“Consider it done,” said Walter.
“Bullshit,” Billy said, turning his attention quickly to wiping down an already spotless bar. Helen had been watching and listening, working down at the end of the bar closest to Ike. She gave the old man a look that said, “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure they do it.” Ike tipped his cap to her. That was on Wednesday. The next day he died.
Hayes Home of Funerals buried nearly all the black people who died on St. John. It had been that way for five generations. For reasons deeply embedded in the American psyche, they rarely provided final services for white folk. This time, they went all out for Ike. Ninety years is a long time to live among such a small group of people, thought Walter. It’s often said at funerals, that many are loved and he was sure that was true, but Walter was certain few were loved as much as this old man. It seemed everyone on the island was there and not a few from St. Thomas, and some from places farther away. Walter paid his respects, offered his condolences to Ike’s family-dozens and dozens of them-by showing up at the funeral home on Saturday and again Sunday morning at a time he knew the clan would be done with church. Billy and Helen were also there both days.
Henry and Willie Hayes did a wonderful job on Ike. They didn’t make him appear different than he was in life. Walter had attended his share of funerals, and so often it was the case, the dead looked like a stranger. No one was ever pleased with that. Yet people had a way of remarking at the sight of the deceased how lifelike their dead bodies looked. Most of the time the opposite was true, everyone knew it, and no words to the contrary could change that. Ike, however, looked just like Ike. Walter went out of his way to thank the Hayes brothers.
Except for his visit to the funeral home, Walter stayed at home that weekend. He didn’t go down to Billy’s at all. On Monday, the day Ike was laid to rest, Billy shut the place down. A simple, black tarp hung over the locked front door. It was the only time the building had ever been closed that anyone could remember.
The funeral was almost a joyous occasion. A ninety-year life celebrated, as it ought to be. A group of five-three of Ike’s sons and two of his grandsons-backed by a single piano, sang a favorite of his, The Closer You Are, written and recorded more than a half century earlier by Earl Lewis and The Channels. Walter smiled, knowing the old man had requested it. He might have sung along, as he did many times with Ike-back in the day-but, instead, today he just listened.
The-a closer you are
The brighter the stars in the sky-a-i
Billy looked over at Walter, both men smiling with lumps in their throats. He was tempted to bring out the old chalkboard and write it up. The choir sang Going Up Yonder like it was the last time you’d ever hear it and the packed church, most unable to sit still, rose up in spirited appreciation. Shouts of “Yes, Jesus!” “Oh, my Lord!” and “Sing that song, children!” reverberated through the old, clapboard building, turning it into something closer to a Baptist church in Alabama or Mississippi than an island Episcopal sanctuary. Walter felt the place shake on its foundation. Many joined in the singing.
I’m going up yonder, to be with my Lord.
A small group, no more than a dozen or so, had been selected to pass by the casket before it was closed forever at the conclusion of the service. Walter was among them. He stopped for a moment to look at Ike a last time. He almost expected the old man to wink at him. A lonely tear rolled down Walter’s cheek. He fought to get the tennis ball out of his throat. Like the others in the procession, Walter placed a single flower next to Ike’s folded hands. Then he reached down and placed two home-rolled cigarettes and two long, wooden matches in his friend’s shirt pocket.
A few weeks later, Walter was sitting in his usual spot. A handful of bushwhackers sat at one of the rear tables. It looked like they were celebrating someone’s birthday or anniversary. Across the small square a whole boatload of them descended upon St. John for a day’s adventure. The open truck taxis were filling up with beachgoers. Couples, and small groups, headed on foot for Cruz Bay’s fancy shops.
Walter was eating a Caesar salad topped with Billy’s indescribably delicious, spicy, blackened shrimp and sipping his usual when the sound of familiar footsteps broke the midday silence. They were headed his way.
“What’s up, Tucker?” he said without turning to look.
“It’s a pleasure to see you too, Walter,” she responded as she carefully adjusted herself to the high wooden seat next to him. She wriggled, ever so slightly, from side to side, as one often does to get comfortable after sitting down. Walter smiled in her direction.
“With this over, I thought you’d go back to hating me,” he said.
“You and Billy both, for damn good reason.”
“Well. That’s sort of what I meant.”
“Got a light?” she asked, hardly able to stifle a laugh. It was actually quite a lame attempt.
“You don’t smoke,” said Walter.
“I know, but it seemed like a good line. I guess I flubbed it.” Tucker Poesy was wearing the same tiny yellow bikini she wore on the beach in Puerto Rico. The low-cut, tattered and torn jean shorts barely hid the bottoms. He caught himself thinking, if her ass looked good-and it did-her legs looked great.
“Costs a pretty penny, I bet, to get a pair of jeans as ripped up as those.”
“You like them, huh?” She smiled at him, more seductively than he’d ever seen from her. He couldn’t help himself now. She excited him, and he couldn’t hide it, and it pleased her.
She glanced down, down at his pants. Did her eyes say things to him he wanted to hear? “I thought I’d take a Caribbean holiday. This is a nice little island here,” she said. “I think I might stick around awhile.”
“What do you want?” asked Walter.
“Woody Allen and Mariel Hemingway,” Helen spoke up from near the middle of the bar, as she moved bottles of vodka and tequila from one place to another behind her. “Unlikely and unsavory too.”
“I know that one,” Tucker Poesy volunteered. “Manhattan.”
“That’s right. Creepy, wasn’t it?” Helen asked.
“Didn’t see it,” Billy piped up. He had been down at the other end of the bar. But when he saw Tucker Poesy walk in, he edged his way toward Walter. Billy’s eyes met Tucker’s. It was still a source of embarrassment for him.
“Are you paying now?” he asked in a voice so low she could hardly hear him.
“Never,” she said with a warm grin. “Never.”
Billy turned and put his arm around Helen, kissed her very gently, smack on the lips, and offered his opinion. “Sonny and Cher.”
“You like Cher?” Helen asked, with a note of amazement. “I always knew you preferred your women meek and mild, slightly abused even,” she smiled coyly, “but I never figured you for gay.”
“No one knows better than you, huh?” laughed Billy.
“Well, actually,” said Tucker, “my favorite is really Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovett-there was a pair.”
“Unlikely, but not unsavory,” said Walter. “And Lyle Lovett’s kind of cute too, in his own way.” He looked quickly at Tucker Poesy. “I didn’t know girls like you had time for movies and music,” he said.
“All work and no play makes Tucker a dull girl, don’t you think?” she laughed.
“What about,” Walter began, “Michael Jackson and whatshername? Elvis’ daughter?”
“Priscilla?” said Billy.
“That’s his wife,” Helen interjected. “Walter means Lisa Marie.”
“Yeah, right,” Walter said. “What about them? Weird and weirder, no?”
“People who don’t fit,” said Helen.
“People who look like they don’t fit,” corrected Tucker. Helen actually winked at her after that.
“Well, that’s too many,” said Billy. You have to pick one, just one.” Billy looked at his friend with noticeable trepidation. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ike’s empty table. This was the first time they’d done this since the old man died. “Just one,” he repeated.