Unpublished notes of George Ferron Morgan
I have been taking taxis to work every day. I need a car. I think I will get a white Toyota Corolla. That is what all the political thugs are driving. They must be quite reliable. It is a long way from the Rover three-liter. But we are a long way from those days. I am spending a small fortune on taxis. The strange thing is that I don’t feel the urge to drive myself anymore. I want to be looked after. I used to love driving. That summer we drove across Europe to Moscow and then across Russia, that feeling of command of the road, that adventure, it seemed like second nature. But we are a long way from all of that now. A white Toyota Corolla.
The difficulty here is that I have never worked in a firm or company before. It has nothing to do with whether one is making money for the company. That is fun. It has to do with the structure and relations in the office. I find it incredible that this office is set up as a large room, with some sixty or seventy chairs and about forty desks. The first problem is noise. The perpetual clicking of typewriters (I have to type at great pace, writing nonsense, to avoid going mad) and the jabbering of people on the telephone or the interviewing of and by working-class voices inhibits any kind of creative work. What we have is noise as in a garment factory and the quality of the output is similar.
FOUR
When Ferron came home the night after the Mandeville journey, Lucas was slumped in the corner, his head thrown back, with a book in his lap. He snored with a slow untidy asthmatic wheeze and grunt. A cigarette smoked in the remnants of his supper which was catching flies on the floor. It was hot and Lucas was sweating. They did look alike, Lucas and the old man: the nose, the thick glossy beard, the high forehead. Lucas, however, lacked the haughtiness—the old man’s condescending confidence. Even in his sleep, Lucas looked humble, almost defeated.
In the kitchen Ferron found his way around with the help of the refrigerator light. He was afraid to turn on the fluorescent bulb which hummed loudly and startled roaches into scurrying and flying around the room. The noise would bring someone out. He did not want that.
He ate the cold curried chicken and a few clumps of rice, quickly. He could see the line of light under the door of his mother’s room. He considered going in to tell her he was back, but decided against it. The stillness of the house was why he had lingered in Half Way Tree for more than three hours after Cuthbert had dropped him off. He had missed the last bus and was forced to take a taxi home.
He took a glass of water to his room. His stomach had already begun to churn by the time he had taken off his shirt and trousers and thrown himself on the bed. He tried not to think about it there on his back, staring at the slanted lines of light from the street on the wall. Music from the bar across the way drifted into the room. The pattern of dog’s alarms relayed from fenced-in yard to fenced-in yard. He listened instinctively for the sound of barking to fall into a lull, then he relaxed.
The old man would be on his back on the stained sheet in that funeral home where they had left him as if fast asleep. Or perhaps he was in heaven trying to understand what to do with so many years of paradise. Maybe he was waiting for the ancestors to construct that long bridge of light with strips of material from the moon, peeled off like onion skins, a path for him to walk from soil to soil, to the Port Harcourt black earth where the pebbles would be familiar again, and the sound of feet, stepping above, comforting in their rhythm. If not there, he would have to be in hell. No fires, just the waiting, a sad desperate waiting, surrounded by illiterates. Like the rest of them, Ferron needed a narrative for his father’s afterlife.
Family story had it that the old man had confessed Christ a month before his death. Ferron had noticed him listening to late-night sermons on the radio, and once, three weeks before, the old man had spoken during a family prayer hour. To call it a prayer would not have been an accurate description of what he said. He simply spoke. His eyes were open and he was smiling:
“We need some peace in this house too.”
This was his addition to a list started by Clarice and extended by Mother. Lucas, who was muttering in tongues and flavoring each insightful utterance with a heartfelt “amen,” went completely silent after the old man had spoken. It was Ferron’s turn, and he quickly thanked God for everything and ended the prayer time.
The old man was beaming. Nobody spoke. It was hard to tell whether his look was of irony and self-mockery, and an awareness that he was messing with the minds and hearts of his family, or whether he was sincerely seeking peace with his maker. The problem was that the look was a well-cultivated one. Clarice had been certain that it was mockery, because she walked off muttering how it was no wonder the Lord never took any of them seriously. But Ferron thought he saw something else, something like peace in the old man’s eyes. They never spoke again about that moment until after his death; then it became evidence of his salvation. They were grasping. Everybody knew this.
So, it was possible that the old man was resting in the bosom of Abraham, somewhere in Zion. The old man would find it all quite funny.
* * *
Although he was expecting it, the first wave of pain in Ferron’s stomach caught him dozing. He got up quickly and ran to the bathroom, grabbing an old Star from the dresser.
It was impossible to read it—the pain was 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