mind, she came up with a plan.

The next morning, she did her usual chores and took Henry’s food to him at 11 o’ clock. As she climbed the low steps to the doorway, she went over in her mind what she planned to do. She knocked once and pushed the door open.

”G’morning,” she greeted Henry.

“Morning, Carlene,” he gummed back at her, looking like some dreadful creature out of a horror movie.

Carlene’s stomach heaved and she turned aside to lay his food on the crude table. She stooped down at his bedside and hooked a finger under the edge of a small, plastic tub. She was going to give him a bath. She gagged at the smell of the old mattress and quickly got to her feet.

She went outside and returned with water in the basin. Placing it on the floor, she dropped a rag in the water. Then, she manhandled Henry out of his clothes, wet and rubbed his rag with a nub of pink soap.

She cleaned him as fast as she could manage, while slapping away his searching hands. When she was satisfied, she dragged his musty-smelling vest back over his head and pulled his underpants up over knobby knees and toothpick legs. She helped him sit up and waited as he ate, lips slapping together rudely. The mashed potatoes escaped the sides of his mouth and the gravy trickled down his chin in a crooked line. Carlene could not watch. She turned away and looked out the window until he finished.

She took the tray with the plate and laid it on the table. Then she helped Henry to lie down. He started protesting, spitting food in her face as he spoke. She resisted the urge to slap him.

“A jus’ ate. I can’t lie down so soon. A will vomit,” he moaned.

“Well, I leavin’ soon, so you have to lie down now!” Carlene commanded.

She toppled him onto the bed and helped him lie on his back. His yellowed eyes glared accusingly, but she did not care. She sat down in the only chair in the small, smelly room and prepared to wait. She was soon rewarded; Henry’s wrinkled eyelids batted slowly back and forth. He was falling asleep.

Once his eyelids stopped fluttering, Carlene got up. She watched him, making sure he was asleep for he woke at the slightest noise.

She reached over, stealth in her movements. She lifted the unused pillow that lay beside his grizzled head and in one swift movement, brought it down over his face.

Henry proved stronger than he looked and struggled to escape his attacker. His hands clawed at hers in panic and only a few moments passed before his malnourished body lost its strength. She waited until he stopped twitching before lifting the soft pillow.

Carlene almost fainted with fright. She knew he was dead or very close to it, but Henry’s eyes seemed to glisten with malice. She could have sworn that his mouth curved in a smile. She shook off her misgivings. He appeared to smile because his thin lips were folded over his gums. It’s just a quirk of old age, she told herself.

She placed one hand by his side and the other on his chest to simulate his natural sleeping position. She replaced the pillow, fearing he would grab her arm at any moment, and sped out the door.

When she returned the following day, she raised an alarm after discovering Henry’s body. Having passed away as he did, his body could not be moved until the police consented. Carlene gave a brief statement and explained the nature of her relationship with Henry.

Nothing looked suspicious, so it was assumed that Henry had died from natural causes. After being given permission, Carlene arranged to have the body moved to the morgue downtown.

No autopsy was done. Luckily the village doctor had seen him during the previous month, so Carlene applied for and got a burial order within two days after the death. She made the funeral arrangements, taking the cheapest package offered by the Sunset Funeral Home. It included a formica-covered coffin and programmes for the funeral service. She then called the contact number his grand-nephew gave her and informed him of the death and the funeral date, which would fall just before he planned to leave the island.

The night before the funeral, Carlene congratulated herself. She was free of the drudgery that Henry’s care had become. All that remained was to put him six feet under and hand their agreement to the legal aid lawyer with whom she’d already made contact.

* * *

A battered, grey Toyota truck delivered Henry’s body to the church, then left immediately after. The church was hard to find, but his relatives made their way to the large zinc structure that sat at the crest of a small, rocky hill. They felt it appropriate to show their respect. They’d parked their cars near the village square and followed the directions the villagers provided.

Carlene saw the distaste on a few faces as they looked around the church building. Confused eyes examined the vases sitting on the table at the front of the church. They contained oleander blooms resting in water. Grapefruits were also laid out on the table. None of them seemed exposed to Pocomania, a Pentecostal religion with some African influence. A few were obviously frightened by the strange display.

Carlene counted six well-groomed women, four children and eight men. She scanned all the men, including Ras Michel, and nodded in approval. Good, they all look fit and strong. A smug smile covered her face as the congregation stood for the first hymn.

The service was short and unremarkable. There was not much to be said about Henry, who had not attended church in more than seventy years. At the end, all of the attendees filed past the coffin and milled around outside. It was then that Henry’s family realized that there was no transportation for the coffin and the cemetery was a half mile away.

Carlene was apologetic. She explained that the truck driver had brought the body to the church as a favour to her because the hearse could not navigate the rutted track. The truth was that the hearse would have cost extra.

The eight men who ranged in age from early twenties to mid-forties talked animatedly for five minutes. Six of them then took up position on either side of the casket for the long trek to the cemetery.

They made the precarious trip down the low hill without incident. At the bottom, the group stopped for a rest. The men’s fingers were on fire from the thin aluminium handles that dug into their flesh. The sun beat down relentlessly on their heads. Jackets were soon removed and handed over to the females. Hankies popped out to mop up sweating brows.

They switched sides and picked up the coffin once more. The group of men looked lovingly at their cars as they trudged past the square.

As they crested the next hill, six pairs of eyes widened and groans were stifled. The narrow country road stretched before them in a U shaped depression. They plod down one side of the U, toes smarting as they rammed against the front of their owners’ shoes.

At the bottom of the depression, two pall bearers were relieved and two others claimed their palm-punishing handles. And so they took turns resting as they trod slowly onward. At the top of the next hill, thankfully the cemetery appeared on the horizon.

“Stop!” A tall, young man called.

Two of the men swore, unwilling to stop just then. Already their arms felt like they were being slowly dragged from their sockets. However, they stopped and the casket was placed on the roadway.

The man who stopped the group bent down and slid his foot out of his shoe. Half the sole had peeled away from the top. He was replaced at his handle and continued to mince alongside them, shoe flapping in spite of his best efforts. After a search, an elastic band was found in one of the wives’ handbags, and slipped around the shoe, holding it together.

At the cemetery, they weaved their way through broken headstones and neglected graves. The small crowd standing around a freshly dug hole gave them a clue as to which spot would be Henry’s. They set their burden down on a prehistoric looking contraption with thick straps positioned over the hole.

The women, also tired from the long distance they had covered in high heels, were in no mood to sing farewell songs along with the villagers, who had arrived long before them. Carlene eyed the family as they approached.

City living sure does make people sof’. Look at them, staggering as if they just walk’ ten miles rather than a half mile. Them lucky the cemetery not further.

She caught herself just before she smirked.

After the burial, the tired band of relatives made their way back to the square. They bought sodas at the only shop that was open and sprawled in their cars. Throbbing feet were eased out of unforgiving shoes; toes wriggled in relief. All of them were happy to put their unexpected ordeal behind them.

Ras Michel led the way to Carlene’s house when they were ready to leave. He thanked her for the care she had given their long lost uncle.

“You’ve been a saint,” Ras Michel said as he smiled at Carlene.

“I did it for Henry, just as I would have for any other helpless person,” Carlene said as she returned his smile.

“We really appreciate it,” he said. “I don’t know what would have happened to him if you hadn’t been looking out for him.”

Carlene waved away his thanks.

“It’s all right,” she said and smiled again.

“I’d like to leave you a token of our appreciation,” he said as he reached inside the exotic, linen robe he wore.

He pulled out a thin, black leather pouch and opened it. Through the plastic covering one side, Carlene caught sight of several crisp thousand dollar bills. Her eyes shone with greed, but she declined the offer. “No, it’s okay. I really couldn’t take your money.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, giving her a concerned gaze.

“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll get a blessing. That will be enough,” she said, giving Ras Michel an innocent smile.

“By the way,” he said and reached into his robe again. He replaced the pouch and eased an envelope out, which he gave her. “Henry asked me to give you a copy of this, so you would know what his final wishes were.”

Carlene slowly pulled the sheet of paper from the envelope. Her breath grew short and her gut twisted in pain. Something was not right.

There at the bottom of the sheet was Henry’s spidery writing, his signature. The writing above his was in black ink, clearly written by a hand stronger than Henry's. Her eyes flicked to the top of the sheet. The date coincided with Ras Michel’s third visit, just days before Henry died.

I, Henry Alphanso Marshall, being 87 years of age and of sound mind,
do hereby revoke all previous wills, contracts and agreements.

I hereby bequeath all my personal possessions and property to my grand nephew, Ras Michel Kemona…..

Carlene did not read past those lines. Her eyes jumped to where Ras Michel had stashed the money she had so glibly refused. Stars danced before her stunned eyes. Her mouth opened and closed in disbelief, only a strangled cry emerged. She heard a rushing sound in her ears. Then, to Ras Michel’s surprise, Carlene crumpled at his feet in a dead faint.

Homecoming

‘Ah! Beautiful Jamaica’ I thought, leaning back in the taxi.

I had just returned home after four years at university. Many things had changed. Apartment buildings and generic blocks of houses stood where open lots once sprawled. Buses were more regular, but so too were the illegal taxis, ‘robots’ we called them.

I looked out the window, eager for familiar landmarks.

“Where you goin’?’ the cabbie asked.

“To the plaza,” I said, and angled my body toward the window.

He continued to natter on, not caring whether I responded or not. My mind wandered. I worried about my joblessness and how it affected my family. My mother had worked and saved hard to secure my future. My father contributed little to my existence, other than to make irregular monetary offerings as the mood and his conscience struck him. My two sisters were still in high school and desperately needed help.

The car stopped and two passengers got into the back seat. My mind wandered off again. My mother had started dropping hints about giving back, now that I had completed my studies. Didn’t she know she was adding to the pressure I was feeling? Did she think I was content to be another mouth in an underfinanced household? The rejections came in the mail day after day with polite explanations that I was ‘overqualified for the position’. Other than that, there was deafening silence from prospective employers and every day news reports cited budget cuts and economic mismanagement by the government. Something had to open up soon.

I was flung into the present. The seatbelt was doing its best to decapitate me. The driver braked and let loose a string of expletives, while gesticulating at another motorist, who overtook him on a blind corner. He settled down after a few moments, but continued to grumble about bad drivers.

My eyes took in my surroundings. Was it my imagination or had the city become run down? Peeling buildings and broken concrete sidewalks confirmed my suspicions. Even the people were different. Where were the happy faces that used to be a part of life on this small island? Lines of discontent showed on worn faces and people seemed more uptight. Just yesterday, the midday newscast had reported one brother stabbing another to death over a meal they had been cooking. What had happened to change things so?

I felt my eyes bulging. The driver had gone mad. He was overtaking the car that had nearly caused the accident. The motorist decided not to let him go past. A huge red trailer hurtled toward us as I clutched the seat in terror. My stomach rumbled and my bowels threatened to open.

The cabbie yelled bad words into my ear as he cursed the other driver. My armpits were soaked and sweat ran into my eyes. I could see the headline, University Graduate Killed By Reckless Taxi Driver. I opened my mouth to beg him to pull back. Nothing came out. I could see the determined eyes of the truck driver as he bore down on us. He would not be the one to pull back. I anticipated the jarring sound of crushing metal and asked God to comfort my mother in her sorrow.

Then, I stopped myself from sobbing with relief when the angry cabbie regained his senses and pulled back into the line of traffic. Only then did I hear the two women in the backseat bawling Lord have mercy!

I was only halfway to my destination, but I got out and handed him my fare.

There were no immediate prospects for the future, but after being this far down, I had nowhere else to go but up.

“Didn’t you say you were going to the plaza?” he asked.

“I was, but I want to be alive when I get there,” I said.

He drove off in a puff of exhaust fume, cursing my folly.

I headed for the shade of the bus stop, sure that my luck was about to change.