How to Escape From a Leper Colony (13 page)

“I can’t eat this.”

“What’s that, Robin baby?” He rests his fork down.

“It’s too hot. Too much pepper.”

“Here. Drink some coconut water. Cut the curry spice.”

“Are you listening? I can’t eat this at all. I can’t even taste anything but pepper. My mouth. I can’t taste my own damn mouth.”

“So, what you want me to do?”

Robin turns away from him and walks her dish to a garbage bin. She dumps it with aggression. Mason watches her do this then turns away toward the dancers—his chest inexplicably tight.

“I’m going to get some funnel cake.”

He nods to show that he’s heard her but he doesn’t look her in the face. Her hair is pulled back so that her cheekbones stand out.

When he finally turns she has disappeared into the crowd. She looks like everyone. He eats his jerk chicken without tasting it. He leaves all the sauce on the plate without sopping it up with the cocoa bread like he would have if things were different. He goes to throw his plate away. He touches his waist to feel his phone. It’s on buzz. If Robin needs him she can call. He walks around.

He passes the clothing stands and the booths of jewelry. Every stand has a boom box and they all compete into the air. A brackish noise follows him. Every booth boasts a true-life Rastaman doing the hustling. But when the dreads call out to him to come check their goods their accents sound like New York or maybe one of those small Leeward Islands. They’re selling perfume oils and shea butter and “Come Back to Jamaica!” T-shirts. Mason fingers a pair of mini–boxing gloves. They are rearview mirror ornaments. Things to swing back and forth as you drive. He buys the ones with the X of the Jamaican flag and daps the dread as he moves on. But then he remembers that the car is not his but Robin’s. Then he buys a real flag. A huge green X in a black bed. But he thinks that it won’t fit in with any of their décor. So he buys a workout wristband with the Rastafari colors, but then he knows he will never wear it. And so he buys a sticker, and a T-shirt and a ball cap all with “Jamaica” sprawled in red, yellow, and green. He keeps walking. He moves past the platform shaped like a boat’s hull: “A Tribute to Piracy and Port Royal.” Past the kiddie stage where there’s a puppet show going on—one of the puppets has dreads. The other is a dog. The dreaded one might also be a dog. He goes through Artists Lane, which leads to a roped-off exit. There he stops to look at the photography wall. “Emerging Artists of Jamaica.” The one that he stares at bears only an honorable mention ribbon. It is a black-and-white close-up of a young girl. She looks as though she is pretending to be angry—as though any minute she will burst into laughter.
Vex Pickney.
That’s what it’s called. The sign above all the photos reads “Originals available for delivery from Jamaica.” Each print is stapled into its mounted wood.

Mason wants to own this picture. Not after delivery but now. He thinks that maybe he can tear it off gently. If he can do it with confidence everyone will assume he belongs and think nothing of his theft. But he’s too scared. He leaves it behind and goes to the exit rope that separates the festival from the street and ducks underneath it with all his booty. The slack guard there even holds up the rope a little to make Mason’s escape easier.

Mason heads toward the train. He feels his cell phone buzzing in his thigh pocket but his hands are full. He sees the red and black banner and the CVS and the bakery. “It’s a blasted sign,” he says out loud. He pushes open the door to the Downtown Little Catholic Chapel and the a.c. stings his face.

There is a desk there as in any office building. Perhaps it’s the offices for the diocese, and not a place of worship. A man in a postal worker uniform rushes to hold the door for Mason. The man has a thick wooden rosary around his neck and Mason wonders if this is a joke of some kind. Perhaps this man is the priest. Perhaps this isn’t a Roman Catholic place at all, but some odd sect. But no, there is the priest, an old man all in black with the white checker boxed at his throat. He leans on the desk as though it is holding him up. The postal worker leads Mason to another set of doors where Mason sits in a back pew and rests his goods besides him.

The old priest, now in cream and gold robes, wobbles around the altar with an ugly orthopedic cane. Mason stands and sits and kneels on cue and without thinking—it is a dance he’s been doing since he was a child. There are only a few other people in the congregation. Mason is in shorts and cotton button-down shirt, but everyone else wears work suits, though there is the postman assisting up on the altar. It feels as though they are all on a stage.

The old priest rasps through his sermon. It seems as though he is on his deathbed imparting final strained words and not up in front of them serving Mass. When Mason walks up for Communion he grows nervous and can’t remember which hand is for receiving the host and which hand is for putting it into his mouth. When he reaches the priest, Mason opens his mouth and allows the old man to place the wafer on his tongue. It is the way Mason’s parents receive Communion.

There is no singing at the Mass and in all it lasts just twenty minutes. Mason sits when it’s over, not knowing what do. Everyone else sits. The priest ambles out a side exit, and still everyone else sits. Mason doesn’t remember this as part of the Mass. In Jamaica everyone exited in song and rushed to shake the priest’s hand outside. Now everyone just sits or kneels and faces the altar. Mason looks to the postal worker for guidance but he too is just sitting now—though his arms slump over the back of the pew as though he is on a couch watching TV. Mason looks at the huge crucifix behind the altar. The gaunt Jesus struggles on his cross, his head hanging down in what looks to Mason like helplessness. Jesus’s knees bloom red on his pale skin as though he’s been begging.

Mason looks up at the ceiling. It’s blue. Blue-blue like the beaches in the prettier parts of Jamaica—the places that as a Kingston boy he’s only seen in tourist brochures. The places where he thinks the tourists go. The ceiling is crisscrossed with white rectangles that swell at the middle and look like canoes. He thinks of Caribs and Maroons. People he has never seen but studied in school. He stares at the beams and wonders if he can design them himself with slits for the Caribbean sun to come sliding in. Then he notices that still no one has left the chapel. He thinks maybe the people are, in some way, waiting for him.

He picks up his loot. It jingles as he gathers it in his arms. He walks up the aisle as he had done as an altar boy in his Kingston suburb and places his boxing gloves and flags and T-shirts in front of the vase of flowers that was perhaps someone else’s offering. He bends his head at the bright gold halo that bursts out of the Eucharist bowl. Then he turns to leave, trying in vain to catch the face of one of the other worshipers. He walks into the foyer but then back to dip his hand in the holy water and make the sign of the cross.

The old priest now smiles and reveals a set of real but worn teeth. “Can I help you?” He seems unaware of what Mason has just done. Mason shakes his head. He cannot explain himself. He thinks to make an escape but there in the wall beside the desk is a sculpture, a bust. And instead of leaving, Mason goes to look at it. The sculpture doesn’t seem to have a face. It’s a man with his hands cradling his head and his shoulders rounded into the shape of a heart. Mason leans in close and thinks he recognizes something. The sculpture is called
Man of Sorrow #2.
Mason blinks. Who is #1? He turns to the priest who is looking right at him. “I would like to go to confession,” he says.

The priest gestures for Mason to go on ahead and Mason ambles down the hallway. Mason opens the door marked “Reconciliation” to a closet of a room. He kneels at the metal mesh in the wall and looks through it to see if he can see anything on the other side, but he can’t. He sits back. He’s not sure what he’s doing at all. He’s not sure why he doesn’t want to marry Robin. He’s not sure why he doesn’t want to go back to Jamaica. He’s not sure why he’s jealous that his friend ate that entire sandwich and fries.

Though small, the room is lit and on the wall Mason notices a simple little crucifix, half a foot tall, with a Jesus made of dark wood that looks like mahogany. Jesus doesn’t have straight hair hanging from his thorned head. He has short tight curls like Mason, like “the wool of a lamb” the priest back home said was the biblical description of Jesus’s hair. Jesus’s face is stern in this crucifix even though it is bent to his shoulder; even with that gentle nose that isn’t pointed or narrow. This Jesus is carved lean but does not look gaunt with a suffering of starvation.

Mason opens the door but the old priest has finally made it down the hallway and the door almost swings into him. “That crucifix in there,” Mason begins hurriedly, “where can I get one like it?” The priest follows him and then holds his chin as he looks at the mahogany Jesus. “I don’t know. It looks like it might be an original.” Mason nods; he knew that it would be so. His phone rattles in his pocket but he doesn’t answer it.

“Would you like,” the old man begins in his slow rasping voice, “to confess, my son?”

“I don’t know.”

The father nods as though this is acceptable. “I will go in and wait.”

They go in separate doors and appear on opposite sides of the dark screen. They cannot see each other, really. Only outlines. Mason sees the priest as a mass way in the distance. The screen a kind of horizon. He kneels and leans his chin on his folded hands, but this is uncomfortable. He puts his forehead on his hands but this is no better. He stands and wonders if this is an appropriate posture for confession. The wooden crucifix is at his eye level now. He looks back at the form beyond the screen; like any land, it hasn’t moved. Might even be sleeping or dead finally. Mason touches the Christ. It is a little unstable on its thin steel platform. “I’m going to fix this,” he says out loud even as he’s unscrewing the bolts with his fingers. When he releases it from the wall the wood splits a little and leaves a wedge of itself behind. Mason, crazily, stuffs the crucifix down the front of his pants. As he leaves the confessional he knows the old father is alive and awake and watching him.

Mason passes
Man of Sorrow #2
but doesn’t stop. He leaves the Downtown Little Catholic Chapel. Outside it is burning with Houston humidity, but Mason wants to feel the fire. He walks back to the festival. Back, perhaps, to Robin. With each step he feels the wooden Jesus hard in his crotch.

For Peter and for Rachel

The shop does not smell of death. In fact it smells very much like soap. And wood maybe. And mothballs. The ocean, too. The shop is close to the ocean. Anexus Corban perches on a stool behind the display case. Above his head is the sign: “Custom Made Coffins Available w/ at least 3 months notice.” The door opens with a jingle from the bell that’s tied to the door’s handle, and Corban gets his smile ready. He smiles at everyone who comes into the shop. Smiling too broadly is crass and unsympathetic. But no smile at all makes him look grim and funereal. Like an undertaker. Corban sells coffins. He is not an undertaker. His shop is not a morgue. It is not a funeral home or mortuary. He dresses in black because he has his own things to mourn, but this is a coffin shop. A coffin shop only.

Importing to the Virgin Islands is not easy but Corban imports his favorite pieces. The children’s coffins are from West Africa. Corban imports their shapes and then paints them himself. His technique with the wood was never very good but he loves the painting. The coffins are in shapes that a child’s body would be happy to lie in living or dead. One is shaped like a sneaker. It sits in the middle of the room as though a giant lost it in his stroll through the building. It is white and has a Nike swoop on the side. The laces are made of cloth, but the rest is made of wood. There is also a lollipop one, the candy part painted in blue and green and yellow swirls, the stick—where the child’s legs would go—painted an authentic bone white. Corban’s favorite is the treasure chest—a baby’s coffin. It is mahogany and in fact it is a treasure chest in every way. Only that the inside is lined with bright gold satin, and when it closes it is airtight.

The windows of the shop are large but Anexus Corban didn’t make them so. When he opened his shop, fourteen years ago, he opened it in this building. The building is old. Perhaps in the last century grain was stored inside. Perhaps in the century before that slaves were held inside. Just last night Corban had glass installed in the window holes and now he can keep the big wooden shutters open. He can see outside and still keep the air-conditioning on and still keep the noise and mosquitoes out. And this morning he also realizes, with joy, that the sunlight shines right in, brightening the whole shop. This is an additional bonus. So now Corban cannot help but smile too broadly.

When the door opens with a jingle it is okay that Corban is smiling with some teeth showing—so unlike his usual practice. It is Father Simon. Simon is not a customer. He is a visitor. He comes to look at coffins. It is the place on the island where he feels most comfortable. For him the shop is an art gallery. A place to stroll through with hands clasped behind the back. Father likes the children’s coffins best. They remind him of home, of Gambia. He always spends considerable time with the car—it has a sun roof for an open-casket viewing—glass in the sunroof is optional but recommend by Corban. People like to kiss the body of their departed, but this is not what Corban fears. With his coffins people like to touch the coffins themselves. Someone reaching into the hood of the roof can be very distracting at a funeral or a viewing.