It shook me. The Samuels episode. Not because of Louis. I always knew he was dangerous. But because of Pao. Delivering Samuels into Louis’s arms knowing, I was sure, what would happen to him. That was more than gambling and consensual protection. More than stolen goods. It was as close to murder as you could get without actually pulling the trigger yourself.
So I went to Matthews Lane to collect Mui. Karl was already with me from a few days earlier when I’d taken him to Lady Musgrave Road and Mui had refused to come. Telling me she had other plans with Hampton and I didn’t have the energy to argue with her.
I told Karl to wait in the car, I would only be a few minutes. All I wanted to do was pack the remainder of my things and collect clothes for the children. And take Mui. Pao spent so little daytime there it never occurred to me that he would be home. But there he was. Sitting at the table drinking a bowl of tea. That was when I realised I hadn’t thought it through, hadn’t reckoned on an encounter with him. So I decided to brazen it out, walking through the gate with an air of self-assurance, straight past him to climb the two concrete steps into the bedroom.
I reached down the suitcase from off the top of the wardrobe and started to empty the contents of my drawers into it. Then he was standing in the doorway.
‘What you think you doing?’
I wasn’t planning to say anything. Nothing about DeFreitas or Samuels, but I did. Blurted it out right after I threw the vase of flowers at him that smashed on the doorpost, and he brushed the shattered glass and water off himself and walked back down the steps into the yard. And I followed, venting my anger and bitterness and jealousy, because what was on my mind wasn’t just about his racketeering and turf war with Louis. Or his involvement of Kenneth, about which I was still fuming. It was about Gloria Campbell. And Michael. So I ended up saying far too much with the heat of vengeance pulsing in my veins. Too much about Samuels being murdered execution-style, and my disgust at the repulsive excuse of a house he called a home. Screaming at him for being a sleazy, small-time, petty hoodlum, dealing in drugs and guns and murder.
‘I am not a drug dealer, and I don’t run guns, and I didn’t murder nobody.’
And then I said it, the thing that had, for so long, been burning like a hot poker in my heart. ‘Well with your little whores then. I think you are still running her, aren’t you? Your whore in East Kingston.’
That is when he launched himself at me and we started to fight. Rolling around on the dusty concrete exchanging blow for blow, kick for kick, scuffle for scuffle. Like a pair of schoolboys in the dirt yard. I surprised myself with the vigour with which I punched and shoved, even at times when it felt like he was actually pulling me towards him rather than pushing me away. Never once resorting to the all-too-female scratching and biting and yanking of hair. Just a manly raising of the arm and smashing of the fist. Army-style.
Next thing the whole household was running down the yard. Ma shouting and waving her arms in the air. Hampton with his head down for a faster pace. Even Zhang was sauntering up to see what was happening. All of them finally standing there and looking at us in horror. But the thing that really made me stop was the sight of Mui on the step in her pyjamas, and Karl coming inside the gate. And then, being held by Pao at arm’s length, I spat in his face. It was my last line of defence. An instinctive reaction. And he let me go.
Karl came over and took my hand. And then I walked across to Mui and took her hand also. And looking at me with both children, one on each side, he said, ‘What you think you doing?’
‘You don’t think I’m going to leave them here with you, do you?’
‘You not going anywhere with the children.’
And in that moment what I saw, maybe for the first time, was the reality of Pao. Not the explanations and excuses that Isaac had put into my head about limitations and alternatives, and the possibilities a man can perceive, but the true revulsion of Pao’s life that I had closed my eyes to and trained myself to discount. What I saw was the dishonesty and corruption that he paraded as business. And what I wanted to do was lash back at him for it. I wanted to hurt him.
‘What, so I can leave them here to grow up with pimps and whores, and thieves and thugs and murderers? So that one day maybe they become just like you? Is that what they should aspire to? To become just like Papa? Papa’s little boy and girl?’
And he slapped me. With an open palm. Firm and hard. It stung. I could feel the blood rushing to my cheek in the imprint of his hand. Tears wet my face. That was the last thing I wanted to do. The last thing any woman should do in a situation like that. Cry. But as he reached into his pocket and handed me a handkerchief a softness came over me, remembering the first time he’d done it, given me something to mop my face on that last night of our honeymoon in Ocho Rios, when, just as now, there was nothing more to be said.
So I took the handkerchief and dried my tears as I watched Mui step across from me to take his hand.
‘You are a grown woman, Fay. You can do what you want, but the children staying here with me.’
I looked at Zhang, Hampton and Ma standing there. And then at the children, Mui next to Pao, Karl beside me with his arms dangling loose at his side.
I felt weak and ridiculous when I said, ‘This isn’t over.’ As if that was any kind of threat. And I left. Empty-handed. Thinking that perhaps Karl would run after me but he didn’t.
A week later when I saw Michael he was horrified at the state of my face because by then it had turned a greenish shade of yellow and was blackening at the edges. I just said, ‘Fighting with Pao.’ Said it straight like that, like it wasn’t an issue. And he raised his eyebrows. Not like a priest, but like a man. A priest’s expression would have had less anger. More compassion.
‘Did you see a doctor?’
‘It wasn’t that kind of fight. He slapped me, that was all. Harder than he meant to.’
‘Harder than he meant to?’ He looked at me with a disbelief that was completely justified.
So I said, ‘It was a brawl. As much my doing as his.’ But I could see Michael was waiting for more. ‘I went to clear my things from the house and to collect Mui but it got out of hand.’
‘And there was a particular reason for that? Clearing your things from the house.’
‘It’s complicated.’
I didn’t know how to gauge the look on his face. Was it surprise about Pao? Disappointment in me? Distress at the situation? Frustration that there was nothing he could do? Who knows what he was feeling. There was a deep, heavy sigh accompanying it, though, whatever it was.
We were in Hope Gardens. A favourite of Michael’s for the wide, open space. He said he could breathe there, and be reminded of his own insignificance every time he looked up at the towering mountains and the royal palms stretching into the sky. He could be anonymous, surrounded by the dancing of the coral hibiscus as it fluttered on the breeze, and the remnants of so many post-wedding photo calls. On the ground, a sprinkling of confetti, rice, a rosebud lost from a buttonhole.
‘I fear I may be losing my way.’ That is what he said as he walked and I followed, matching step for step, breath for breath.
‘My whole life, all I ever wanted was to be a priest. The first time it came to me I was seven years old. A neighbour had died. After a lengthy illness, so it was neither sudden nor entirely unexpected. But it was a catastrophe because she was the heart of the yard’s community. Even as she lay there with death’s door opening ever wider, people would still flock to her bedside for words of comfort and guidance. Not for her, but from her, because she was an obeah woman. She could see the future and cast spells and tell people what to do to keep their demons at bay.’
We passed the empty bandstand. ‘When she died, the whole yard was inconsolable. You could hear the wailing all hours of the day and night. Like lost souls wandering in the wilderness. Even my own mother would burst into tears for no apparent reason, and fight with neighbours as she had never done before. Not out of anger, but out of dread.’ He stopped and stared at me awhile before starting to walk again, while making the longest speech I’d ever heard from him.
‘Then one day, out of the blue, Bishop Langley came into the yard. He was just a young priest then, fresh from the seminary. I don’t know who invited him but he came and right out there in the sun and dirt he set up a rickety old wooden table and celebrated Mass, with everyone going about their business ignoring him. Week after week he came until people started to pull up a chair or crate and sit down to listen. And gradually the weeping stopped and a quiet peace crept over the place, which, over time, turned into a gentle kind of relief. And I thought to myself: What is such a gift that people’s grief and fear can be transformed by one man’s prayer? Not that it was a swap, the obeah woman for God, but because they had gained something inside themselves. Not outside direction but an inner strength with which to meet the challenges of their wretched lives. And what I realised is that we can transcend our sorrow and suffering through our understanding of Holy Scripture, and our own human reason and moral conscience. We can save ourselves. And even at that tender age the thought comforted me immensely. Because we didn’t need to burn dollies or scatter white powder outside our doors. Through our own courage and conviction we can be redeemed. That is what I understood, talking to him as he drank the mint tea my mother always made. After all, what greater commitment can there be to the flourishing of humanity than to bring this message to all those willing to hear?’
He stopped. Sat on a nearby bench. I stood. Looking down at him.
‘But it is a challenging task. An arduous path. One that it seems I may not be strong enough to continue.’ He gazed up. ‘I’m afraid I may be in the process of crossing a bridge from which there will be no return.’
A young couple ambled past us hand in hand, glancing briefly at Michael sitting on the bench. He stood and started to walk again with his hands clasped behind him.
‘How do we know what is in our hearts? What is the true heart as opposed to the imagined or wished-for heart, because right now what is in my heart is a fear of letting go of something that has, for so long, given meaning to my life. And yet there is something else. Something urging me on into the unknown.’
I didn’t know what to say to him. So I just let out the voice that was inside my head. And it said: ‘I too am tormented.’
* * *
It was after that, I saw Isaac. In town. Strolling towards me in King Street with a young black woman on his arm. He just walked straight past. Didn’t even look at me, never mind say hello. I stopped and checked to see if he would turn but he didn’t. He just kept on going with his head held high like he had somewhere important to get to. Standing there staring at his back I knew I had it coming. The ice-cold reception. And that really I had nothing to complain about. Isaac could spite me worse than that if one day he took a mind to do it.