Mr. Bane is propped up in his favourite armchair,
dressed in the same blue jeans and denim long sleeved
shirt that he wore to work today. His head is cocked to
one side as Tarah tries to wake him pleading. “Daddy,
come on, help me to nail some plywood over some of the
windows,” she begs. “They say the hurricane will hit us
at midnight,” she adds shaking him. Roddy’s reply is
blurred and angry.
“Aw leave me alone,” he chides, “can’t you see…Can’t
you see no hurricane, Bah!”
Tarah gives him a disgusted glance.
Suddenly a dazzling streak illuminates the evening
sky, plunging the villa into a thick darkness, followed
several moments later by a deafening roar overhead as
thunder pounds the already humid atmosphere.
Tarah covers her ears giggling while her father is
startled. “What the !…what was dat?” he says springing
to his feet in a daze.
At that moment Mrs. Bane returns from the kitchen
holding a long white candle, its warm flame casting
dancing shadows. “Hello dear,” she says “the lightning
must have cut the light. We have a flashlight nuh?”
“Yes Mum,” answers Tarah, “I’ll go and get mine.”
The contours on Tarah’s feminine silhouette recede into
the darkness. Mrs. Bane sets the candle on a saucer,
placing it on a shelf below the portrait of Jesus Christ
then she turns, walks over to her husband who’s still
sitting in his armchair. She touches him lightly on his
knee and sighs. After a pause she says, “so look at you,
Mr. Bane. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
She turns and continues speaking . “Drunk like a fish
when you should be helping us get things under control.”
Another clap of thunder rumbles in the heavens and
slightly rocks the house, followed by a burst of heavy
raindrops large as golf balls that now beat upon the roof.
Tarah returns with the torch, training its beam from
window to window. She says, “I really wish we had
boarded up the other windows.”
“Let’s just take it easy,” advises her mother trying to
sound comforting. “Maybe…Things won’t be as bad as
all that.”
Tarah complains further that she is feeling chilly since
the evening temperature had dropped a few degrees as
the evening thickened over the island. When she went to
search for the flashlight she had donned a thick woolen
sweater and a pair of slacks to keep her warm. She also
brought a small transistor radio which she has on a local
radio station, its soft music mingling with the feeling of
apprehension in the living room.
Roddy is still clutching his empty glass, but now he’s
singing a refrain of a reggae number; “When the rain
falls,” he croaks, “it won’t fall on one man’s house top,”
he runs his hand over his unshaven face, then points in
the direction of his wife and child and adds, “Remember
that.”
ALBERT WILLIAMS Reporting 