so intense. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his stomach. With his head between his knees, he could smell the stench from his uneasy stomach. The smell made him more nauseous. He shivered, rocking his body, talking to himself, praying: “Oh God . . . no Lord . . . Can’t take it . . . Can’t . . .” He felt light-headed, weak, yet he was acutely aware of everything around him. The silver of the taps, the red in the shower curtains, the pink of the toilet mats were all vivid, clearer than normal. He was able to focus on details like the pattern of black spots in the tiles at his feet. He was waiting for the break—the sudden calming of the body after the pains. You accepted its coming with faith.
* * *
There was a lull in the pain. He tried to focus again, wiping sweat from his forehead. Then he felt his stomach heave upward. He ran to the tub and retched. Everything came spewing out. His stomach continued to contract as if trying to force the emptiness out of him. The effort weakened him and he sat on the floor, leaning against the tub, trying to slow his breathing to calm down, to stop the hiccups. He cried. He cried sitting on the floor; a full-throated crying. He cried as he washed away the vomit from the bathtub. He cried as he stumbled slowly to his room.
He opened the lower windows in the bedroom and tried to stop the crying. It was useless. He lay back on the bed, now naked, and felt the tears run into his ears. He felt nothing, just this longing to stop trembling, to stop the pounding in his head.
He drifted in and out of sleep, his stomach was still uneasy. He dreamed of warm places, white mint milk caressing the pain in his stomach. At four o’clock, he heard Lucas coughing in the bathroom. After that, Ferron slept.
Unpublished notes of George Ferron Morgan
There is a man who has worked here for about forty years, a Jamaican brown who obviously thinks he is white. He is incredibly opinionated. He evidently thinks the paper has deteriorated since the time of de Lisser and he is fighting a stubborn battle to get it back to that style. He considers himself the authority on good English and his manners are atrocious. After working here for forty years he was, up to the time I joined the staff, only a senior reporter. His resentment was very deep. Recently the editor promoted him to the post of assistant editor and he is very pleased because he can now say that he is running the paper. I pity the editor. Scattered through the office are browns holding on to their past status, contemptuous of the young blacks who pack the office, earn large salaries, converse in very harsh patois, and are essentially noncreative. A few of them have been given encouragement by the editor. He has little to choose from. One girl got a First Class Honors at UWI in English and it seems to have killed her manners. At any rate she is not at all attractive. Another (I do not know his background) writes a column occasionally. He cannot write. But he maintains the kind of arrogance which he thinks a columnist should have. He is pathetic. He types at great speed, churning out badly written stuff.
FIVE
Ferron was standing on the sloping concrete ramp waiting for them to wheel out the body on the metal tray that was stained with the blood of somebody else. The old man had bled, but it was all internal.
The morgue squatted on a hill. It was a square, flat-roofed, single-story building set off from the hospital like a glorified outhouse. One expected to see the words DANGER: HIGH VOLTAGE. KEEP OUT painted in red on the walls. The slopes leading to the white building were lush Mandeville-green, and neatly kept. The narrow concrete path, just wide enough to hold a hospital trolley, was lined by a blooming hibiscus hedge. A woman in black stood to the side of the building, staring at the grass at her feet.
She seemed to be waiting for something. She held an olive-green rag over her face. Ferron, tired of waiting and deprived of Cuthbert’s somewhat distracting humor—he had gone into town to try and do some business—became fascinated by this woman. She did not seem to notice him, as if she thought that the rag over her face made her invisible. Ferron wondered if there was something wrong with her teeth.
She removed the rag from her face, spat, then assumed the same posture. It was a familiar gesture. Spitting like that was something people did when they were near something foul-smelling. They did not have to smell it or see it; they just needed to know that it was there. Soon she added a few more ritual gestures: the short but audible exhaling of air through the nostrils, the waving away of nonexistent flies, and the grunt of distaste.
Ferron was surprised at his annoyance with her. He wanted to ask her to wait somewhere else if she was so damned uncomfortable. He turned impatiently to the doorway of the morgue. A policeman in uniform strolled out, wiping his face with a handkerchief. He walked by Ferron and spat into the lawn outside the building. He was followed by a short, barrel-bellied dark man, another policeman, who kept wiping his hands on his trousers.
“Sunday, eh. Sunday. Kill a man ’pon a Sunday. Is like them do it to spite we, man.” He was talking to the fellow in full khaki who brought up the rear. Ferron recognized him as the morgue orderly he had spoken to earlier. “Shit, man. Is like dem jus’ say, officer, Monday is a workday, Blodoi!” He formed a gun with his fingers and jerked the arm back. “See work here.”
The woman walked tentatively toward the two officers.
“Close casket, man,” the uniformed officer said.
“Nobody can fix dat face,” the other policeman laughed. “Unoo mus’ fix dat air conditioner, man. In dere stink.”
“Officer . . .” The woman suddenly looked very old.
“Oh, lady,” the plainclothes officer turned to her as if he had remembered something.
“When I can tek him, sar?” she asked.
“You can tek him anytime,” the officer said. “You sure ’bout the statement, now, right?”
“Yes sah,” she nodded.
“Is yuh son?” he asked.
“Yes sah.”
“An’ is t’ief shoot him?”
“Yes sah. Goat t’ief. Dem come in an’ shot ’im, sah . . .” She took a deep breath to continue.
“An’ yuh sure yuh neva see dem?” the policeman interrupted before she could continue what was obviously going to be a lament.
“No sah. Neva see nobody, sah.” Her head was bowed. It was clear she was lying. It was as if she wanted them to know this.
“Tek ’im, then,” the officer said, sighing. She nodded, avoiding their eyes, and started down the path to the hospital complex.
Ferron could see a broken-down Morris Oxford parked on a grassy embankment beside a cream-colored Toyota Corolla. Two men sat in the backseat of the Toyota. Another two men sat on the hood of the Morris Oxford staring up the hill. They wore long black rubber boots and tattered hats. Farmers. She walked toward them.
“You gwine look at the nex’ one?” the khaki-clad orderly asked.
“No sah. Later. Enough fe this morning, boss.” The officer was already making his way to the walkway. His uniformed companion was staring down at the group by the Morris Oxford. The car had started and was moving toward the main gate.
“What the rass!” He scratched his head. “Them gone.”
“Oh shit,” the
