Bivouac. Kwame Dawes

      FIVE

      Ferron was standing on the sloping concrete ramp waiting for them to wheel out the body on the metal tray that was stained with the blood of somebody else. The old man had bled, but it was all internal.

      The morgue squatted on a hill. It was a square, flat-roofed, single-story building set off from the hospital like a glorified outhouse. One expected to see the words DANGER: HIGH VOLTAGE. KEEP OUT painted in red on the walls. The slopes leading to the white building were lush Mandeville-green, and neatly kept. The narrow concrete path, just wide enough to hold a hospital trolley, was lined by a blooming hibiscus hedge. A woman in black stood to the side of the building, staring at the grass at her feet.

      She seemed to be waiting for something. She held an olive-green rag over her face. Ferron, tired of waiting and deprived of Cuthbert’s somewhat distracting humor—he had gone into town to try and do some business—became fascinated by this woman. She did not seem to notice him, as if she thought that the rag over her face made her invisible. Ferron wondered if there was something wrong with her teeth.

      She removed the rag from her face, spat, then assumed the same posture. It was a familiar gesture. Spitting like that was something people did when they were near something foul-smelling. They did not have to smell it or see it; they just needed to know that it was there. Soon she added a few more ritual gestures: the short but audible exhaling of air through the nostrils, the waving away of nonexistent flies, and the grunt of distaste.

      Ferron was surprised at his annoyance with her. He wanted to ask her to wait somewhere else if she was so damned uncomfortable. He turned impatiently to the doorway of the morgue. A policeman in uniform strolled out, wiping his face with a handkerchief. He walked by Ferron and spat into the lawn outside the building. He was followed by a short, barrel-bellied dark man, another policeman, who kept wiping his hands on his trousers.

      “Sunday, eh. Sunday. Kill a man ’pon a Sunday. Is like them do it to spite we, man.” He was talking to the fellow in full khaki who brought up the rear. Ferron recognized him as the morgue orderly he had spoken to earlier. “Shit, man. Is like dem jus’ say, officer, Monday is a workday, Blodoi!” He formed a gun with his fingers and jerked the arm back. “See work here.”

      The woman walked tentatively toward the two officers.

      “Close casket, man,” the uniformed officer said.

      “Nobody can fix dat face,” the other policeman laughed. “Unoo mus’ fix dat air conditioner, man. In dere stink.”

      “Officer . . .” The woman suddenly looked very old.

      “Oh, lady,” the plainclothes officer turned to her as if he had remembered something.

      “When I can tek him, sar?” she asked.

      “You can tek him anytime,” the officer said. “You sure ’bout the statement, now, right?”

      “Yes sah,” she nodded.

      “Is yuh son?” he asked.

      “Yes sah.”

      “An’ is t’ief shoot him?”

      “Yes sah. Goat t’ief. Dem come in an’ shot ’im, sah . . .” She took a deep breath to continue.

      “An’ yuh sure yuh neva see dem?” the policeman interrupted before she could continue what was obviously going to be a lament.

      “No sah. Neva see nobody, sah.” Her head was bowed. It was clear she was lying. It was as if she wanted them to know this.

      “Tek ’im, then,” the officer said, sighing. She nodded, avoiding their eyes, and started down the path to the hospital complex.

      Ferron could see a broken-down Morris Oxford parked on a grassy embankment beside a cream-colored Toyota Corolla. Two men sat in the backseat of the Toyota. Another two men sat on the hood of the Morris Oxford staring up the hill. They wore long black rubber boots and tattered hats. Farmers. She walked toward them.

      “You gwine look at the nex’ one?” the khaki-clad orderly asked.

      “No sah. Later. Enough fe this morning, boss.” The officer was already making his way to the walkway. His uniformed companion was staring down at the group by the Morris Oxford. The car had started and was moving toward the main gate.

      “What the rass!” He scratched his head. “Them gone.”

      “Oh shit,” the khaki-clad man said, looking at Ferron.

      “Funny business, eh? Ah tell you, man, is one of dem man deh do it. I know it. She have ’bout eight son. Dem always a fight. See down there? Is a murderer down there.” He was pointing to the Morris Oxford.

      “Look, I gone,” the senior officer said as he strolled off.

      The orderly winked at Ferron, who was about to blow up. He had been waiting all morning and now they seemed intent on letting him wait for the entire afternoon as well. The orderly followed the two policemen down the path. “Wait deh, officer, jus’ look on one more nuh. This man come from morning, an’ . . .”

      The two officers stopped and turned in a smooth, almost rehearsed fashion. They looked at Ferron as if they were noticing him for the first time.

      “Which one this?” the officer asked, still looking at Ferron. Ferron stared back.

      “The man weh drop over by Whitehall.” The orderly was moving back to the morgue door. “Simple thing. The doctor look on him already, them say ‘nothing strange.’ Yuh jus’ have fe sign. Look an’ sign.”

      “Your old man?” the officer asked, moving back up the path. Ferron nodded. “Hell of a thing. Hell of a thing. Rum is a terrible thing.” The three disappeared into the morgue. A few minutes passed. Ferron watched the Morris Oxford crawl along the main road and disappear around some buildings. He wondered whether they had abandoned the dead man.

      The officers walked out, the taller, uniformed one first. He spat into the grass and continued down the path digging into his pocket for keys. The shorter officer followed, nodding at Ferron as he passed. Ferron could hear the squeak of wheels as the orderly pushed a trolley out. The smell of blood filled Ferron’s nostrils. It was not a smell of decay, it was cleaner: fresh blood.

      “Ready?” the orderly asked. Ferron noticed for the first time that his clothes had bloodstains. Human blood, Ferron thought. The short man was businesslike. His forehead shone with sweat as he worked with quick jerky movements around the trolley. He kept reaching to swat away something from his overlarge ears. He looked up at Ferron with old, bored eyes. The irises were light brown. “Ready?”

      The body was tightly wrapped. The old man seemed smaller, thinner than Ferron remembered. He wondered what his father was wearing underneath those sheets. It was hard to tell if he had on anything at all. He did not ask. He wanted to ask if they would let him take the sheet, but he hesitated. He thought of the newspaper in the back of the Volvo station wagon. They would need it if Cuthbert’s car was not to reek of the dead. The body did not appear to be frozen. The old man would smell.

      “Yes . . . Alright, business time now . . . let me see now . . .” The orderly flipped through some sheets sloppily clipped onto a piece of plyboard. “Morgan, nuh?”

      “Yes,” Ferron said.

      “Well, yuh better check him out . . .” The orderly looked up at Ferron and smiled smugly. Ferron felt as if he was being dared. “You have to make sure is de right one.” It was like a commercial transaction. “Father, nuh?” he asked casually, still studying Ferron’s reaction.

      Ferron assumed a nonchalant air. “Yeah.” He looked at his watch. The orderly searched for a pencil, found it in his breast pocket, and began to write.

      “Name?”