“Guango River” by Tricia Allen
The lunch bell begins to ring, so we say our prayers, chewing the words up in our mouths with half-open eyes as we watch our teacher, leather belt in hand . . .
The lunch bell begins to ring, so we say our prayers, chewing the words up in our mouths with half-open eyes as we watch our teacher, leather belt in hand . . .
I gave you my own name, and we shared it for fourteen days . . .
Gus sipped lemongrass tea from a foam cup. It was still dark. His secondhand truck idled outside the market as four men clambered into its tray. This was where he picked up workers for the day—mostly men who came to the island at night in quiet boats. The men clutched grease-stained paper bags and chattered loudly between bites of johnnycakes and various patties. Four men got into the truck’s tray. Gus was expecting five . . .
We scampered across the assembly hall to peep out of the wooden louvered windows of our primary school, hoping to catch a glimpse of the parents as the cars pulled up across the street at the porte cochere of the Members Club to deposit their passengers . . .
Freddy scowls when I shine my flashlight in his face. His gold tooth glints in the gloom . . .
The Mayfair was over, the lights turned off, the bran tub emptied, the decorations taken down and locked in cupboards safely. The bouncy castle stood still, awaiting the workmen who would remove it tomorrow. The gates to the schoolyard were shut, and the sentry assumed duty. No one saw the boy in black . . .
It was almost dawn when a loud shriek of anguish and pain could be heard at the end of Guayaguayare village . . .
The long wooden pirogue knocked lazily against the concrete pillars of the jetty . . .