Hesitantly, nervously, Frankie walked toward the grave, toward his father, reaching past him to run his finger along the stone. Dirt had gotten wedged into Ma’s surname. Frankie edged his fingertip into the date of his mother’s death and followed it, digging out the remnants of a leaf. He traced the rest of the letters, felt the rough texture of the crevices. The stonecutter could have done a better job.
“Come, mon,” Samson said, a paper bag crunching in his grip as he moved to sit on the slope.
He opened the bag and pulled out something wrapped in reused tinfoil. “You must be hungry.” Is he proving to his wife that he is feeding her boy? Frankie thought wryly as he joined his father.
He wasn’t particularly hungry, no. But they had eaten at his mother’s grave before—in fact, Samson always brought food. It was a kind of ritual.
The package crinkled as Samson unfolded it, and Frankie smelled the spice bun immediately, saw the orange Gouda center. His favorite sandwich. His father had remembered. The few times Frankie’s mother had been too ill to make lunch, his father had stepped in and always made a spice bun sandwich, winking, saying they didn’t have to tell Ma. So Frankie took the bun, raised it in a sort of salute to his ma, and bit into it, sinking his teeth deeper, bursting a raisin before reaching the sharp cheese.
His father unwrapped a bun and bit into it. This was what they had left—mealtimes together. Frankie tore off a chunk of bread and popped it into his mouth. Lots of raisins, and the dough was soft. Samson must have timed it perfectly to get a bun this fresh; the bakery was in the farthest part of town. For a moment, it felt like old times.
“One night we went to this restaurant,” his dad started up out of the blue. “It was on a boat at a dock near Mobay. Your mother never drink but she had a white wine. Mon, after all the customers gone, we danced right next to the table on that boat.”
Samson seemed to be gazing at her right at that very moment. Maybe he could see her dancing.
Seven
late Sunday morning, shadows creeping across the backyard, Frankie’s father pounded the final nail in the back window for a makeshift security device—a broad machete without a handle, attached to two strong springs.
“Okay.” Samson nodded to Frankie, ready to test his latest invention. He lowered the window to set the position, leaving it partially open, just enough for someone to slip their hands under the frame and lift. Then he eased a two-by-four under the window frame to pry it open, as a burglar might. He raised it another five inches and… the springs uncoiled, sending the machete slicing into the wood with a loud thwack.
Frankie came close, poked at a spring. His father really belonged in the last century. Still, he said, “Works great, Dad.”
Then Samson surprised Frankie by saying, “Frankie, me really proud of you and what you accomplish by getting the scholarship. Me pray you would get it, and me will miss you while you gone, but me glad all the same.”
Frankie tried to stay chill. He couldn’t remember the last time Samson had said he was proud of him. Maybe never.
“I’ll miss you, too,” he said back, all awkward, but still.
And for the first time since getting the scholarship letter, the reality of leaving, leaving Jamaica, leaving his dad, hit. He’d never been away from his family. Pffft. Up until now, it was family leaving him. Now he was about to be on his own. And he wanted it. Wanted it so bad. But yeah, he’d be leaving. And leaving his father all alone.
Samson was yanking, yanking the machete blade until it came loose. He reset his contraption. “We have to celebrate when we finished here,” he went on. “Me will make some cow foot and kidney beans.”
Cow foot and kidney beans! Frankie loved that even more than spice buns. He imagined sinking his teeth into the tender meat, heaping his plate twice; his father always made double. Then with a jolt he remembered: tonight was Joe’s party. Shit.
“Samos, you back here making mousetrap?” It was Joe, of course it was Joe, and right behind him, Ice Box and Buck-Buck.
Samson wiped his hands against his pants. “You never know what kind of common thief might come into your backyard.” Of all the tightropes Frankie walked, this was the thinnest. His father loathed Joe. Joe loathed his father.
Seeing the frown that flitted across his uncle’s face, Frankie called out quickly, “Hello, Uncle.”
“Nephew, blessings, and big up on di scholarship.”
What? Frankie hadn’t mentioned the scholarship to Joe yet.
“Yeh, mon. Like I say, my eyes is long.”
“Why are you here?” Samson asked.
“That no sound like no welcome. You no long fi see your brother?”
“Is what you want, Joe?”
“Me haffi’ want something?”
Samson gave the spring a small adjustment. “You always do.”
“Like me say, me come fi greet up me nephew. Him going foreign fi go turn big man. Me want fi see him first. Celebrate.”
If Uncle Joe brought up the party, Samson’s head would explode. “Thanks, Uncle!” Frankie said, loud, shifting the conversaion. “I was worried about it for a long time. But the University of Arizona is really good for engineering.” Keep talking. “I’m even going to see the Hoover Dam—it’s close by!”
“Mr. Engineer.” Joe stroked his chin. “Samson, you ever wonder how Frankie would do inna my business?”
Samson eyed his brother. “Why don’t you ask him?”
His father had not just said that!
“Well, Frankie? Wha’ you say?”
Think fast. “What kind of pension plan you have, Uncle?”
Ice Box and Buck-Buck laughed. Joe flashed them a grin and turned back to Frankie. “We don’t have no 401K or no IRA, mon.”
“Sorry, then, Uncle. I have to think about my retirement.”
“Yeh, mon. And like the Bible say, honor thy father.” Joe grinned. “But remember, Nephew, come back here to spread your roots.” To Samson he added, “Good luck with the mousetrap, Samos.”
“You’re the one who needs the luck, not me.”
Joe’s eyes narrowed. Damn it. He’d been about to leave! “Uncle—”
“Hold on, Nephew.” He jutted his chin, a chin not as prominent as Samson’s. “So, you think me need luck?”
“That’s right, you need luck on top of those bodyguards.” Samson pointed his hammer.
“Them? Them not bodyguards.”
“What are they, then? They’re not choirboys.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe them can sing.” Joe smirked and sauntered out of the backyard, Ice Box and Buck-Buck trailing. They were always like this—Samson would do anything to piss off Joe and vice versa. It had all started—their fight, the one that would have come to blows if his mother hadn’t begged them to be civil—over how to treat her cancer. Joe had said he had the means to send her to Cuba for a new treatment he’d heard about. Samson had dismissed the idea as simple Rasta foolishness. Joe had shot back that the God Samson believed in clearly wasn’t going to save her. And now that Frankie’s mother was gone, there was no way to fix it.
His father was back to hammering at the windowsill, making a slight adjustment. No way could Frankie tell him he wanted to go to his uncle’s party. Samson would shut that down faster than the machete hit the sill. But Frankie was aching to go; Joe only had parties a couple times a year. He could celebrate the scholarship with his father tomorrow. So he took a gamble. “It’s late to start the beans—how about we celebrate tomorrow instead?”