Stolen Shadows

Stolen Shadows by Rory Elliott

My primary school days began with my mother’s hands feverishly straightening and fixing my school uniform. She tucked it as far as they could go down around my narrow waist inside my short khaki pants. I used to hold back my giggle as she inadvertently tickled me in the process. On those early mornings I could not ignore my nervous stomach as it seized the same way it did every morning before being sent off to school. Attempting to distract from the anxiety of separation I would day dream about happy feelings and memories that were not attached to the fear of attending school. I was temporarily comforted by the familiar calls of the Kiskadee birds who began their day sallying and kiss-ka-deeing outside our bedroom window. My mother was a stickler for neatness and no child of hers was going to school looking untidy. She would have to tug at me now and then to interrupt my day dreaming and fidgeting in this morning dance of one foot in, one hand up, turn around, hold your chin up. This was an exercise that probably took place in most homes raring and adolescent children in the West Indies. In a manner that had involved me lifting both hands in the air, she adopted a special routine that in predictable fashion provided just the right slack in the waist that made my beige Catholic school uniform fit in a relaxed manner. After a few awkward moments that lasted longer than I felt was necessary, she finally instructed me to lower my hands to my sides and relax. It was as if it were my punishment for not standing still enough or paying attention. With a smirk she failed to disguise, she would then begin to work on adjusting my blue and gold diagonally striped tie, the customary uniform at Mon Repos Roman Catholic School. After that she reached for the afro-comb and rested it on the dress that she had gathered between her legs to accommodate the vice-grip of her thighs that held me in place. The afro-comb, commonly referred to as a pick, could be found readily in every bedroom of our home on Jones Street. They differed in length of the thin metal rods, the teeth of the comb or in the motif that decorated the pick handle. My uncle Alfred was a starving artist. Along with the plaques, carvings and paintings he was also master at making Afro combs. A couple of my favourites were carved out of brown lacquered cedar wood which had handles that were fashioned in the shape of a tight fist or the head of a woman or man with a large afro. Here is where my daydreaming stopped and I started paying attention. Any and all hair combing with a pick or worse yet, a regular comb that took place was a painful ordeal. Sometimes teeth marks from the afro-comb left scratches on my forehead as my mother would often overshoot my hairline as she aggressively worked my tangled edges first. Almost as a warm-up to the real work she would move in sections as she dug in loosening kinks and tangles until she could pass the comb from my scalp through the full length of hair. My hair was ready for the fight - thick, knotted and painfully stubborn. Before she began, screwing loose the tin cover of the hair pomade, she fingered the greasy waxy pomade and massaged a small dollop between her palms.

Shifting her way to the edge of the bed she inched closer to me before spinning me around, nudging and steering me with the clean, dry parts of her wrists and palms carefully avoiding my uniform. She massaged the pomade into my hair as I held on to her exposed thighs to keep myself balanced. I swallowed nervously preparing for the afro-comb onslaught. It was here where my tortured and tangled relationship with my hair was forged; standing in the grips of my mother’s knees wincing and dodging with every rake and pull. Eventually after shedding a few tear drops, the affects of the pomade made the tugs and pulls of the afro-comb more tolerable. I became accustomed to the rhythm of her hand. My shoulders would relax somewhat and I stopped wincing from the needling pain of pulling hair.

Too often, my eyes would wander to the window whenever my mother and I sat on the bed. I never asked about that window and what happened. The afro-pick now combing closer to my scalp with less bite as it did before. I had only hoped she would talk about it – being the incident that took place in this house from that window when she was a little girl. The last time I heard her speak about it I had over heard her one night talking to my grandmother about that time she fell. Despite my grandmother’s attempts to persuade her that she had been carelessly playing too close to the windows edge my mother insisted that something else happened that she could not explain. My mother’s tone grew more and more defensive as she insisted she did not just fall. She was adamant that something was with her that day. Paint on the window sill was flaky and old, weathered by heat, sun and moisture. I remember noticing the bottom window glass had been replaced and was translucent compared to the others that were still clear and had the original streaks of paint from its original coating stuck to the corners. Imagining anthropomorphically that this window kept the secrets of what happened that day I would pretend to interrogate it as if I were the protagonist in my own story of a young warrior who would travel from far to seek the concealed knowledge of an oracle. Why is this a big secret? As I wondered my mind seemed naturally inclined to drift into the shadows and murk that beguiles the imagination. There seemed to be so many unanswered questions surrounding my family in general but more specifically, the series of events that lead to the moment my mother fell from the second story window. To those who would bother to answer there was an evasiveness with respect to details and resolute in conspiring to keep tight-lipped when I asked too many questions about the past. The stories within my family grew more fraught with mystery, uncertainty and darkness as time went by.

Auntie Genevieve paced back and forth through the busy herd of pedestrian traffic that paraded through the streets of San Fernando this time of day. She had taken on the role of surrogate mother since the funeral and I was getting accustomed to these field trips she planned from time to time. It was a Friday, and the pace was visibly elevated. The mood was reflected on the faces of the multitudes jostling shoulder to shoulder, anxiously embarking on their weekend plans. The evening traffic that routinely swelled at this time of day moved grindingly slow. The many idling car engines coughed out fumes, panting like animals, as they were shepherded through the roads, suffering in the sweltering heat. My aunt secured the bottom of her burlap bag between her arm and body with the hand bag straps hugging her shoulders. It was slung back behind her and positioned like wings and feathers on a running chicken. Her bra strapped was exposed by the weight of her hand bag and the slack fit of her moss coloured dress that was several years past its fashionable time was slipping off her shoulder. Her high heel shoes that were slightly too large exposed her heel with each pigeon toed step, slipping and dragging as she darted through the crowd. She only paused a moment to scoot around a street vagrant who had obliviously staggered in her path partially nude and mumbling to himself. She slowed down to cautiously pass; clutching her items close, averting her eyes...then quickened her pace continuing to hunt for a taxi for hire. Avoiding street vagrants was a skill one masters early growing up in cities of Trinidad. She circled back towards me and I could see the worry and frustration in her face as she struggled to find an available car. The sunset was poised to sink past the horizon as the sky around it transitioned from blue to orange and then red. I decided I would help as I often did dutifully to the many female guardians stationed throughout my childhood. As a willing apprentice I sprang into action and before long I located a driver who was available for hire. Standing tippy toed, I waved her over holding open the car door expecting to be acknowledged for my quick thinking playing the role guardian male. She finally saw me waving and tried to hide her surprise as she marched back towards us, relieved but still determined. She refused to concede the glimmer of boastfulness beaming from my eyes. “Point Fortin?” she asked, as she ducked her head to gain a better view of the driver who remained seated behind the wheel.

“Yes. Come, come. Just the two of all yuh?” he responded.

“Yes”. They exchanged some more details and shortly we were on our way. Auntie Jenny was taking me to visit my grandfather. And I tried to ease my anxiety as it would be my first time meeting him. What I didn’t know was that my memories of this day would one day fade and that meeting would also be the first and last time meeting my grandfather, Charles Elliott.

My aunt and I rode huddled together in the back seat of an old grey, Austin Westminster. It was a by-gone British made automobile popular in the 1960s used mostly now as taxicabs. They were popular among the older taxi drivers who drove similar vintage makes like the oddly shaped Vauxhall Velox, Austin Cambridge and French made Renault Fregate. As a young boy I was fascinated by cars. I had no idea how they worked or the difference between engines sizes and performance but I had an eye for distinguishing between their style and makes. Through my eyes the front end view of all cars took on an unmistakable similarity to the faces of people. The aerodynamic windshield resembled the shape of the forehead. Headlights located at the front of the car looked like eyes and side view mirrors looked like ears. The grill and intake chamber took on the appearance of a nose and grimacing mouth. Like human faces I found cars to have a variety of expressions. Typically my favourites were high performance muscle cars that had more aggressive or angry facial characteristics. Other less impressive front hood took on expressions of surprise or cowardice. In contrast The Austin Westminster’s grill reminded me of a person who seemed indifferent and bored. This was supported by a pathetic car horn that sounded like the broken drawl of an un-tuned trumpet. I was told that the anthropomorphic lens through which I viewed the inanimate world was inherited from my mother who saw the same features in numbers and other inanimate objects. I took note of the aqua green full piece leather seats covered in that protective plastic that stuck to the back of my legs the same way it did on my grandmother’s living room sofa. The interior upholstery was a bloody burgundy. I shuffled closer to the middle to avoid the whipping breeze that built up force as the driver accelerated. Starting and stopping through the bumps and pothole ridden streets we finally found our way to the by-pass and the vista of hills and valleys lay before us under the darkening skies.

We settled into the ride and I began to take inventory of the car’s interior gadgetry and amenities. The dashboard was simple, wood grained with a speedometer that was built behind the steering wheel like a radio dial. Positioned on the door frame was chrome finished light that seemed more suited for the handle bars of a child’s bicycle. It had a red bulb and its purpose left me puzzled. It seemed like such a strange place for a red light. In my mind red bulbs were for Christmas trees or in our case the massive dung tree that was decorated with a variety of lights at Christmas time. Then there was the red light that glowed through the bedroom window of our cross-dressing neighbour Mr. Hinds next door. On rare occasions by day he would be seen passing our gates, with tight fitting clothing, wrists full of bangles, straw hat and red rouged cheeks that starkly contrasted his dark complexion. Despite being recluse he entertained nightly many seedy characters who appeared as silhouettes under the glow of that red light behind the pulled curtains. Affixed to the dashboard was a miniature fan that was positioned to face the driver. Strapped to the underside of the passenger side sun visor were a stack of dog-eared documents held in place with two rubber bands a few inches apart. Tilting my head to the side I could make out the stoic picture of our driver on what might have been some kind of identification card. Swinging in hypnotic fashion from the rear view mirror was a silver crucifix attached to a beaded chain. It was wrapped around the mirror, and it drew my gaze as it dangled pendulously from side to side. Mounted on the dashboard was a small compass whose little floating ball inscribed with directional markings spun and rolled like a lazy eye as the car leaned and swerved down the road. As night time began to fall the dimly lit dials and gauges became softly illuminated. The driver ever so often adjusted the knobs on his radio and tape deck apparatus that was supported by a device with blinking random lights that flickered in a patterned grid.

Our driver was an older man, dark complexion, probably in his late 60s. He wore a short sleeved cream coloured shirt whose sleeves I found to be slightly too big for his meagre frame. They hid his skinny arms and distracted me from his silver wrist watch that sagged around his wrist. I wondered about the rolls of kinky hair that grew in sparse wiry coils on his forearm and how often it became tangled between the metal bands of his watch. Aside from his watch and shirt sleeves there were many things about him that appeared to be oversized, including the frames of his gaudy glasses, his puffy side-burns, the pocket protector that weighed down the front pocket of his shirt and his massive brassy palmed hands.

I studied the driver’s movements with silent intrigue. They were gentle and yet deliberate as he engaged and disengaged the gears shifting with a lever that was located in cylindrical column that was attached to the steering wheel. I observed how instinctively his hands worked in tandem with his feet that controlled brakes, clutch and accelerator. That building moment when the driver prepared to negotiate a turn always piqued my interest. Most cars at that time had a steering system that was stiff and stubborn. Turning required some strength and elbow grease. I watched intently as the indicator counted down until the driver was clear to proceed. The driver pulled the steering wheel through the turn with his hands grasping the wheel with one hand over the next like a crewman pulling the ropes of a sail up the mast of a ship. In a blur, the faux-fur covered wheel spun through the slackened grip of his large hands before being restored to its forward driving position. In a quick glance through the rear view mirror the driver’s eyes met mine as. Nodding my approval as if he had passed some test, my mind flashed back to my standard four classroom where I had performed similar manoeuvres with my geography text book. I would adjust the gears with a ruler that I had protruding out the side of the book that imitated the stick shift while spinning the book flat on the slopped desk top.

The vehicle slowed down as he re-entered more congested city areas. The noisy breeze that blew into the open car window began to subside. Just then over the radio I recognized a familiar jingle that became clearer as the noisy breeze settled. It was of an advertisement for a popular soft drink beverage called Canning’s Tall 12. The Canning’s Food Ltd was owned by a British born business man named Ernest Canning. The company was founded in Trinidad and Tobago in 1912. The branding hook of the radio advertisement made me visualize a mixed foreign group of smiling young men and women enjoying a “sweet drink” connecting happily with their wealth of privilege and happiness. At least that was the image the commercial portrayed. Vignettes like these transported me temporarily away from realities of poverty, decay and limited opportunities in Trinidad. “Caaaaanning’s tall tweeeeelve,” they sang harmoniously.

We swooshed past shops, parked cars and only slowed down when traffic became congested. Amidst the fleet of idling vehicles, the humidity returned and I felt the heat radiating from the hot asphalt still hot from the beating sun throughout the day. The clash of melodies and bass from the music emanating from loud speakers of local parlours flooded our passing taxi. I took notice of the cascade of bill board advertisements positioned to attract would be consumers. They reminded me of the leaves of a plant jockeying to receive the best sunlight. The most memorable of the billboards were Carib beer, Pepsi, Heineken, Solo soft drink, Coca Cola, Johnny Walker Scotch and Du Maurier cigarettes. There was a vibrancy that arose in the night compared to the sleepy atmosphere that was common among many parts of the country during the day. The pace was hectic and heightened after dark and our driver was sensitive to the changing energy. He skilfully utilized his car horn making his presence known to other motorists and people on the city streets. With a series of Morse-code like taps of the horn, prompted other drivers to respond with a quick flicker of their motor car’s high beam headlights or a random sequence of beeps and indecipherable shouts and calls. At one point he suddenly hit the brakes to hail a group of men liming on the corner. Only the orange glow of lit cigarettes, the glimmer of jewellery and bright articles of clothing helped me make them out in the night. It was common to see groups of men like these congregated on the steps of rum shops and street corners, smoking, socializing, and sooting at women as they walked by. Sooting, pronounced as suiting was the act of puckering one’s lips and making an exaggerated kissing sound in admiration of attractive woman passing by. They joined the medley of tadpoles who also called out in the dark - Pong nanatting loudly to one another. I scooted to the edge of my seat as he swung towards the curbside, just then I witnessed the driver’s self aggrandizing pose, with one hand out stretched the window as they greeted each other shouting colloquialisms in a friendly back and forth before he swerved aggressively back into traffic. I smiled admiringly as I thought back to my classroom driving simulations playing out the same scenarios, driving one handed, and calling out to the assortments of Winstons, Carlyles and them by the corner.

Contrary to the mundane privately owned taxis, the new maxi taxi, a privately owned mini bus, was now the popular mode of public transportation. In Trinidad wealth and opportunity were held and guarded by the hands of a small minority. For many, possessing a vehicle was symbolic of a higher economic status, material wealth and one of the few avenues to exercise one’s own individual autonomy. Donning fancy chrome ornaments of topless women, neon interior lighting, shinny rims, tinted windows and their trademark epic pulsating bass speakers made travelling on them an enviable thrill. Throwback taxi drivers in their Vauxhalls and non threatening calypso played over paltry treble toned speakers found it hard to compete. Our driver and those like him were relics of a dying breed.

The taxi driver raised the volume on the radio for the first time. Just then the iconic radio deejay Rennie Bishop announced the upcoming song. I recognized his legendary voice right away. Even though his accent was clearly put on to flaunt an air of American or British upper class, his cadence and charm became familiar and captivating. “Its 18 minutes outside of the hour of 7 o’clock” he announced, speaking over the emerging horns and drums. His posh announcer tone was distinct and separated him from the hoi polloi of other local radio personalities who emulated him. Weaving gracefully in and out of the music he continued, “This is a classic....28 degrees in the city....This is The Mighty Sparrow....Jean and Dinah!” The melody and horns built to a perceptible crescendo. The Calypso song Jean and Dinah was a song that always evoked pride and love of Trinidadian culture. Our driver nodded along in time with the beat.

“Well the girls in town feeling bad,

No more Yankees in Trinidad.

They going to close down the base for good,

Them girls have to make out how they could

So when you bounce up Jean and Dina, Rosita and Clementina

Round de corner posin’

Bet your life is something dey sellin’

But when you catch them broke

You could get dem all for nuthin’

Do make no row

De yankee gone and Sparrow take over now

The Mighty Sparrow was revered in Trinidad. And there was something I found mysterious in him and in men who were revered and idolized. I longed for that admiration one day. There was certainly a mystery attached to my grandfather who I had only known through stories, dreams and my own imagination. I gasped at the fitting coincidence that this song began to play on my way to see the man who I had always secretly confused identities with this Calypso legend. I was not fully aware as to the origins of my mistaken belief as childhood memories are not always reliable. If I were to guess my misguided associations may have started through a captivation for the old black and white picture of my grandfather with black and white images of the Mighty Sparrow on album covers that I found in the family record collection. That picture of my grandfather that hung inconspicuously on the bedroom wall at my mother’s old bedroom. Donning his Royal Navy reserve uniform it reminded me of similar pictures of the Mighty Sparrow – in similar poses heroic and handsome. For some reason, when I thought of my grandfather I thought of Sparrow. It is worth mentioning that there was no consensus among any of my family members that my grandfather even vaguely resembled the Mighty Sparrow. For some reason this idea was planted in my head long before I gained an understanding of the importance of this song and it’s telling lyrics. I had heard many versions as to how this song popularized the Calypso legend.

More than just a road march of carnival in 1956 (a musical composition played most often along parade route), Sparrow’s song represented a renaissance a period of rebirth or revival that changed profoundly the character of Trinidadian society. Foreign military personnel were brought in to work on bases during the Second World War and hundreds of Trinidadians were employed at the bases as well. In Sparrows first hit he laments about the drastic changes to the country post war and tells the story of desperation many out-of-work citizens felt, particularly some women who earned money covertly through the sex trade, servicing many foreign soldiers and servicemen. In his song he creatively reports on the social scene in Trinidad following the closure of many American bases in Trinidad. Making light of the disenfranchised native Trinidadian men, Sparrow sang about those men who envied their Yankee counterparts. They were poised, as he put it, to take over now by reclaiming the women who were beguiled by American men with their foreign accents, popular fashion and an abundance of money. The military connection may have inspired my admiring thoughts about my grandfather and Sparrow and the recognition of how respect is earned.

We slowed down across the street of our destination. Auntie Genevieve paid the driver and then we waited patiently to cross the street. There was such a contrast between the noise of the passing cars and the quiet that washed over the night amplifying the slightest sounds. The clicks of my Aunt’s wooden heels on the pitch of the road interrupted the silence. The orchestra of crickets, tadpoles and Cicada insects chirped anonymously hidden in the thick brush and cover of night. My slippers crunched the gravel that lined the untraveled portion of the roadway that ran adjacent to my grandfather’s store front property. It was only when I slid out of my slippers on the uneven gravel that I noticed how much my feet were wet from perspiration – symptoms of a smouldering anxiety at the fast approaching moment to finally meet this myth of a man. The shop was closed, evidenced by the locked burglar proofing gate that protected a set of wooden double doors. The light shined through the open louvers above the doors. My aunt knocked on the heavy small door that was also covered by the security fencing. A soft warm breeze blew and I noticed the movement of a furry tail as some road kill lay flattened in the street. Shortly after I heard the sound of a noisy latches being turned and rustling keys. The door squeaked open and I observed two hands insert keys into the lock and the smaller door inside the metal gates. As the light escaped from the opening door it illuminated the bright smile on Aunt Jenny’s face. She had already grabbed my hand before I had a chance to react and was wise to the chance I might wiggle free. We both entered awkwardly as I tried desperately to hide my sweaty palms. Anxiety was now coursing through my veins.

I entered slowly behind my aunt as she and my grandfather embraced as he ushered us both inside, locking the door behind him. “And who is with you?” He said in my direction. I could hear the excitement in my aunt’s voice as she began apologizing for arriving late and began rambling on about the heat and the bacchanal of finding transportation and the traffic and on and on. Meanwhile I feverishly tried to dry my palms on my shorts as I expected that a handshake was eminent. “Come, come. Let me touch you.” He said as he shuffled in my direction. I picked up on something that was peculiar. He dragged brown slippers on his feet and wore plaid shorts. His brown short sleeve shirt had four pockets that had pleats that ran vertically from his shoulders. His belly protruded slightly at the bottom of his shirt and over his pants. He was clean shaven except for his pepper grained moustache and the area of skin on his jaw line and neck was darker. It appeared as it often does as a result of years of shaving and irritation. In quick glances I noticed some resemblances, like his short broad nose and full lips that reminded me of Katherine. He walked with a wooden cane that was made of a type of wood that reminded me of drift wood. As he spoke to me his cloudy eyes seemed to be focused in the distance and I could barely disguise my alarm when I realized my grandfather was blind. “Hello young man”, he said in a bassy guttural tone, as I nervously averted my eyes. The tension felt in that moment was eased by my Aunt who pestered me as I embraced my grandfather. “Rory. You know who this is right?”

This is your grandfather, our father...” She insisted. Even my grandfather interrupted, playfully defending, “Oh gorsh Genny. The boy heard you!” I smiled sheepishly. “Oh. You are a tall, strong your man!?” He said as he gently examined my shoulders and face. “Do you like Tunnocks?” he boomed. Speaking at my aunt Jenny he commented, “He is tall like Kathleen eh? Your mother was tall.”

“He resembles his father”, She argued. “So daddy, how are you?” Genny asked.

Taking a large inhale, “Good ya know,” he replied before pausing. He pointed as he spoke, “Go over by that counter top and take what you want. You like Tunnocks right?”

“Yes”, I replied before slowly following his direction. I suppressed what would have been a more enthusiastic response to him mentioning Tunnock’s. Tunnock’s was an imported Caramel wafer bar made in Scotland and was an island favourite among adolescent confectionary connoisseurs. You see my grandfather had owned a small grocery store. I overheard him and my aunt talking about how he had just closed the shop shortly before we arrived. “I thought you all weren’t coming again”, he said. He went on about his two employees who had already gone home for the day. I felt many feelings as I started down the aisles surveying the merchandise. I passed the massive bags of rice, stacked 8 bags high and wondered why I had never met him before? The bagged stacks were next to huge drums of red beans, peas, flour and corn. As I peered in side playing one drum fumbling with the scoop I hoped one day I could have one just like this. I continued to explore the rows of merchandise on the many shelves within them with goods and items like cans, boxes and bottles of pepper sauces, seasonings, syrups. I thought about who was caring for him and how had he built and ran this store as a blind man. I recognized popular brands like Matouks, Solo, and Trinidad Fruit Juice and Chief curry powder. And of course no West Indian grocery would be complete without bottles of vitamin supplement formulas like Ferrol and SSS tonic. I made my way around to the refrigerated section where I observed Solo, Apple Jay, Peardrax and of course refrigerated bottles of Caaaaanning’s Tall tweeeelve. I wasted no time by grabbing a cold bottle of cherry flavored bottle of Canning’s Tall twelve and one pack of Caramel wafer Tunnock’s. I sheepishly approached my grandfather and Aunt Jenny who were preparing to head upstairs to where my grandfather resided, on top of the grocery store. “Oh, did you find something!?” he blurted out before I could even ask. “Come, come bring what you have so we can go upstairs”, he comfortingly. My Aunt held on to my Grandfather’s arm as he felt around for the light switches and we made our way up stairs.

I stared at my grandfather, wondering how it is he manages on his own. All this time had passed. All these years and nobody mentioned that he was blind far less still alive. I could not wrap my head around the idea of a relative who was so important to my own existence had this life owning a store while blind. Despite these burning questions I smiled cordially and kept quiet pretending to be that innocent child who was just happy to enjoy meeting his generous grandfather for the first time. I must have been focusing too much on my thoughts and distracted by how at ease he was in manoeuvring around his house that I miscalculated one of the steps leading upstairs at the back of the house. I fell falling forward going up the concrete stairs. I was so determined to avoid breaking my bottle of Canning’s Tall 12 I landed awkwardly on my forearm scraping a layer of skin from my wrist down towards my elbow. I would have been able to catch my balance if it weren’t for my stupid perspiring feet that slipped dangerously off my slipper. I was mortified. For the first few seconds I felt as though I could withstand the pain of my serrated elbow and my equally wounded ego. I even had time to flash a smile in my attempt to feign not being injured as I am sure they heard me scuffling below. Soon after the water swelled over the levies and vision was blurred by my tears as I surrendered to my pain. “Mario? You fall?” My Aunt asked, spinning around and carefully stepping back down the stairs towards me in a controlled panic.

“What happen he fall!?” asked my grandfather. “You have to be careful on these step yes”. I nodded desperately as if I could erase the spectacle I had made of myself on the back steps of my grandfather’s house. Only each time I regained my composure the pain throbbed through my arm. Soon the tears were accompanied by tearful whimpers. “Come, come get up. Get up get up” said my aunt examining my arm. “It eh too bad, you get a nice scrape.” Now my aunt ushered me and my grandfather up the remaining concrete stairs at the back of this shop. She managed to make me laugh when said, “You really like that sween’ dring eh Rory?” realizing I was still clinging to my bottle of Canning’s tall 12.

We sat around the kitchen table as my aunt cleaned and dressed my arm. “You want a bandage for it?” asked my grandfather.

“It eh bleeding. The skin just scrape lil bit. But if you have one,” said my Aunt.

“Alright. Let me get a glass and some ice for your Canning’s too,” chuckled my grandfather.

“Rory, I remember when your mother Kat’rin (Katherine) fell. Genny you remember that? Remarkably speaking in the correct direction to where she was sitting.

“I wasn’t home, but yes I remember,” responded my aunt.

“I had just come back from by Keet (Keith) and dem from Rio Claro area. I brought back, Calash leaf, some ground provision, green banana, yam, and some wile meat in the car”. Ground provisions are hallmarks of Caribbean cuisine that are used as tasty substitute for potato. They include green banana, bread fruit, yam, eddoes, cassavas and sweet potatoes. He continues, “As I reach in side now I reach in the kitchen now I hear one set a screaming. And everybody rushing outside. Kat’rin was about thirteen? No...musi fourteen. We had a big dung tree beside the house by Hunt side.”

“A dung tree and a mango tree,” my Aunt interrupted.

“No the mango tree was on the opposite side by Hinds.” My grandfather paused to remove ice from the fridge. And I was intrigued by his story just as much as I was impressed with how independent he was. “I was told Kat’rin about leaning out that window eh”, he argued, emphasizing each syllable. So that day apparently she had gotten boof up from her mother for something. Yuh know she and Merl was always at one another. So she get sent upstairs to her room. So during that time she was leaning out the window and picking dungs from the tree. And umm...umm...,” he paused. He began feeling around in the sink to steady a block of ice which he stabbed and broke into glass size pieces. He continued. “And then she fell, two stories.”

“But what about Alfred? Alfred said something about the owls too!” Genny said, with her eyes wide and eyebrows lifted.

My grandfather continued unfazed by her remarks, “Good thing the tree broke her fall, but she broke both her forearms – a greenstick fracture. It ben’ but it didn’t quite break.” He said confidently. “She get lucky, but it seem like that was where the problems start.” He paused and took in a heavy sigh. My Aunt walked over with my bottle of Canning’s and retrieved the glass with ice blocks. She removed a bottle opener from the kitchen draw and popped the cap. She returned with the glass and bottle and sat down beside me. As she poured she said, “The seizures started after that. They said it was because of trauma, head trauma. That is why she had developed the seizures...because of the fall nah.” I knew this to be true as I have witnessed one of her seizures. I didn’t realize it was connected to a bad fall. The three of us sat awkwardly in silence feeling the weight of the topic distracted momentarily by the painful memories until my grandfather quietly asked, “so you hand is feeling better?”

“Yes, its okay”, I said noticing the wound was much less angry.

The three of us spoke a while longer. I learned a little bit about my grandfather and how gentle he was. There was so much I wish I had asked and at that age I didn’t know of all the things I would later want to know. I was glad to have met him.

It was the middle of the night. I was awakened by what sounded like people talking loudly - then angrily. Still half asleep I rolled over to find a position that would soothe me back to sleep, only now there was shouting and banging. I recognized the voices to be those of my mother and uncle shouting angrily over each other as doors slammed and furniture was being violently shifted. This occurred often between them when my mother was alive; bickering, snapping and quarrelling with each other. It all felt very real until I realised that up to this time I was still asleep, dreaming about the bacchanal that was their relationship. I sat up abruptly, and was greeted by the darkness of the night and silence. I paused for a moment and tried to listen over my pounding heart beat. I was startled when I heard the loud noises once again; this time there was loud banging coming from a scuffle that was happening in the hall outside my bedroom door. I was wide awake. There was a dividing door that separated my room in the front and my grandmother’s bedroom at the rear. Then I heard the blood curdling scream of my uncle that resonated with such an alarming roughness it had the effect of a vocal strobe light. It lasted only seconds before returning to a ticking silence. In what seemed like one swift step I swung out from under the sheet and darted towards the door. Fumbling in the dark I managed to squeeze my way past the rocking chair stuffed with clothes and rolls of sewing material. The door which remained permanently ajar due to the uneven floor boards was open enough for me to slip through. It had been my nightly escape route for many years to which I would finish a nightmare interrupted sleep beside my grandmother in her room. On the brink of panic I arrived into my grandmother’s bedroom and she was already reaching for the switch that was affixed to a string that hung in the middle of the ceiling. With the noise of commotion brewing outside the door grew louder I lunged forward to grasp my grandmother as the light came on.

“Alfred?” called my grandmother. “Alfred!? She repeated. Just then another terrifying scream pierced the quietness of the night and crackled off the walls of the hall. It caused us to flinch suddenly and my grandmother tip-toed closer to the bedroom door beating me away as she tried to untangle from my trembling grip. She pressed her ear against the door and listened. We were staggered by the sounds of what we heard next. Some animal was with me him and this creature began shrieking, growling and barking amidst the commotion. “Alfred!?” she pleaded. Hesitantly she turned the handle of the door and moments passed before she could bring herself to open the door. Finally, after a deep swallow, feigning courage, she slowly opened the door allowing the light from within the room to stretch out through the hall way partially illuminating the room. We peaked slowly around the door gripped by paralyzing fear. Our eyes fixed upon my uncle Alfred hunched over in his jockey shorts babbling incoherently as he swung desperately at something at the top of the stair case just outside of our line of sight. “Leave us alone!” Alfred bellowed with his face grimacing, seething with rage. He held a small dust brush over his head and struck something with a chilling thud that he had pinned with his other hand. From the fragments of glare I observed beads of sweat along his back and as he turned to face us, traces of saliva dribbled from his mouth and chin. His eyes gleamed fiercely as his chest and shoulders heaved rapidly from exhaustion under a falling flurry of black feathers, dust and blood. My grandmother whispered “Is the owls!”

For many years owls had nested in the open soffits at the side of our house. Years of leaks in the roof had softened the overhanging eaves and I had noticed birds perched in there before. But I had never dreamed they would enter the house. This did not seem normal. Alfred seemed to be weeping and moving oddly with what appeared to be disorientation. My grandmother widened the opened door and reluctantly walked towards my uncle who was kneeling on the floor. He was visibly sobbing now his arms limp to his sides with the creature motionless at his knees. My grandmother consoled him.

My uncle Alfred was known as a talented artist. He was highly sought after for his skill as a designer and wood worker but especially for bending wire. Wire bending is a skill that is in high demand when it comes to costume making in Trinidad during the Carnival season. A lot of skill goes into creating these masterpieces that have been the centerpiece of carnivals in Brazil and New Orleans. Made of wire and tape, along side bamboo and fiberglass Trinidadian costumes are carried by a single masquerader so despite its size, mobility and light weigh are important. Here is where the talents of a skilled wire bender came into high demand. Beneath the frames that are decorated with feathers, fabric, beads and sequins are the great wire structures that are bent with precision. With no formal training Alfred developed his craft daily and had been hired by many award winning costume designers from Berke­ley and Bai­ley to Min­shall and Mac­Far­lane whose designs have been iconic in Trinidad mas-band history.

Conversely my uncle as I knew him was an irascible man of few words who kept to himself and seemed troubled. With all his talents, employment was not steady. There seemed to be dark clouds that followed him and they seldom broke to shine smiles or good humour. When I did see him he’d be just passing through the living room as he came and went to and from his room. When he was wasn’t grumbling to himself at times he quarreled

angrily with us. The slightest thing would set him off and on occasion his bad temper would sometimes boil over into violence. I was afraid of him. In his presence you could feel his perpetual anger radiating from him. Was it depression? Some incurable pain? Or maybe he was just angry because he was middle-aged, alone, with no children, and still leaving at his parental home where all of his siblings had moved out and moved on in some form or fashion. Despite his ill-temperedness and emotional volatility he was a good person who was suffering from a brooding sadness.

So it was no surprise to me to see my uncle broken, exposed and sobbing as my grandmother held him. On the floor beside him was the bloody corpse of a dead owl beaten bludgeoned and motionless. I stood in the doorway afraid to move any closer when my grandmother ushered me away to my room.

“It’s alright David, go and lie down” she spoke softly.

And I would have missed it if I didn’t pause momentarily still observing the bloody mess on the floor.

“It came back for me too!” My uncle mumbled. I leaned closer so that I could make out what he said.

“It have evil here Mammie! They put evil on us. They got Kat’rin already”.

I fell back inside the door way in astonishment. And for a moment waves of raising pores crashed all over skin as my hair stood on its end. Was this true? I had heard rumours of families being cursed and stories about malevolent magic, omens and spiritual contact with the dead. Then my mind became flooded with flashes of various peculiar articles and occurrences, like that perfectly folded paper talisman wrapped with thread under the bed; the red and black toxic Jumbie beads; the bush bath ritual courtesy of my aunt’s herbal doctor, the fallen picture of my mother and so on. And what did he mean by ‘They got Katherine already?’ And who is ‘they’? Did he mean the owls’? Were the owls’ responsible for her fall? Did demonic owls swoop screeching from the skies to attack Katherine that day? Was that the reason why she died? And why were we in need of all this protection? Was this common among all people? My grandmother said that once upon a time before I was born their family was financially better off than most families in Mon Repos. The house on Jones Street was beautiful, they had owned property and life was good. With such a visible disparity in socioeconomic circumstances it bred a lot of envy. The result of these feelings, she explained, created some negative energy in the minds of the have-nots and the green eyes resorted to unconventional methods in attempt to even the playing field. All my life until this point I had lived unthreatened by forces described in oral lore. Despite the color and rich tradition it added to my life it fell short of defining my life and I remained untouched by any spiritual manifestations of evil. I had never personally experienced anything out of the ordinary that I could not explain but now I had knowledge of a world that my young senses were not in tune with and could not detect or perceive.

Several months later, I had fallen ill with a heavy fever and cold. Too sick to attend school I had spent practically two days in bed. On the third day my fever finally broke and my grandmother felt I should try to sit in the front gallery and absorb some sunlight. She said the sun would help with my recovery. Off in the distance I could hear the chimes of the school bell and the chatter of school children assembling to begin their school day. It was an unusual feeling to be home away from my familiar routine and I felt as though my unexpected absence had altered the course of my future. As I watched the birds in the clear blue skies, I could still feel the achy malaise fading within me. Because of it my eyes were sensitive to the bright morning sunlight and my taste buds remained dull. As I sat quietly I noticed a young man walking towards our gate. He did not look familiar but he entered the yard as though he had been here before. As he approached I could make out he was humming a song and his eyes smiled when they met mine. As he entered the yard I could only see the top of his head bobbing past the concrete gallery bannister on his way to the short stair case. He had already disarmed me.

“You have to be Rory!” he said as he climbed the last three steps to the gallery making each step slow and pronounced. He was a handsome, fair skinned young man with a lengthy afro.

“Yes. Do you want Granny?” I asked.

“I am just passing through. Where she?” he flashed his smile.

“You want me to get her?” I motioned to get up to call her before he interrupted.

“Nah I will wait for her to come down. She knows I am here. I want her to sew something for me. I am Rodney.” He assured me.

“Are you feeling better?” He asked, as he removed the canvas bag off his shoulder.

“I’m feeling a little better” I said as I relaxed back into the gallery chair. It wasn’t unusual for friends in neighborhood to stop and visit along their way to say hello. Only I had never seen Rodney before, with his new shoe leather, blue American designer jeans and sweet cologne. “How is your uncle Alfred?” he asked.

“Oh he’s okay now. I think. I’m not sure if he’s home.” I stammered. He walked to closest chair, sat back and crossed his legs. He reached into his bag and pulled out a sketch pad and pen. From a distance I could see as he continued to draw a picture that was already partially drawn.

“Katherine and I were good friends.” He said, pausing from his drawing. “Accept my sympathies.” He said with a hint of sympathy. “You all have had it so hard.” He added, this time I detected a sardonic tone.

Perhaps sensed a reaction or realized it was a sensitive topic and the awkwardness it breathed. He got up from where he was sitting and brought his drawing pad to the chair right beside mine.

“I heard you are an artist?” he asked, turning his head towards me about an arm’s length away.

“A little bit.” I said averting my eyes trying to avoid such close eye contact. My eyes lowered to the page he was drawing on. On it he was putting the finishing touches of a raging bull. The eyes were angry and penetrating. The muscular shoulders of the bull were brawny, bulging and powerful – poised to charge. His work was exceptional. I was impressed that it was all meticulously illustrated by pen with blue and red ink. His lines had no mistakes or traces of pencil as a guide. I hadn’t developed that kind of confidence to draw with a pen. I would be too afraid to make a mistake that I could not erase or correct, wasting valuable paper. On top of that, I was startled by the bull he drew with such a likeness and the fact that he put so much detail into the bull’s penis that was swollen and erect! Rodney continued drawing and I couldn’t wait to draw my own version of an aroused bull.

“It was your grandfather you know.” He continued. I waited for him to elaborate. “It all started because of him. It’s not his fault really. The truth is he just got mixed up with wrong people.”

“What do you mean?” I mumbled, distracted by his lurid depiction of this bull’s anatomy.

“The curse. Charles allowed a spirit to seek retribution for his sins against some woman in Arima. A sour love affair perhaps? Darkness follows this family now.” He paused. He must have felt the numbness close over me and looked up before continued sketching in silence. I wanted to laugh, to take myself away from the humiliation that hardened in my stomach. So badly I wanted to laugh to demonstrate to him that I was unfazed by his story and that I didn’t care. If only I could have laughed to express an air of nonchalance, or indifference. Instead I felt the world around me change, and vulnerability and helplessness took the place of innocence. Fear and doubt had set in. Just then my grandmother called from upstairs, breaking the spiraling spell. “Coming Mammie!” I replied, sitting up.

“Tell her Rodney is downstairs.” He asked, as he continued cross hatching his work, barely raising his head. I ran upstairs to my grandmother’s room. “Yes Granny! Your friend Rodney is downstairs!” I said.

“Who?” she asked. “Rodney? Who is that Rory?” She questioned.

“I don’t know. He said his name was Rodney” I explained.

My grandmother reinforced the hair clip around her tied back head of grey hair and followed me downstairs. She tied a head scarf around her head in an attempt to make herself more presentable. Upon my return accompanied with Granny we found the gallery empty. There was no drawing pad, or book bag and the strange man who sketched feverishly was gone. “Mr. Rodney?” I called. There was no answer. I ran to the road and looked in both directions all the way up and down Jones Street and discovered Rodney had vanished.