Your Corner Dark, Page 7

  “Me no care.” Samson slowly sounded out each word that came next. “Me not taking his money.”

  Joe stepped forward. “Dirty money! Me work hard fi my money, you hear me?”

  Jenny laid one hand on Samson’s forearm, held the other out to stop Joe. “Wait, wait. You saying you will take the treatment, but you don’t want your brother to pay fi it?”

  “Exactly that.”

  “So, you prefer you dead, then?” Joe asked.

  “Mi no ’fraid fi dead.”

  Joe threw his arms in the air in frustration. “Forget it, then! Me wouldn’t pay a single penny fi help you. You can die for all I care. And that is final.”

  “Okay by me.”

  Frankie’s head was about to explode. “Daddy, you don’t mean that!”

  “Mean it?” Samson’s voice was growing weak. “Me mean it from my heart.” He lay back down, folded his hands on his stomach, fronting calm before yawning. “Me well tired. Thanks for coming.” He motioned slightly toward the bag. “And thanks for all the t’ings.”

  Joe spun on his heel and stalked out of the ward.

  Jenny leaned over, kissed Samson’s forehead. “We talk soon.” She shot a look at Frankie, then followed Joe.

  But Frankie wasn’t going anywhere. He had to talk sense into his father. “Dad—”

  Samson pursed his lips. “No.”

  The shape of the man on the bed barely resembled anything of Samson, except for one thing, the billy-goat-stubborn mentality. Samson would never let his brother pay for his treatment. Frankie also knew too well that his father, a man who thought the moon landing was faked, who watched as medicines—treatments—failed to cure his wife, might actually try to go without antibiotics. He could fully imagine him seeking a cure in a mixture of bush tea and willpower. Especially if he found out how costly the medicine was. Frankie was going to make sure he never found out. He could see that Aunt Jenny was waiting for him by the open elevator doors. “You coming?” she called.

  “No, you go ahead. I’ll catch the bus back home,” he said. “I have to do something at school.” When Frankie turned back around, his father was asleep. He watched him for a long time. His father seemed like he wasn’t moving! Frankie leaned in close, put a finger under Samson’s nose, and felt the faint exhale. Thank you, God! Thank you. He vowed to do everything he could to keep that breath coming.

  Ten

  frankie was pumped. He had an idea, a long-shot idea, but if it worked, he might be able to pay for his father’s treatment. He made a beeline for the school. After he updated Mrs. Gordon on his father’s condition, she expressed her sympathy, but then every other sentence out of her mouth was about the scholarship. That and more warnings about what to look out for, as campus life in America would be different from high school in Jamaica—it was all on him to advocate for himself. She’d popped over to her bookcase to pull out books on stress so many times that Frankie was sure she was going to wear out her shoes. She was lit!

  “Thank you. This is all really helpful,” he said, then paused, getting ready to address the real reason for his visit. “Can I use your phone? I want to call the university and check on my scholarship.” He swallowed his nerves, hoping she wouldn’t ask why. There was no way he could tell her what he really wanted to do—she’d never let him make the call.

  Sure enough, she looked instantly concerned. “Oh, is there a problem?”

  “I just need to verify a few things about the money, bank stuff.” Winston always told him the toughest lies to see through were the ones mixed with truth. He surprised Frankie like that, saying wise stuff that made Frankie wish he would get his act together, go back to school, get a leg up, but—Winston.

  Mrs. Gordon nodded, convinced. “Yes, of course. Be sure to dial a one first.” She smiled that proud smile at him and left the room.

  Frankie cracked his neck side to side, then locked the door. He toggled the mouse on her computer. There was a page open to gunshot injuries. Huh. She really was concerned. And, yeah, proud of his scholarship. It truly sucked that he was going to have to let her down. Clicking to a new page, he looked up the phone number. Then, before he chickened out, he picked up the phone and dialed. When the man who answered said, “University of Arizona,” Frankie had to admit an excited chill raced through him, but no—he had to do this.

  “Hello. I just found out that I have received a scholarship to the university, and I’d like to ask a few questions.”

  The man put him on hold. The woman who answered next sounded all chirpy, like she didn’t have a care in the world. Like he might have a chance to figure things out with her.

  “Hi—I’ve just found out I’ve received an engineering scholarship, and I’d, uh, like to ask some questions about the financial part of it.”

  “Oh, congratulations!” the woman cooed. “Those scholarships are hard to come by, I know.” She paused. It sounded like she was typing on a keyboard. “What’s your name?”

  “Frankie Green.”

  “Yes, I see you’re on the list to potentially receive one.” More keys clicked. “Oh, you’re from Jamaica. We went on a cruise there a few years ago. What a beautiful place. Oh, where were we exactly? There was a big waterfall there—was it Ochos Rios?”

  “Ocho Rios.” Tourists always added an s. “I’ve never been, but I hear it’s nice.”

  “Oh, you have to go. And the people are just so nice.”

  Of course they were nice; the people she’d met at the resort and waterfalls had to be nice. It was their job. But he wasn’t going to say that. He needed to keep her in a good mood, loving Jamaica. He needed to get money. His father needed that treatment.

  She gave a tinkly laugh. “I’m going on and on, and you have a question about your scholarship, don’t you?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’d like to know if I could take some money out of the account yet.” He wasn’t sure if he was asking the right question, but at least the lady was nice.

  Except now her tone shifted. “Oh no, dear, we can’t do that. The money is in escrow until you arrive.”

  “Can you make an exception?” He thought wildly for an excuse, a reason for the money. “I’d like to buy my plane ticket,” he came up with. “I can get a good price on it right now. I was online, checking.”

  “Bless your heart. Aren’t you sweet? But don’t you worry, we’ll take care of all that for you.”

  “Ah, there are a few other things I need to get before coming over there, though. Can I get money for that?”

  “All the early expenses, registration and dorm fees, and such will be taken care of once you get here, sweetheart. Honestly, you don’t have to worry about a thing.”

  Dorm? He jumped on that. “Oh, suppose I want to live off-campus? Can I get money for that, rent and things?”

  “You can—”

  His heart jumped while she paused. A pause didn’t mean no!

  She continued, “—but you’d have to fill out a few forms and get us a copy of the lease.”

  He could make that work. He wasn’t any forger, but his uncle might know people. This was his father’s life—

  Then she clucked her tongue. “Ah, but I see here that that doesn’t apply to international students. You have to live in the dorms for the first semester before you can apply to live off-campus. I’m so sorry. But our dorms are lovely—”

  Frankie tuned her out. He had no more words, no more lies. Just a weight like a truck on his chest. In Jamaica, forms were busywork, not always policy. You could bargain for things in Jamaica. His world was so simple, he realized. He felt his chance slipping away. The only thing left was to be honest. His grip on the phone felt slick as he pressed the receiver hard to his ear. “Miss, my father is sick. He’s in the hospital. I need to use some of the money to help him. I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Oh, so you didn’t need any plane ticket or anything?” Now her tone was sharp, the warmth gone.

  Frankie swallowed and shook his head. It wa
s all going the wrong way. “I… I do need a plane ticket! I didn’t know you get that for me! But my dad, miss, he’s in trouble. He needs medicine. I need to help him.”

  “Look, Mr. Green, I’m very sorry about your father, but there’s nothing I can do. That scholarship is for your education. We can’t authorize using it for any other purpose.”

  Frankie slapped his palm on the table. “But he needs help!”

  “Again, I’m sorry about your father, but there’s nothing we can do. Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  “Well, good luck. You have a good day.” She hung up.

  Frankie sat for a long time listening to the dial tone, the dial tone that seemed to be saying, No help, no help, no help. It was stupid to have even tried. Who could understand a problem like this?

  Out the window, busy students strolled across the mall, passing the flagpole where the flag of his country hung limp, no wind to lift it.

  He finally hung up and grabbed a handful of mints from the candy dish, dinner for the long bus ride home.

  Home. Without his father. Damn it. DAMN IT.

  He had to go see his uncle.

  Eleven

  the late afternoon sky had turned a hellish shade of amber by the time Frankie got off the bus at the foot of the mountain. The heat bore down as he trudged up the road, and by the time he reached Joe’s camp, dusk had turned the trees into silhouettes. Unseen stones clicked beneath his soles. He remembered how his sandals used to slide on stones like these when he was a young boy. The buses didn’t go all the way to the mountain back then, so he and his parents had to do a lot of walking. Once, returning from a party in Kingston where the old folks had told duppy stories, Frankie imagined the dark wood they walked by filled with them—red-eyed creatures roaming the earth, hungry for fresh human meat. He remembered leaves rattling, leaning into his father, needing to know he was there. Samson had reached down and taken his hand. With his father’s hand clasped around his own, the duppy stories seemed less real.

  The sound of cracking tree branches brought Frankie back to the reality of this night, without his father. He balled his fists as a figure stepped out of the dark.

  “Wha gwan, Frankie?” It was Cricket, his nine-millimeter handgun pointed at the ground.

  Frankie should have expected a lookout. “Me want fi see my uncle,” he said, the patois slipping out like it always did when he was angry or scared.

  “Him in him cabin.”

  Frankie felt exactly like he did before taking an exam—no matter how well prepared he was, his stomach teemed with butterflies, and he would wish for focus and luck. He would need both when dealing with his uncle. Frankie pulled the last of the mints from his pocket, handed one to Cricket, and walked on, chewing, thinking, thinking on how best to approach his uncle with the proposal.

  At the bend, Blow Up and his Rasta girlfriend were in an intense conversation at the table. Frankie waved and crossed the circular driveway up to Joe’s house, yellow and green, in the middle of the camp. He knocked and waited.

  Joe, in only jeans, no shirt, edged the door ajar, and seeing it was Frankie, turned to someone in the room and said, “Wait fi me in the bedroom.”

  “For how long?” a woman answered.

  “Soon come.” He gestured to whoever it was, his dreads swaying. “No, don’t take the herb with you.”

  Frankie didn’t recognize the voice, but figured she must be a Rastafarian. Joe always said he only dated women from the tribe, and many women from the tribe. Frankie shifted uncomfortably until he heard the click of an interior door shutting. Then Joe opened the front door the rest of the way and waved Frankie in.

  The musky scent of ganja was everywhere. Joe took a seat at a wooden bench in the corner, pointed to a stool topped with a puffy blue pillow for Frankie.

  “Sorry to bother you, Uncle,” Frankie started.

  “No worry yourself.” A fat spliff burned on an ashtray. Joe’s eyes widened as if just remembering it was there. “You want a lift?” He gestured to the spliff.

  “No, thank you, Uncle.” Frankie wondered if he should talk about family business while a stranger sat in the other room; the walls weren’t very thick.

  “No problem.” Joe took a hit off the joint. “So, wha gwan, Nephew?”

  Frankie pressed his hands against his legs to keep them from shaking. “Uncle, I need your help with Daddy.”

  “Oh.” Joe put the spliff back down.

  “He’s so ill with fever—he didn’t mean what he said… about the bullet.” Frankie waited for some sort of sign, but his uncle didn’t offer any. “I know it’s a lot of money.” Frankie paused again, expecting Joe to say… anything. This was his brother’s life at stake. “Well, so I was wondering, I was hoping you’d reconsider. At least… at least… let us borrow it? I’ll pay you back, you know I would, after I get a job and everything. Every penny!” Damn. He sounded desperate. His uncle hated desperate. But he was desperate.

  Joe pressed at the planks with his bare feet, his dreads spilling over his face. After a moment, he nodded, then clapped once, making some sort of decision. Then, to Frankie’s surprise, he abruptly left the room.

  Frankie’s mind churned in the silence. Except for sounding a little, yeah, desperate, all in all, he hoped that his uncle had been persuaded. He didn’t want to have to make an emotional appeal; Joe had no use for sentimentality. Frankie didn’t either, but for his father, he would have begged on the floor, cried, if he thought it would have worked. And he still would, as a last resort. He was not going to lose his father, not after Ma—not if something could be done. Now he could hear his uncle and the woman talking low, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  The bedroom door swung back open. Joe had put on a yellow mesh marina tank top. He closed the door with one hand. In the other he held a thick stack of money—green US currency.

  Frankie fought back a smile while trying not to gape. He fought back a whoop! Despite what his father said, Joe cared. He knew it!

  Joe laid the money on the table in front of Frankie.

  “Uncle, I don’t know what to say.” US dollars, two inches thick. Frankie was almost scared to touch it. Yet he just wanted to grab it and run all the hell the way to the hospital before Joe changed his mind.

  Joe ran his hand under the bench. He found what he was looking for and pulled out a handgun. Laid it on top of the cash.

  Frankie stared. A Glock compact. There were scratches on the barrel and brown duct tape on the handle. A feeling of utter dread crept up his chest.

  This was the price of the money.

  This was meant to be his.

  Frankie looked up at Joe. No… no—

  “Me not a bank. Me don’t give loans.” Joe swung a lock out of his face. “You want to get him the treatment, you come work for me.”

  What? Was he crazy? Frankie opened his mouth, then shut it, weighed his words, decided labeling his uncle’s actions as insane would not be a good move. “But Uncle, I can’t do that” was what he said instead.

  “You want the money or not?”

  Frankie stared at the cash. How much was there? He had no idea. It was more than he’d ever seen in real life, for sure. He met Joe’s eyes.

  Joe’s lips tightened. “It’s the only way.”

  Frankie’s jaw began to tremble. He knew that tone. It was clear that there was no bargaining. But—but—this… He pictured his scholarship letter. He could see every word, the crimson insignia. Frankie reached for the gun, his fingers feeling so cold. His father complained of cold hands sometimes, claimed he must be getting old. Frankie wanted his father to grow old.

  Frankie put the gun on the table, then picked up the cash. The bundle was heavier than he’d expected; the bills felt like the paper the scholarship letter was written on. Both were worth a lot, but—now Frankie lifted his chin, defiant. His father’s life was worth more. Samson would kill him for doing this. But at least he
’d be alive to do it.

  “Take the gun.” His first order from his new boss.

  Frankie hesitated. Joe’s eyes were icy. So Frankie reached out his right hand, fingered the cold steel. He shoved the Glock into his pocket, then wedged the cash into the other. He was nearly out the door when his uncle called after him. “The job is forever, Frankie. People don’t leave my posse, not alive.”

  Frankie turned the door handle and paused. The irony of walking through the door wasn’t lost on him. He was walking into a new life. Just not one he’d ever imagined for himself.

  “You understand me?”

  Frankie kept hold of the handle. He nodded, a final signature for his life.

  Twelve

  the night had worn on and on—sleepless torture as Frankie thought about giving up the scholarship, thought about Joe’s deal and what that meant, fought against visions of Samson in that hospital bed, his skin yellow, his face gaunt—a season of suffering upon him. Frankie couldn’t remember his father ever being sick a day in his life. Every time he felt a cold coming on, he’d just boil cerasee tea, gulp it down, and the cold would disappear. If he was sick, he never showed it; he never stayed in bed, and never complained.

  Giving up, Frankie rose from the couch. He’d considered sleeping in Samson’s room. The bed was more comfortable, no springs sticking out. But that felt like bad luck, some sort of signal that his father was going to die. So he had slept on the ragged couch like always; tried to sleep, at least. But he had borrowed his father’s better pillow.

  Now, putting it back, plumping it up the way he used to see his mother do, he gazed at the empty bed. He ached to see Samson rise from it again fully healed. He closed the door and went to make some ginger tea. He glanced at the water bucket. Turned out that with his father not there, the water lasted twice as long. Frankie would make the journey twice a day, if only… Then he squatted over the tin pail and yanked the dirty dish towel off of it, hoping the gun and his worries might have disappeared. But they hadn’t. The Glock was right where he’d hidden it last night, and he was still in Joe’s posse.