Pynter Bender (3 page)

T
HE TALK OF WOMEN
taught Pynter Bender one thing: men walked.

The women spoke of it as if it were an illness – a fever that men were born with, for which there was no accounting and no cure. It could come upon them anytime, but more likely halfway through the harvesting of the canes in April – those months of work and hunger that Old Hope called the Stretch, when the children were thinnest.

A man stripped and cut the canes for ninety-four cents a day. A woman tied and packed and lifted bundles onto trucks for seventy-eight. And with the coming of the first rains, the tractors with the ploughs arrived. They walked behind them for a month, clearing the valley floor of stones and the diseased roots of last year's crop.

That was when their men started looking southwards at the triangles of blue between the hills. Over dinner, the man would not really hear his woman when she told him something trivial about their child: that it would have his lips or eyes and be as good-looking as him. He might nod or stare through her, wondering aloud if she'd heard that another stoker in the sugar factory south of Old Hope, or in one of the little mills further east, had lost an arm to the machinery. That some quick-thinking friend had the presence of mind to cut the arm off at the shoulder before the cogs could pull him in. Or that an overladen truck,
carrying a couple of tons of cane, had rolled over and crushed the loaders – boys really, boys barely old enough to earn a wage.

It was not always the rumour of an accident that started the man off daydreaming. One ordinary day he would look up from pulling ratoons from the earth and suddenly see nothing but the canes, stretching all the way to the end of his days, beyond life itself. And he would imagine himself walking on streets with lights, or standing at the foot of some tall glass building with cigarettes and money in his pocket, a coat around his shoulders and a newspaper tucked under his armpit. His woman would sense the change in him because he was irritable with her all the time, raised his hands at her more often, couldn't stand to hear the baby crying.

Over the months, the savings, the borrowed money, would go towards the beige felt hat with the widish rim, a couple of thick Sea Island cotton shirts, two pairs of heavy flannel trousers, that started narrow at the heels and got looser all the way up to the waist. And of course a coat. Nothing was more confirming of his intentions than that coat. It would be the last thing that his friend – the only person he'd trusted with his plans – would hand over to him as they stand on the Carenage in San Andrews with their backs towards the island. And he would promise that friend, over a quick and secretive handshake, that he would make a way for him as soon as he got ‘there'.

‘There' was anywhere, anywhere but home. ‘There' was wherever in the world someone wanted a pair of hands to do something they didn't want to do themselves. ‘There' was anywhere a man could turn his back on cane. And it all started with that walk which, one quiet night, took him past the small dry-goods store with the single Red Spot sign, past the crumbling mansions that sat back from the road, their facades half-hidden by ancient hibiscus fences.

At Cross Gap, the last and only junction that marked Old Hope from the rest of the world, the man would begin to walk faster, the
beige felt hat pulled down over his eyes, his last journey up Old Hope Road, his arms swinging loose, the walk of no return.

There were other Old Hope walks too, shorter walks, the night-time disappearances that lasted until morning. After dinner he would get up, wash his hands, hitch his trousers higher up his hips, and with barely a turn of the head he would say, ‘I takin a walk.'

‘Where you off to?' a woman's quiet query would come.

And just as softly his answer would reach her: ‘Don' know, jus' followin my foot.' And the soft pad of his shoes would melt into the night.

Tan Cee's husband would never explain himself. Wednesday nights, Pynter would watch his auntie watching her husband sitting cross-legged on the stool a couple of feet away from her. He imagined her counting the cigarettes he pulled out of the packet, the gestures his left hand made to light the match, how close to the butt he smoked each one and the slowness with which he crushed it into the dirt between his feet. That long, still face of his was always lifted slightly, like a man whose head was buried in a dream. And as the night drew in, he took longer drags and made the match burn closer to his fingers.

Tan Cee's head was angled just like his, but slightly away from him, her eyes switched sideways so that only the whites showed in the firelight. He could hear the whisper of Coxy's clothing as he came to his feet, smell the Alcolado Glacial he'd rubbed along his neck and shoulders. It was only when his sandals hit the asphalt on the road below that his aunt got up and headed home.

Pynter had his eye on Coxy too. There was something about the soft-voiced smoking man that made his aunt a different person. However quietly Coxy called her name, she always seemed to hear him. She would lift her head, drop whatever she was doing and go straight away to him. It was as if she had an extra ear that was always listening out for him.

Sometimes Pynter would catch Coxy's eyes on him. It was a different look from Deeka's. It didn't seem to wish he wasn't there. It didn't switch from him and then to Peter and back to him again. It was quiet and direct; and if he looked back at him, Coxy would nod his head and smile.

He was going to get an answer to the question that Coxy always left behind every Wednesday night. It felt a natural thing to do because lately he had been following his eyes. He left the yard on mornings and made his way to places he'd spotted in the distance. The week before it had been the high green rise of a silk-cotton tree on the slopes of Déli Morne. The day after that a patch of purple down the furthest reaches of the river, or a bit of rock that stood bare and brown like a scar against the green face of that precipice they called Man Arthur's Fall. His eyes had even taken him down to that stinking place of tangled roots and mangroves into which they said his grandfather had disappeared. He'd stood there staring at the boiling mud, wondering what could ever make a person want to do a thing like that.

Now, he'd only just got back home from the sea. He'd sat on the pebbles that faced the ocean and looked out at the grey shape of the land that rested like a giant finger on the water, beyond which were darkness and the boom of water breaking over reef. He'd repeated in his head the last words Santay said to him the day she returned him to his yard: that to truly rid himself of Zed Bender's curse, he would have to cross that ocean.

Deeka was talking about John Seegal again when he arrived. He wondered if she'd ever been to see the swamp that her husband had left her for. He wondered if anyone in the yard had ever done so.

His mother came and placed his dinner in his lap. He wasn't hungry, but he fed himself all the same, keeping his eyes on Tan Cee and her husband. He glanced across at Deeka's face. She was talking too much to notice him, and for that he felt relieved.

Following Coxy in the dark was easier than Pynter expected. He had been behind him for so long his heels were aching and a film of sweat had broken out on his face. He was not afraid of the night. It was never the kind of deep black that Deeka spoke of in her stories, where you couldn't see your hands even if you held them up before your face.

The night was full of shapes, some laid back against the skyline, some leaning hard against each other. The track curled itself around the roots of trees that rose as high as houses. It dipped into small ravines, turned back on itself so suddenly he sometimes lost his sense of where he was.

He thought there would be no end to Coxy Levid's walking.

Past Cross Gap Junction, Coxy turned left and suddenly they were in the middle of a cocoa plantation that spread out before them like a warren of dark tunnels. Pynter had a sense of how far ahead of him Coxy was because of the glow of his cigarette and because he sometimes whistled a tune. Sometimes he stopped and pulled his shirt close because it was cold beneath these trees.

Tan Cee had told him of the snakes that lived beneath the carpet of leaves which every cocoa tree spread around its trunk. Crebeaux, she told him, were creatures so black they glistened. They moved like tar but were quick enough to knot themselves around the foot of a careless child, a rabbit or a bird and make a soup of their bones before swallowing them whole.

He'd lost sight of Coxy, had emerged on the edge of a small hill and hung there, leaning against the bark of a mango tree, looking down at the houses scattered along the hillside facing him. Lamplight seeped through their wooden walls. Their galvanised roofs glowed dully in the dark.

He was about to turn and make his way down when he caught the smell of cigarettes. He brought his hands up to his face. A hand reached around his shoulders and he felt himself thrown backwards. He'd lost his balance but he wasn't falling. He felt his breath leave his body as the hand lifted him and slammed his
back against the tree. Pynter opened his mouth and drew his breath; and there was Coxy Levid's face, level with his own.

‘Why you falla me?' Coxy shook him hard. ‘Yuh aunt send you after me?'

Pynter shook his head, made to speak, but his tongue had seized up like a stone inside his mouth.

‘You lie fo' me, you never leave dis place.' Coxy made a circle with his head that took in the bushes and the darkness around. ‘Y'unnerstan?'

A match exploded in his face again. Coxy's lips were peeled back, his teeth white and curved like seashells. The light-brown eyes glowed in the matchlight like a cat's.

‘Why you falla me, boy!'

‘I don' know, jus' … You squeezin me.'

‘That woman send you after me?'

‘No. I come – I come by meself. You, you squeezin me.'

‘So if I break your fuckin neck right here fuh mindin big man bizness, nobody goin to know.' The fingers pressed harder against his forehead.

Pynter looked into Coxy's eyes. He searched his head for words. Found nothing.

‘So what you fallain me for?'

‘I – I not goin to tell nobody.'

‘Tell nobody what? What you got in your mind to tell nobody, eh? A man cyahn' take a walk? You think anybody could walk behind me for me not to know? You feel say you is spirit? You feel say all dem shit dem talk 'bout you is true? You feel say you can't dead. You wan' me to prove it?'

Coxy shifted his hand sharply down beneath Pynter's chin. Now there was a terrible pressure at the back of his neck. His jaws were so tightly locked he could barely whimper.

‘You so much as breathe my name to anybody, you so much as tink a lil thought about where you falla me tonight, you so much as dream 'bout tryin it again, I make you wish you never born.'

The hand released him suddenly and he fell backwards.

Pynter stayed leaning against the tree, his breathing coming fast and hard. He listened to Coxy's footsteps going down the path until he could hear the man no more. A little way off a dog barked. A few others across the hill replied, followed by a man's voice – low and deep like far-off thunder. A woman's laughter climbed the night air, so bright and musical it made him think of ribbons in the wind.

F
ROM THE SETTLEMENT
of twenty dwellings or so east of Glory Cedar Rise a man sat hidden under one of the houses, dreamily looking down on Old Hope Valley.

The occupants did not know that he was there. He could have chosen any of the houses scattered about the hill, since they all offered the same view of the valley. After resting a couple of hours there, he'd picked up enough from the conversation that filtered through the floorboards to know that the woman's name was Eunice and the man's was Ezra, and that he worked in one of the quarries in the south.

He had dozed a little and then woken up. His feet still ached from the walk from Edmund Hill. The eight miles had taken him longer than he'd anticipated, but that was because for many years he had lost the habit of walking distances.

Having also lost the habit of sleeping a whole night through, he would sleep again for another couple of hours and then wake up to watch the morning come. By then, those above him would begin to stir. He would take the mud track down towards the river, or perhaps wait a couple of hours longer. The quarryman might find him there. He might move to say something, as any man would do to a stranger sitting beneath his house, but then the quarryman would stop and examine him more closely – the coarse old cotton shirt with faded numbers stencilled below the breast pocket, the heavy pair of leather boots, resoled and passed
on to him as a present. And of course his face. The quarry man's eyes would pause there and he would think better of whatever he was about to say and maybe go inside to tell his woman.

It was what always happened when, every few years, a man found him beneath his house waiting for the morning.

In the valley below, he'd counted the fires in the yards as they went out one by one with the deepening night, each bit of dancing yellow like a tiny signal of hope against all that darkness. He had watched the moon rise and smelled the morning, and had begun to wonder how they would receive him this time and what, if anything, had changed since he last saw them. And then the sky lit up a couple of hills ahead of him. It was in the general direction of where he wanted to go. He eased himself forward, thinking how strange it was that anyone would want to light a boucan this time of night, in fact so close to morning. He watched it burn till the flames died down, becoming no more than a glowing scar against the dark.

It was daylight and the valley filled with birdsong. He got to his feet. He moved with the litheness of a man accustomed to hard work. It would take him a couple of hours to get there, perhaps longer, because on his way up the other side of the valley he would pause to gather guavas, water lemons, perhaps carve a spinning top or two for the children. He always brought home something for the children.

He turned his face up to the morning, the almond-shaped eyes catching the soft, indifferent light. A gold tooth glimmered between his parted lips and his large head dipped down. He picked up a cotton sack, which he swung onto his left shoulder. The sudden flurry of air raised the scent of bread. His eyes were still fixed on the scar against the hillside when he started marching down the hill, the smell of yeast and hard-dough bread following him.

He emerged into a bright, harsh day from the cocoa plantation near Cross Gap Junction a couple of miles away. And it was from there that he started greeting people.

Tan Cee heard him first about a quarter of a mile out on the road. Somebody must have set him off laughing. Her head cocked up like a chicken's and suddenly she was squealing, ‘Birdie! Birdie!', running down the hill towards the road with the tub of washing spilt all over the ground and Coxy's trousers trailing in the dirt behind her.

‘That sister o' mine crazy,' Elena laughed, but she too was dancing on the steps.

Birdie brought Tan Cee back up the hill kicking and choking with laughter in between her pleas for him to put her down. He was holding her high above his head and tickling her at the same time.

They collapsed in the yard together and before he knew it they were all over him. Patty arrived running and simply dumped herself on them. Elena almost took a flying leap from the steps and trusted Birdie's body to take care of the rest. Tan Cee was somewhere between them. They pinched him, they bit him, they kicked him, they dug and squirmed their fingers in his ribs, which brought out thunder-rolls of laughter from him and set the whole yard laughing too. For Birdie's was the kind of laughter that was in itself a joke.

He rolled them off eventually and they sat in the dirt and stared at him, the giant they saw once in every few years. They reached out their hands and brushed the bits of grass and dust from his beard, wiped the sweat off his forehead with their hands. Tan Cee straightened the collar of the khaki shirt they'd just crushed while Patty and Elena rested their elbows on his shoulders. He got to his feet, bringing them all up together with him, like a tree might move with all its branches, and now that the children could see his full size they were open-mouthed.

If Birdie had been born after his father's passing, they would have said he was John Seegal born again, and he had the same effect on Deeka. She was sweeping up the fallen flowers of the grapefruit tree when she heard his laughter. The sound of him
had frozen her. She hadn't moved from under the grapefruit tree, still held the broom in her hand in mid-swing.

She didn't say a thing when he got up, eased the three women aside and turned around to face her with a grin as wide as a beach.

Birdie lifted his mother off the ground and held her, broom and all, as one would do a child. The smile gone now, he looked down at her face and rumbled softly, ‘Ma!'

Everything was in that single word, all the time and distance there had been between them. Deeka dropped the broom. She reached up and looped her arms around his neck.

‘Put me down,' she ordered.

He held her for a while longer then carefully let her down among the stones, passing his hands through his hair, his beard, then his hair again.

‘When you goin back?' she asked.

‘I goin straight this time, Ma. No more jail for me.'

‘Until you break in somebody house again and clean it out? I try to straighten you out from small, but this son o' mine born crooked. Come lemme feed you some proper food, you thief!'

His laughter filled the house till evening. He ate everything they placed before him, and when he finished he kicked the heavy boots off his feet, reached for the canvas bag that hadn't left his shoulder, even when his sisters were wrestling with him, and pulled out several loaves of bread.

It was what they had been waiting for: Birdie's prison bread. Pynter and his brother knew more about his bread than they did about their uncle himself. It was the taste of Birdie's bread they talked about when they were really missing him. It was a way of talking about his strength too, for the secret to his making the best bread on the island – and a pusson won' be surprised if it was de best bread in de world, Elena told them – lay in the power of those hands. She'd said those last words the way a preacher in church would say them. Only she didn't get an amen at the end but a loud ‘Uh-huh!' from Tan Cee.

Those hands – they kneaded dough so tight a pusson could hang it on a branch and swing on it and it won't stretch loose an' make dem fall an' bust their tail. That was bread – that was de fadder an' modder of all bread. In fact, bread was Birdie salvation. God might forgive him his thiefin ways on account of his talent for baking. And not just bread. Dumplings too. Cornmeal dumplings, plain-flour dumplings, cassava dumplings: dumplings for oil-down and crab stew; for pea soup and fish broth. Or jus' dumplings stan'-up by itself.

You bit into one of Birdie's dumplings and it protested. It stewpsed. It sucked its teeth like an irritable woman. It went ‘chiiks!' Like it was answering you back or something. Like it asking you what the arse you playin, biting it so hard.

In fact, a woman could get de measure of a man by the dumplin' that he make. By de size of it, the toughness and de strength of it, an' whether it could answer back when you sink your teeth in it. And if a pusson want proof dat Birdie was a real man, dem only had to eat his dumplin'. Just one. In fact, you didn even have to go to all that lovely trouble. All you have to do is ask his woman, Cynty. Cuz soon as Birdie reach from jail, he does go an' cook she food!

Woman-talk. Sweet-talk. Bender-talk that sent them up in quakes of laughter and left the children smiling back suspiciously at them.

Birdie spoke of prison as if it were another country – one with walls too tall to escape over. And why a person goin want to do that anyway? They could break a leg, and if they got away, where they goin to hide on a little island that the sea fence in better than any barbed wire? And that was only if they got that far, because there were dogs – he knew the name of every one of them. Real dogs. Not no bag-a-bone pot-hound like people got in their yard at home, but Rockwylers and Allstations. Them is serious dog! Them could follow a man shadow in the night. No joke! All they need was a little sniff of the bench that fella sit down on a coupla years ago. And they good as got him.

He told them of troubles they knew nothing about, and of men who'd spent their entire lives behind those old stone walls, who, when let out, were so confused and terrified of all that light and air around them they ran straight back inside. Some spent all their days trying to figure out what they did to be up there.

There were the bright ones, he told them, put inside for something they might have said that somebody did not like. With their quiet words and educated ways, they changed the men without the wardens noticing. Taught them how to talk up for themselves, how to hold on to an argument. And those who could not take their minds off their women and their children were made to think of things that had never crossed their minds before. Like why cane was so cheap and they couldn't afford to buy the sugar that was made from it; why the dry season always brought with it so much rage and hardship on an island where the soil they walked on was so rich. So rich, in fact, that if a pusson dropped a needle on the ground it grew into a crowbar.

The smile left his lips, and his hands grew quiet in his lap. Now the young ones were coming, he told them, children who had no place among big men. Sent there by men who thought they owned the country. Who could not abide the impatience of these young ones who asked more questions and wanted a life that took them further than these narrow acres of bananas and sugar cane. Which was why there were more guns and soldiers now; which was why something had to break. Soon. It didn't take the edicated men to show him that. He could see it coming.

Pynter eased his head off Tan Cee's shoulder.

‘An' you, Missa Birdie, if it so bad in dere, how come you like jail so much?' He didn't understand the sudden silence and the look that Deeka shot him.

Birdie raised his head and laughed, but the furrows on his brows that had not been there before made his face look different.

‘You de funny one – not so? You de second-born?' Birdie said.

Tan Cee rested an arm across Pynter's shoulder and drew him in to her. ‘And you the one who name we give 'im.' She smiled. ‘Hi first name is your middle name. We call 'im Pynter.'

Tan Cee's words seemed to take Birdie somewhere else. His face relaxed. His eyes got soft and dreamy.

‘I ferget that,' he said. ‘I ferget that name. S'what happm when you got something and you never use it. Dat remind me,' he rose up like a small earthquake from the floor, ‘Cynty down dere waiting.'

That night, curled up on the floor beside Peter, Pynter realised that his uncle had not answered him. His head was a hive of questions he never got to ask – why, especially, was he always thiefin things that were never really useful?

The last time the police had come for him was after he arrived in the yard with a fridge on his head and a television under his arm, even though the whole world knew that Lower Old Hope didn't have electricity. And it was a waste, because the chickens made their nest in the fridge and one of the policemen who came to take him went off with the television.

‘Peter, you like Birdie?'

‘Uncle Birdie,' Peter hissed.

‘Uncle Birdie – you like 'im?'

‘Uh-huh. And you?'

‘He not well an' he don' know it.'

He felt Peter shifting in the dark. ‘S'not true – Tan Cee tell you so?'

‘No, I tell Tan Cee so.'

‘Which part of 'im not well?' Peter said.

‘You say s'not true, so I not tellin you.' He felt his brother moving towards him, felt his breath against his ear.

‘Jumbie Boy – you'z a flippin liar.'

Elena Bender was smiling when she asked Pynter to come and sit with her beneath the plum tree. That was not good. His mother
never smiled so early in the day. She picked up a piece of stick and began making patterns in the dust with it. A thin film of sweat had settled among the very fine hairs on her upper lip. She glanced sideways at him, briefly, tried to smile again, but he could see that she was forcing it.

‘You goin to your father house from Sunday.'

‘My father – Manuel Forsyth?'

‘You don' call 'im Manuel Forsyth; he's your father.'

‘He got another name?'

‘Is the same rudeness you bring to your Uncle Birdie yesterday. You see how upset you make him? Peter know what y'all father look like. You don't think you ought to know him too?'

He didn't answer straight away, preferring to follow the flight of a pair of chicken hawks high on the wind above them. Their cries reminded him of bright sharp things – knives and nails and needles.

‘He a old man,' he said. ‘Ten times older'n you. Dat's what Miss Lizzie say. I not goin nowhere.'

‘What else Miss Lizzie say?' She was looking at him sideways.