A mile into the two miles to home, his arm muscles burned. He paused to shift the bucket to his other hand.
Just past a row of flowering breadfruit trees, Frankie looked out over the gully at the explosion of green—coffee plantations that had been there for decades. The Blue Mountains wore mist like fine jewelry. This could be a scenic overlook, he thought, something to bring in tourism, and money. It wouldn’t even take much construction. A small loader tractor and a few volunteers could do the trick. The problem was the town across the way to the right. Stony Mountain housed a concrete juvenile detention center so massive, so overcrowded, it was practically its own city. The sun glistened off the stream that rippled down to the bottom, and Frankie looked at it longingly. There were underground streams higher up the mountain, and he knew there had to be a way to pipe the water down—like Roman aqueducts—to his own town. People were used to the hour-long journey for water each day—but they shouldn’t have to be! It was something he could do for his town, for others like his—once he came back from America with a degree. If only he could get there. He set off again.
Once the road flattened, the strain on his legs easing Frankie entered the town of Troy. The butcher’s shack, the small elementary school, the rum bar, and Mr. Brown’s general store, where Frankie worked, weren’t open yet. He passed several one-bedroom houses nearly identical to his own, then glanced down at his bucket; small swells lapped the sides, but not a drop spilled. Yeah!
Then a scream, followed by a yelp, pierced the silence. Frankie scanned the area. Damn. In the clearing just past his house, Garnett, Afro funkier than ever, was gesturing angrily at someone sprawled in the dirt.
What the hell was Garnett doing here? He had moved away from Troy last year, to everyone’s relief, especially Frankie’s best friend, Winston. Garnett was always after Winston. Now Frankie noticed the fine clothes—the distressed denim shirt and pants. Huh? Garnett wasn’t smart enough for a paycheck job.
He had to have signed on with a Kingston posse. A whole heap of guys were doing it.
And now Frankie knew exactly why Garnett was here. And who was on the ground. He set down the water bucket just as Garnett sprang toward Winston and kicked him in the stomach. “You haffi’ learn respect!” he barked.
Frankie assessed the situation: Garnett’s shirt clung to his body—no weapon bulged in the front or back. So he sprinted forward.
Winston rolled away, clutching his stomach. “Me didn’t mean anything.”
Frankie launched himself at Garnett as he was readying to unleash another kick, driving his shoulder into Garnett’s back.
They slid onto the dirt. Garnett swung, clipping Frankie’s nose. Eyes watering, Frankie hit back, pounded his knuckles into Garnett’s ribs—once, twice. Garnett curled in a ball like a spider about to die as Frankie hopped up, poised to keep swinging. Backing away slowly, eyes on Garnett, he said, “Winston, man, you okay?”
Garnett slowly unfurled, slowly stood, dirt on his fancy shirt, jeans, his cheek. “Me see your uncle drive past,” he scoffed. “You a big man only because him protect you.”
It was true. The thought of Joe was the only thing that kept Garnett at bay right now.
“Just go,” Frankie said in as calm a voice as he could manage. But he knew this wasn’t the end of it.
Winston braved his way over to them. “You lucky Frankie stopped, or you would get a proper beating,” he jeered.
Frankie smacked Winston’s arm; goading Garnett would only make things worse. But Winston always had to save face.
Garnett smacked his lips as if his mouth was full of bitter fruit. “Me not done,” he said, spreading his fingers menacingly before he turned and stalked away.
“What’s he doing up here anyway? I thought he left.” Frankie said as soon as Garnett was out of earshot.
“Don’t know. Visiting his ma?”
“Maybe. You all right?”
Winston slapped his ample belly. “Well padded, mon.” He stood there, chest out, as if he had just fought Garnett and won.
“So, what’d you do to piss him off this time?”
Winston smirked. “Me just point at his fancy clothes and ask if him win a gift certificate at the Dollar Store.” Winston’s eyes darted from side to side. Then, in a low voice, he said, “Wait till him find out me in a gang too.”
Frankie gaped at him. “Gang? What gang?”
Winston’s eyes went wide. “Shhhh.”
Frankie spun around: Was Garnett back? No—but nearly as bad, here came Samson. Frankie’s father was a sinewy man, a half foot shorter than Frankie, but his fury always made him seem a half foot taller.
“Frankie!” he bellowed now. “What the hell is this? Me can’t believe it, you out here fighting on the street!”
“Yes now, Spanish Town, you daddy gonna beat you with the doo doo stick!” Winston hooted as if they were still in grade school.
Samson’s quick, chopping steps brought back memories of past beatings, each one accompanied by some version of My daddy did beat my behind till I reached twenty-one! Frankie was nearly eighteen, too old for this. Still, he shrank back, braced himself.
His father’s hand hovered by his belt buckle. “Me don’t want you on the street fighting! How much times me have to tell you?”
Frankie wanted to say this wasn’t like the last time, this was Winston, he couldn’t turn his back on his best friend. It was just how things were. “Garnett started this,” he blurted out instead. Those words were easier because he knew how his father felt about Garnett.
“What?” Spittle flew from Samson’s mouth. “Don’t blame nobody for this.”
“You don’t even want to know what happened!”
Embarrassment flickered across his father’s eyes. He wasn’t used to this kind of pushback, Frankie knew, not in public. Frankie usually tried to make things work, walk the tightrope when he had to. But he’d just done a really good thing—stood up for his friend—and it was like his father didn’t want to know about it—
“Me going beat you.” Samson took his belt off and whipped it through the air so fast Frankie didn’t have time to dodge, and it hit Frankie’s hip bone like an electric shock. The next pass cut across Frankie’s back. Spinning away, Frankie grabbed at the recoiling end. He missed, but it was enough to shock Samson. His father stood there for a moment, heave-panting, then stormed back toward their house.
Frankie glared after his father, then glanced at Winston, who gave Frankie a see-you-later chin up. But then he came over for their special handshake—fist bumps, snaps, and crossed elbows—and said he’d stop by the store where Frankie worked after school. He walked gingerly, hunched at the waist, chest no longer peacocked out. Garnett got him good after all.
Frankie watched until Winston made it home; he didn’t trust Garnett not to sneak back and jump him. As he turned back around, he nearly knocked over the water bucket. That would have sucked! He bent to pick it up, finish his daily game of delivering the water without spilling any. A sharp zing of pain made him flinch, and fury at his father flared, the sense of injustice like a mad dog that couldn’t be reasoned with. He cupped a handful of water, a taste as sweet and refreshing as any he’d ever had. Then, glaring at his father’s house, he tilted the bucket, released a slow stream, and angled it until it was empty.