Frank recognized him at once, though now he was a shrunken old man wrapped in hospital green. He could have turned away, but the nurse was upon him, ready to assert her brief authority over the visitor who dared to appear outside of visiting hours.

"Are you a relative of Mr. Ken, Sir?" What is your name?"

"Ahm...no...I mean yes...Well, he's my sister's father. I am Frank Burrows.

"You mean your stepfather, Mr. Burrows?" Her snide tone and the word stepfather punched him in his stomach.

"No, my sister's father. She needs to know whether she should come from overseas… I mean...she needs to know how serious it...he is." Why did it have to be so difficult? For years, Frank had taken money to this man's house every two months, taking messages between the old man, Ken and his own sister, Anna. Frank had been civil but distant, always talking to him from the window of his car. Just doing it because Anna—and of course their mother who lived with her—had always asked him to do it since he was the only relative left in Jamaica.

"Sir?" It was the crisp reminder of the nurse that he was taking up precious time.

"Sorry...what did you say?"

"We are not happy with his progress. You can spend just a few moments; the doctor will soon be here to check on him. Come on."

"No, Nurse; you don't understand; I don’t want...I don’t have to see him. Just tell me if his daughter needs to be here."

"How can I tell you that, Sir? He’s very ill–critical. Wouldn’t you want your daughter? Wouldn’t you want someone? Why don’t you take a look at him?" Her disgust was not even veiled.

"I would; but what I need is a medical opinion. It's hard for her to get a flight at this time; she has a job. She wants to come but it’s really difficult."

"But you are here; he may want to see you." He almost choked at the thought. But I don’t want to see him, idiot! Can’t you tell?

 

 "Okay, but just for a minute, so I can let my sister know how he looks."

Frank approached the bed as if he feared that a close look would make him vomit. He looked down on the crumpled sheet, stained with urine and blood, almost indistinguishable from the crumpled body that ended in a broken face—two meaningless holes for eyes. The bitterness filled his mouth and he rushed out, almost colliding with the startled nurses. As he straightened up against the wall around the corner, he heard their muttering.

"Imagine...the only one to come and he didn’t even want to look on the old man; you see that kind of people?"

"But yet they expect us to be here from morning till night looking after their old relatives."

Two evenings later, he eased the car into a small space in the crowded parking lot at the airport. He saw her immediately—Anna, his baby sister—closer than they could ever be even if they had shared both parents. She looked tired and frightened.

"Hi, Frankie." The tears were threatening; "Thanks for coming; can we go straight to him?" Frank stuffed the suitcases into the car trunk and in a few minutes, they were speeding towards the roundabout at Harbour View—the stomping ground of the "original teenagers" in what had been a brand-new housing scheme in the sixties.

            In the silence of the speeding car, they left each other to their own thoughts each knowing what memories might be swirling in the other's brain, each recognizing that some could never be shared. Frank’s thoughts had been triggered from the moment she’d asked him to visit her father in the hospital but he could never share them.

The first time it happened, Frank must have been nine years old. It was a Sunday morning when the women in the house were in the kitchen fussing over rice and peas and coconuts that had to be cubed before falling into the Osterizer—the brand new piece of kitchen magic that would eliminate the toil and cuts from grating coconuts. The bathroom had two doors,  one leading to the parents’ room, the other to the children’s. It was a large bathroom with the old-fashioned face basin, toilet, bidet (back then he could never understand what that was for), cupboard and lots of space between. He almost finished washing the mud from his hands, relieved that he had not been discovered, when another breath in the small space set his heart pounding—

"So what do you think? Is he really bad? Did he talk to you?" Anna asked, as if afraid of whatever he might say.

 

"Yes...no; I mean I wasn’t allowed to be with him...you know...only next-of-kin allowed in intensive care. I saw him on the ward though, before they moved him over." Too many words, I know.

"Didn’t you tell them who you were?" she asked.

The silence hung between them, heavy and dark like drapes that had survived too many Christmases.

"Frank, I know this is hard for you and you don’t have to get involved; I’ll just need some help getting around, that’s all." Her assurance only brought a lump of guilt to his throat. He would have done anything for her. In fact, he had taken a few days off from work, knowing she would need him to take her around, but also wanting to spend time with her—to talk over some things that wouldn’t go away. They were at the entrance to the hospital. He watched her eyes grow fearful. Though she was a tall, heavy woman of thirty-three who had learned to be aggressive enough to survive the challenges of living while Jamaican and black in New York City, she would always be his little sister, someone he should protect. She had always made a joke of this, reminding Frank he was just three, not a hundred, years older than she was.

"It’s right here," he said as they approached the ICU. The sign warned, "Knock and wait. Do not push the door until advised by medical personnel." It was much more formal and orderly than the ward he had visited two days before. They had to wash their hands with special liquid soap and dry them with sterilized towels. The nurse handed each of them a mask. This was the moment to make up his mind.

"Ah, Nurse? You know what? It's okay. I’ve seen...don’t you think my sister should see him alone? I mean ... at least, at first?" His sister looked at him with something beyond definition. He felt it was dismay, hoped it was understanding. He stood at the door, watching his sister’s shoulders droop as she made her way to the cubicle in which her father lay. Frank wondered at his own indifference; he hated the familiar ball of fear inside himself - the same fear that came every time that old house loomed before his eyes.

The paint was always peeling; bright green stripping from white with tinges of brown somewhere. The verandah went halfway around the house. The doors were wood half-way up, painted in bright green; the rest was clear glass. Colorful print curtains caught up in elastic at the top and bottom provided privacy...but not on those nights. On those nights the children rolled themselves into tight balls and covered their ears as soon as the bolt on the gate was pulled back and the heavy  footsteps of Anna’s father wobbled up the verandah steps. They would wait in silence for the whispered challenge from their timid mother, covering their heads with the pillows as the volume rose to that of a full-fledged quarrel - the kind that the girls and boys next door would giggle about for days. They knew just when to creep to the bedroom door one behind the other to wait for Ken to start raining the blows all over his mother. It always ended with Frank being moved from his little bed in the corner to give his mother somewhere to sleep, away from Ken’s drunken mass in her bed.

 

"Hello, Sir; can you come this way for a minute? Your sister needs you." It was the petite nurse wearing tiny pearl earrings who’d approached Frank as he waited.

"Come; come this way," the nurse urged him, as she led the way.

He made his way to the cubicle but his feet would not let him enter. His sister sat at the side of the bed. The look on her face brought tears to her brother’s eyes. He looked everywhere except at the shadow of the figure on the bed, but he could not avoid hearing that the man was struggling for every breath. He reached for his sister, but he could not bear the sound her father was making. The grunts and groans had always been the worst part. His sister’s voice tore at him.

"I know it’s hard for you to stay but please, Frank; I can’t manage this alone."

Frank wanted to assure his sister that he would stay with her as long as necessary. But there was the nausea, his trembling hands, beads of cold sweat gathering on his forehead.

"Frank are you okay?" He stumbled through the corridor and out the door reaching the corner of the building just in time.

They drove home in silence.

It was six forty-five the next morning when the phone rang.

He shook his sister awake. "It’s the hospital. We have to go right away. I’ll get ready.

"Never mind Frank. If you’ll lend me the car, I’ll drive." Frank hated himself for having failed his sister the night before and for showing her enough to let her know that he could not go back even to the door of that cubicle.

"Are you sure? I’ll take you." She held him close to her.

" Frank, I see that this is taking too much out of you. I understand."

"Look, Anne, thanks for understanding. I’ll leave you there and pick you up when you are ready to leave."

 

They hurriedly got themselves together and in a short while they were making their way to the hospital. The silence was a wall between them. Suddenly he was aware of Anna taking his hand in hers. He stared straight ahead, dreading what she would say or ask.

"You never forgave him, did you Frank?" He remained silent, not sure what to say. "You never forgave my father for beating Mama the way he did . . . and for beating you." Frank felt a modicum of relief that he wasn’t compelled to say anything. Her warm fingers stroked the back of his neck. "Don’t worry about it. I understand."

"I hear you Anna; believe me; I do."

"But it’s different for me Frank; he’s the only father I have."

He left her at the hospital and found himself on a long drive. The car made all the decisions. It was turning into Maxfield Avenue. Before he could ask himself why he was there, the car had stopped at Number 7. The privet hedge was still there, though the fence had been dismantled and the gate was nothing but a mass of rusted metal. The verandah was cluttered now, with several tins of overgrown plants, a broken chair, old bicycle parts. A child’s sneakers lay abandoned in the midst of the disorder. Frank wondered if some houses were destined for disorder—like some lives he knew about.

He peered through the space in the privet, trying his best to make out whether the door to the side bedroom was still the same. Only the paint was different - a brash gold instead of green. The curtains with elastic at the top and bottom seemed the same though he knew they could not have been. And the glass was still broken in the top left-hand corner.

Ken’s chilling voice towered over the tremulous voice of Frank’s mother.

"Come; come one step closer and see if I don’t break this glass and slice your face with it!" Frank crept under the bed, his heart thundering as if it would break out of his chest. He felt Anna next to him, a small child with little idea of what was taking place. They waited, unable to make it to the adjoining room.  After what seemed like hours, their mother swept Anna into her arms and headed for the back room.  She urged Frank to climb into her bed quickly so she could leave before Frank came from the kitchen; the boy was already sweating.

Frank turned the car around and hit the gas pedal with the venom that had consumed him for all those years. He drove without a thought as to what would follow after he arrived wherever the car was taking him.

 

"Have you seen my sister?" I left her here earlier...visiting Mr. Ken. I have to talk to her right away!" The nurse looked at him with the same questioning eyes as the others. It occurred to him that he had been shouting into the forbidding silence of the intensive care unit.

"You better come this way, Sir."

He followed the nurse into a different area, not wanting to ask why. The look on Anna’s  face told him everything. They held each other for a long moment. There were papers to be signed and items to be collected. An aura of unreality hovered as they inched their way to the car and drove home.

They had to arrange everything in a rush so, Anna could get back to work. The activities served their purpose—neither of them had the inclination to talk. Now and again he noticed that she wept without a sound in the quiet corners of his apartment. Frank had no feelings that he could describe—just the fear gnawing at his ribs. Is it even fear?

#

" …so on behalf of the family, let me thank you all for coming and for all the support we have received." Frank winced at the pain in his sister's voice. The organist was right on cue with the opening notes of "The Lord is My Shepherd." Frank sang with all his heart, but it was for Anna—and for himself. He held his sister close as she returned to the pew, wondering what emotions she was experiencing at seeing her father stretched out under the metallic gray wood right next to them in the aisle of the church.

It was a short service with no more than thirty persons attending. No-one expected the usual gathering for eating and drinking, perhaps because so few family members were around.

Frank was relieved that Anna wanted to make an early night of it. He didn’t want to talk. The next morning there was another journey to be made. Anna had wanted to do it herself, but she woke up early in the morning with an upset stomach that nothing helped.

"Will you do it for me Frank? If I rest while you do that, I should feel well in time to go to the airport."

"Of course, I will; what time did you arrange for the pick-up?"

"They’ll be open at nine; I guess the sooner you go the better it will be." Frank didn’t give the matter a second thought. He organized the apartment and prepared his clothes. He went to the pharmacy for Anna’s medication and coaxed her to eat a light breakfast. He organized her suitcases and made her comfortable.

"Okay; I’m going now, Anna."

 

"Thanks for everything Frank. As usual you’ve been there for me."

"Do I have a choice? When your were eleven, you said I would always yours slave, remember?" It was the first time in days that he'd spoken with a lightness in his voice. "You rest until I get back. And Anna, it will be all right. Don’t worry."

The building was nondescript; he could almost have missed it. The door had no sign, but he knew he was in the right place when out of the corner of his eyes he saw a room filled with caskets. It gave him a creepy feeling.

"Can I help you, Sir?"

"Yes; I’m here to collect—Wait; was that the right word? Ah...I came on behalf of Anna Campbell; she’s not very well and—"

"Of course; come this way, please." Frank had absolutely no idea what to expect.

"It’s right here." He had seen others like this in the store, at the Devon House Craft Fair. He had given a vase looking like that to his boss the previous Christmas. Was this a vase, though? What had Anna called it?

"Here’s the urn, Sir. You just need to sign for it."

"Sign for it?" Right, of course; an urn. That’s what it is. Frank approached the table where "it" stood. He held it firmly on both sides, not knowing what weight to expect. It was as heavy as a medium sized flowerpot that had been prepared for planting.

"Thank you. Is there anything else?"

"No; give our regards to Miss Campbell."

Without even answering Frank hurried to the car to lay down his burden. He placed it just behind the passenger seat. It shone in the glow of the sunlight; its rich bronze finish had gradations of color carved into an abstract pattern. He drove home directly, having a sense that one should not drive around for a long time with something like that.

***

It was two forty-five in the afternoon. Frank loaded his sister’s suitcases into the car, and they headed for the airport. Anna looked concerned.

            "Where is—"

 

"Just behind the seat," Frank said.

No-one needed to speak except when the time came to identify an appropriate spot. Frank had no preferences.

"Isn’t there a lighthouse somewhere along the road near here?" Anna asked.

"Yes, just past the airport. Is that where you want to do it?"

"Yes, that way we ...I’ll always know exactly where."

So they headed for the lighthouse.

The sand was damp and treacherous. The tires spun on the spot and Frank had visions of getting stuck. Anna leapt from the car and instructed him where to drive to avoid the sand with most moisture. Finally, he found a safe spot, and opened the back door.

"Oh ...that’s it?' she whispered with a strange look on her face. "Is it heavy?"

"Not really. I’ll take it for you."

They walked out into the sand until the waves reached their feet. Now that they were both at the edge of an act with which they were totally unfamiliar, brother and sister looked at each other hesitantly. They stood waiting, wondering how it should be done. Frank set the urn on a rock. He held his sister so closely he could feel her heartbeat thundering next to his. She rested her head on his shoulder. Her body shook with the power of her grief. He trembled for her. She took the cover off the urn gently and peered inside, calling him to see. It was just a plain white plastic bag tied with an ordinary string. Clumps of black-and-gray ash stared back at them. Anna uttered a soft cry. She reached into another plastic bag for the three roses she had taken from the arrangement back at the apartment. She threw one and watched it bobbing on the shallow surface. The wave rushed onto the shore and washed it out into the deep.

"I guess this is it," she whispered, opening the plastic bag as wide as she could.

They both stepped into the water. The foam left by a receding wave whitened their sneakers. She stood on a small rock and stretched her arms out with the urn just below her shoulders. She turned it slowly allowing the ash to fall out in small lumps. It was nothing like the movies where they always saw someone drifting handfuls of dry dust into the wind or the ocean. Frank watched as she walked farther out into the water, prying each sneaker off with the other foot.

As the last of the ashes struggled out, she shook the bag free and threw the last two roses into the water to be washed out along with the remains of her father. She wiped the urn clean, replaced the lid and set it in her hand luggage next to a bottle of marmalade she was taking for her mother. Frank was astounded at the strength of his little sister. They held hands and walked quietly back to the car.

 

"Thanks Frank. That’s what he would have wanted."

"Will you be okay, Anna?"

"I will. What about you?"

Frank had no idea what to say. He had been so caught up with watching her in this intense interlude, that he had quite forgotten himself and everything else. Feelings of relief mixed with a strange finality shrouded him. Between them, there seemed to be a sense that something was definitely over, that there was nothing adequate to be said.

In another hour, Anna had checked in and following a brief drink on the terrace, she had headed for the departure lounge. Frank made his way back to the terrace for a drink. As he sat and waited for the girl to bring him the beer, his eyes wandered through a large picture window. The lighthouse stood tall before him. His heart grumbled. Something stung at the back of his eyes. His throat was dry.  He rose to his feet and picked up his car keys from the table, walking away hurriedly.

"Don’t you want the drink, Sir?"

"I'm sorry; I just remembered something. I can’t wait."

 

An unknown sensation rising inside him, he manhandled the car out of the parking lot quickly enough for a reckless speeding ticket. He approached the roundabout, fully intending to veer left and make his way as fast as he could away from the lighthouse, the airport, the entire highway. But the car continued around the roundabout and shot past the turn-off to the airport with determination and certainty, stopping only when it was parked in the tire prints which his car had left earlier in the sand.

 Frank stumbled from the car. The salt from the sea and his eyes were blinding him now. He was gasping for breath. His shoes and his jeans were soaked with the indifferent waves. His brain reminded him how silly it was to be walking into the sea, but his feet had a mind of their own.

He couldn’t help himself; he hated himself. Why didn’t I call out or do something about it? Why didn’t I tell anybody, no matter how many times it happened. He reached for Anna's limp rose, which had become stuck on the side of the rock. He could not make out the spot where the ash had been washed into the sea. It was as if it had never been there. He fell on his knees beating the waves with clenched fists.

He was beating the pillow with his clenched fists. Ken had gone into the bathroom. He had tried with all his might to shut out the agony of this nightmare that wouldn’t stop. But now he was fully awake and there was the clammy moisture on his pajamas...down the side of his legs...on the bed. It was everywhere...the nasty, sticky liquid that was always around him whenever Ken was drunk; whenever he had beaten his mother until she had to seek refuge in the second room, leaving Frank on her side of the bed...until Ken rolled over in the stupor of sleep and his breath would come so close...

 

He screamed until he thought his throat would burst. The waves lapped the shore; he rolled himself into a cold wet ball. Overhead, the sound of the aircraft disappeared into the distance. The silence of the evening flooded him.

A gull skimmed the surface of the water.

 

The End