Oonya Kempadoo - All Decent Animals

“That is one thing she don’ talk about — cooking.”

Ajax might work better. Thomas keep his mouth shut.

“She come often? Since Fraser here? She does hardly call me.”

“Regular enough … with Mr. Goodman.”

“Okay.”

“He does leave her here sometimes and come back for her. But she always quarreling that he never on time.”

“Especially after she and Fraser fall out, right?”

Thomas don’t answer.

“I never see a mother stress out a son so. I mean—”

The struggling sound of a old vehicle come up the driveway. Vernon pull up and hop brisk out of Fraser’s jeep. He grunt at them and heading toward Fraser’s room.

“Aye, Boss Man,” Thomas call out and Vernon stop. “He have company in dere.”

Vernon not looking at them, he on pause like a athlete ready for business.

“Fraser Moms.”

Vernon do an about turn and jump back in the jeep, slamming the door. He barely mungle out “Ah go come back.” Gone, speed speed down the hill.

That set them off in the garage. Hearing Fraser calling out “Vernon?” they only laughing more.

Sammy go in with a straightish face to explain to Fraser — he come back out chuckling. “I never see Verns move so fast, boy, whey!”

“I should’a let he go ahead and butt-up with her in de room — then would’a be lightening!”

“And imagine he is a ‘feared fella.’” Sammy thinking of the rumshop incident. “I meself never like him.”

“Eh heh?” Thomas play surprise although he suspect that long time. “What he do you?”

“Nuthing, nuthing. My blood jus’ ain’ take he spirit. An’ he like to play too much’a bad-boy attitude. I don’ like how he chook up heself under Fraser. What is that, eh?”

“Vernon is a cool fella, man. I find he only looking so — he shy — dat is why he does play gruff. But once you talk to him, he okay.”

“So Fraser tell me a’ready. But I don’ trust him.” Sam think of the times when Vernon would be lounging round Fraser office helping heself to coffee and brace back on chairs like he ain’ working for Fraser but he is a friend come to check him. A good friend. Fraser self don’t pull him up and even smiles and calls him Verns, watching each-another directly in the eyes. Sam don’t like to think about these things. But this is what happens when you have to wait. Without good talk running, killing time is hard.

He watch Thomas quiet, slow self, keeping him company ’cause he is a nice fella and, for the first time, Sam see a softness in he manhood. Jesu Christ — that’s why Fraser like him too.

“Fraser going home tomorrow,” Thomas almost whisper.

“Yeah, I know.” Sam wish he don’ have to wait around no more.

* * *

That night on the North Coast, Ata felt a big, important thing had gone missing. After opening up the dank wooden cottage, they had sat out in the tender relief of wet salt air and wide sky. The unending sea below them turned lazily and steadily, rolling in breakers in its show of constancy, just as it did on all their visits. It was this they came for. The sturdy crashing and slap-rock sounds, the big and small feeling of staying still on the wooden deck, without the need to talk.

Ata had a rum and Coke from the rusting little fridge, Pierre a glass of wine from the bottle he had brought. And when night fell, they went to dinner across the road at the restaurant on the hill, as they always did. No need for much talk there either — about home, work, nothing. Only little comments about what was good on the menu, which hadn’t changed, and how empty the restaurant always is. The waitress brought the steaming pumpkin soup and fresh white-bread rolls wrapped in a creole cloth that matched their napkins. These restaurants could be found all over the Caribbean — mostly empty, with a cheaply varnished bar and limited wine stock, mediocre food and hotel-packet butter. They ate and stared out at the fluorescent-lit car park, the treetops and rooftops, and could just hear the sea beyond.

Nothing was wrong, nothing the matter. But after they had made love and fell asleep, Ata woke. She stepped through the open doors onto the deck and sat there. They always take a chance, sleeping with the doors open, the sea quarreled. Why risk? the waves echoed, trying to hide their tumbling white smiles in the dark. But they knew why she came, was sitting there gazing, and maybe even what she could only feel was missing but couldn’t name. The black hills behind her felt solid then, reassuring. Not to worry, things go missing all the time and new things wash in.

Ata sat there a long time, neither scared nor clear. She listened, unimpressed, to the sea banter. Eventually she crawled back into bed and snuggled up against Pierre’s warm, dry back. She held him and he rested a paw across her arm. She nestled down in the hay-smell of his fur and was asleep before a strange kiss was placed on her nape. Something brushed a curl off her cheek and sat on the bed behind her.

* * *

Back in their home, the missing feeling had vanished with things to do. With everybody fussing, they moved Fraser back to his place and Thomas pottered around, trying to reestablish his old routine.

“Right, what about dinner at Veni Mangé?” Pierre suggests.

Neither of them want to seem too relieved to have their home to themselves again. But Ata agrees to eat at their favorite colorful restaurant. A discreet celebration of some normalcy.

As Ata and Pierre drive off about six o’clock down the drive, suddenly footsteps, lots — running past Thomas in his room, into the kitchen. Thudding footsteps. Men’s shoes. And voices. Thomas holds his breath, locks his door silently, and reaches for his cutlass. Two voices come back out of the house. Must be about four or five of them.

“Everybody gone.”

Steps, closer to his room.

“Ah feel somebody in there…” A hand tries the door and Thomas leans all his weight against the inside. Sweat drips off his hands gripping the raised cutlass and he squeezes harder, wringing the wooden handle.

“Nah.”

A shoulder thumps against his, on the outside, as the door handle rattles again. “Somebody in there.” Kicks start. Then stop. They listening.

Thomas wonders how they can’t hear his heart and blood thumping so loud. His breath in the pit of his gut, quivers like the blade in the air.

“Nah, boy. It ain’ have nobody there.”

Something hard hits the door. Then the footsteps leave and go back to the house.

Thomas stays behind the door. He dare not move or peep out as he listens to them talking and moving freely through the open house. They stay for hours and go upstairs, taking their time. While the minutes drip from Thomas to the sweaty floor. Pierre had talked about running a phone line into his room but Thomas claimed he hardly made calls. When everybody was busy clamoring for these mobile phones, he couldn’t see the sense in one.

But like the t’iefs think these people wouldn’t come back home?

Two hours pass. Then the footsteps again. Trekking up and down, just outside his window. They carrying things — they must’a t’ief-out the whole house by now and …

Footsteps stop outside his door again. Thomas replenishes his cutlass grip.

Somebody still has a feeling he’s in there — talking about kicking down the door, just to make sure.

Is he and them. First one that come through — he taking off they head. They better not …

Two kicks land, same time on the wood. A next two, and the putty between the cracks popping out.

His heart can’t give up now, a next kick and they will come through.

Just so sudden though, they stop. Thank the Lord. And this time they don’t stick around to hear his blood beating. They steups, give up, and leave.