“A Caribbean Christmas Story”
Christmas occasions itself in many countries across the world in different climbs. This short tale occasions itself under the warmth of the Caribbean Sun, on a quiet island. Christmas is past here as it is done anywhere else, with well wishes, gift giving and good cheers from one and all, but it too, can be marred by the brutal reality.
Not all families have finances to reward each other at Christmas, neither do they have so diverse a selection of gifts, here life is more modest, simpler; where a word and a handshake still have meaning and carry veracity.
Standing on the pathway of a busy street corner, a young lad, fourteen years old; his unkempt hair showing the first tendrils of Dreadlocks, fashionably worn by the members of his peer group. His bright brown eyes sparkle with wonder. Christmas Eve is tonight and there'd be gifts to open on Christmas morning.
His clothes belie an informal upbringing; one could see the repairs in his clothes; well-worn and aged. Sewn and re-sewn, he lazed in that uniform; handed down to him from an older brother, now away at some University in the United States; an Athletic Scholarship or some such; awarded for his prowess in what came naturally; running.
The boy looks around hesitantly. Precautious he took tentative steps toward home. Beside him, the sparkle of Gold flecked khaki paint, pinned striped and lacquered; a bike he had made the final payment on. He would not ride it home, nor would he dare sit on it for any part of the distance; it was the gift for his father on Christmas. 43 weeks, every spare penny and dollar had been saved for this. He would wipe the dust of with a damp cloth; the tires too; it would gleam as the sun beamed through the windows on Christmas.
Earlier he had seen his nemesis, a schoolboy bully, rounding a corner across the street and get into a dilapidated vehicle. The rust barely holding onto the remains of paint, long faded door panels. It had gone that way. Away from him, but that was no consolation. The next turn was a Roundabout and could bring them back in minutes. It would be best to wait in the midst of the crowd, in safety.
At home, his Grandmother and mother prepared the evening meal, with light chatter of the evening's festivities and the morning, yet to come or how much joy would there be at dinner that night. All the favourites were ready; for Anton, there were Saltfish Bakes.
Anton’s next steps brought him to a small vendor’s door, where he stopped and looked around, in every direction; no sign of Victor or his cronies, the way seemed safe; he continued. Stopping next at every corner to observe, the way was clear, walking the bicycle; lifting it over the puddles and filth that were Market Street.
A few more blocks and he would be home, safe. He would hang the bike in the shed, in a dark corner, where his father wouldn’t see it. He walked confidently; his street loomed just ahead and home at the bottom of a low hill. Looking both ways; he lifted the bicycle onto his shoulder and stepped into the street.
A dilapidated Blue car screeched to a halt inches from him. Any contact, the injuries would have been fatal. He stood frozen. Stretching to reach from the window of the car was Victor, a devilish smile broadening across his face. Out of the passenger window he pointed a revolver at Anton. Rooted to the spot, where he’d stepped, stood Anton, bike on his shoulder.
People scurried about their business, getting out of harm's way; cared little of what they saw and less of what would transpire,. Victor stepped from the open car door, slamming it caused Rust and faded Paint chips to rain in the mud.
A few more minutes and he would have been home. Where had he let his guard down?
“Where ya tink ya going in such a hurry, bwoy?” Victor inquired, waving the gun lazily through the air.
“Home,” Anton’s reply. His stomach churned, butterflies readying themselves for flight.
“M’, see you get me a bicycle for Christmas. No need to give it me tomorrow, m’ can take it right now.” Victor smile grew.
“It’s for my father, not you.” Touched by courage scattered here and there, netting butterflies.
“M’ say, the bike is mine 'n' m' take it now!” Victor pointed the gun directly between his eyes, Anton stiffened.
The weight on his shoulder eased, as the bike was lifted by the driver. Put in the car; Victor backed away, sat with a grin; as the car sped off. Anton watch only a few second, before giving chase. He closed the gap quickly and was a few steps from the bike sticking out of the trunk, when a horn sounded; he was forced to break off in oncoming traffic. The bus behind turned and followed the car as Anton stepped out of the street.
Anton reached out, caught hold of the bus as it passed; in continued pursuit. If only he could reach a wheel. He could pull it from the trunk. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Victor had the gun, what could he do. The bike and its owner turned the next corner and were gone from sight as the bus continued along its route.
Anton leaped off the bumper, turned towards home. He now travelled twice the distance measured before the encounter. This time, without a bike. Head down, walking slowly, discouraged and alone. People brushed passed, bumped him out of their way, he walked desperate in thought. Deep contemplation took each step. What would he, could he, give his father for Christmas? He had no money to buy another bike or any other gift.
Anton crossed a familiar street and looked up. He was at the Bike Store again. He’d just gotten the bike here; what seems hours ago. The bikes were arranged in rows out front, locked together. Bent over, an attendant assisted to a customer's needs, another purchased was being set free of its chain, then set to one side. The two, client and attendant stepped into the store to conclude their business.
Without thought to consequence, Anton hopped on the bike and pedalled away.
At home safe with no pursuit. He wiped down the frame, the tires, oiled the chain and hung the bike in the corner of the dark shed; closed the door and entered the house.
“Hi Nan, hi mom, smells good…” he kissed both women, sniffed at pots, savoured the aromas, picked up a Saltfish bake; stuffed it into his mouth, thinking no one had seen him. Granny smiled and slapped his bottom with a wooden spoon.
“Out of here…enough, wait for Dinner.”
He washed his face and hands, went to the room he shared with his uncle and older brother, which would be tonight. Robert Jr. would be home for Christmas. Had 9 months really passed so quickly? Uncle was out, so he was alone for a time. He went over the events of the last few minutes in his head. He was unsure. Had seen him ride off with the bike and hoped no one had. He could hear his grand-mother singing hymns in the kitchen. Her voice was always soothing to him.
Time passed quickly and dinner time neared. The clatter of dishes and cutlery said the table was being readied for dinner. He could hear voices in the other room; thought his uncle was home, possibly his father; the voiced were indiscernible as the door was closed.
There came a soft knock at the room door.
“Anton?” That was granny's voice. “Are you in here?”
“Yes,” Anton replied, and turned from his desk as Granny entered.
“There is a Policeman here, looking for you…”
“Me? Why me?” He had been caught, his body began to shiver, up and down the spine.
“Something about a stolen Bike…”
“Granny, I stole a bike today.” He relayed the details of the event to his Grandmother, leaving nothing out. The tears rolled down his cheek, as his confessed. She put her arm around him, consoled him.
“Let me see what I can do…” she wiped his face. “…wait here.”
She left. He could be heard voices in the next room. The door flew open and his father entered, pipe streaming spilt a pleasant aroma into the room. A professor at the local college and well respected in the Province and on the Island.
“What do you have to say for yourself young man?” The stern look sent streams of terror up and down Anton’s body.
“Sorry dad…” he trailed off, unable to get the remaining words out.”
“I had a strange phone call today, which tells me you have been up to no good.” Father grimaced; his name and reputation could be at stake, if this matter wasn’t cleared up soon.
“What do you have to say for yourself?”
No words escaped Anton’s lips. He collapsed to the bed.
“Well have you nothing to say?”
The screech of tires heard outside in the street brought a halt to interrogation. There was yelling and a loud bang and then there was screaming and more yelling. All that din outside, but father stood rooted to the spot where he first entered the room. A patient man, he waited for reply.
“Robert, come out here,” Grandmother yelled. Robert was the first of her 5 children, Anton’s father; head of the family since Grandfather’s passing the year before. It would remain a tight-knit family as long as Robert was in charge.
At the front of the house, the police had a young boy in handcuffs, while others searched another boy. One officer approached Robert, notepad in hand.
“Are you the owner of this house?”
“Yes,” he replied inquisitively. “Why, what has happened here?”
“We trailed two boys here; found them attempting to breaking into a shed back there. They were described after a Store robbery earlier this afternoon. Some Bikes were stolen and one was found in your shed, another was recovered and we have reason to believe your son is the owner of one of the bikes seized. Can you shed any light on this situation?” The officer was detailed in describing the Bikes.
“I have no idea what is going on. I have just returned from school.”
“The Shopkeeper claims your son purchased a Bike earlier.” He pointing out a gold flecked khaki painted, pinned striped and lacquered bicycle leaned against the tree in the front yard.
“Recovered from that boy, who had a gun.” He pointed.
“I am still waiting for how this affect us.”
"Well, one of these boys stole some Bike from a Bike Store this afternoon, just after your son purchased a Bike. Your son was seen on video riding a bike from the Store. Which is bike is difficult to tell from the surveillance video.
“Yes, the Shopkeeper called me a short while ago. One moment.” He shouted, “Anton!”
“Yes dad,” Anton said, still wiping tears as he approached.
“What do you know about these Bikes?” Father’s stern glare fixed Anton to the spot.
Seeing Victor in handcuffs gave Anton courage. He stood up, no longer looking down; he met his father eyes and said.
“I bought a bike for you for Christmas, to replace the old one you’ve been riding. Yours is old and rusting; I thought you would give the old one to me once you have the new one. I could fix the old one and ride it to school. On my way home, Victor took it from me. I chased them, but couldn't catch them…”
Before he could finish the tale, the officer interrupted.
“Yes, that was reported as well. We will charge these boys with the Assault with... and Theft of both Bikes. Thank you son; you can have your Bike back.”
Anton beamed, did not take a single step towards the Bike, now just steps away, leaned against the tree. The officer turned, went over to a number of Patrol Cars and spoke with other officers; got in and left. The handle bars and the saddles protruding from their trunks as the vehicles departed.
“Well Anton,” father said quietly, “Go get that bike and lock it in the shed.” He complied and went to his room, to await father’s decree of Punishment.
Dinner passed without incident in joviality and humour. Everyone at the table enjoyed the meal and the reunion of family, Robert Jr. was home, uncle sang and mother and granny had prepared a meal fit for the most excellent of Christmas Eve.
The joyful morning arrived, noisily with the crow of a rooster in the distance. The birds sang sweetly through an open window as the clatter of dishes and cutlery heard in the kitchen, descried Breakfast was being prepared.
Anton wash his face, brushed his teeth and dressed quickly, wanting to be the ready to open presents. He could smell the sweet aromas coming from the kitchen as he opened the door. It stirred his brother; he arrived late that evening.
“You up already?” his brother whispered.
“Hurry; there are presents to open…” Anton smiled, “…me first.”
Breakfast was spent much like dinner the night before, with joy and laughter. As Granny sang she readied herself for Church. Some presents were opened. There were gifts for all, exchanged, but for Anton, there was nothing from Dad. As he opened the last of the gifts Anton hugged and kissed each person. His father sat in his chair smoking his pipe, satisfied with the morning’s events. Anton looked at his father.
“Merry Christmas dad,” kissed him on the cheek, turned to walk away.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Father said smugly, taking the pipe from his lips. “I have something for you.”
“Getting ready for Church. I'm going with Granny,” Anton said.
“Come with me, we have to discuss last night…” Father rose and the two of them exited the room. As they approached the shed, father tossed Anton his keys, “Go ahead open it.”
Apprehension fought against anticipation; a stalemate. Had father had given Anton the old bike? He would not need to walk to school anymore. He unlocked the shed, threw wide the door. There stood two New Bikes of differing size; one for Father, one for Son.
“Thank you dad. It is more than I wanted. Thank you very, very much.” Anton beamed. There in the shed, was the very bike he had stolen from the bike store.
“Your Grandmother told me the Story last night. I am proud that you told the Truth. The Spirit of Christmas is not in giving or getting Gifts, but in the sharing of Truth. Granny told me how long you saved to buy a bike; I thought it best you have one of your own, so we can ride; together. Merry Christmas son.”
© copyright R Anthony H. Rock
