The New Life
The Skies Are Lighted With Lamps
DAVID ALEXIAN
Copyright © 2015 David Alexian
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION:
This book is dedicated to my darling wife for her patience and to Gordon E. G. Alexander; man who provided much, when there was little.
DISCLAIMER:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded or otherwise, without express written permission of the author or publisher. Every effort has been made to make this book as accurate as possible. However, there may be typographical errors.
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Shelly Narine, stepped across the kitchen floor. The floor boards hissed. The rubber slippers she wore dragged against it, every time her heels rose. She looked at her husband and four children. Screaming in her mind was how quiet everyone was. She could not remember the last time the girls were around each other without some bickering taking place. Especially during dinnertime, Shelly felt this was always the worst time when they were together. Voices clamored for various parts of the meal; the chicken or end sides of the bread.
It was a bit early in the evening. Much earlier than the family will usually have their evening meal. The dazzling light from the setting sun had just vanished behind the hill. There was a gleam of orange that reminded in the sky. Maybe for about ten or fifteen minutes this spectacle lingered. As the night fully took control of the skies it signaled a time for Kiskadee to recharge. There were no stars to see tonight, the skies seemed lonely; even the orange streak was gone.
Weddings are golden moments. They bring joy, an uneasy anticipation by all involved. On the other hand, funerals are the total opposite. Screeching groans; moans from a beaten weary crowd. Seeking answers and bellowing the lost of a friend. Tonight it was a cross between the two; a wedding and a funeral. It was the return of Shelly’s husband Deo Narine, to not only his family but to the village.
The family had not seen him for twelve and a half years, during the time of his incarceration. All this time he spent on the islet of Centenery, about three hours from the main land. From his family, he lived isolated. Shelly had little means and could not travel freely to see him. Also, the last place that anyone could end up was on Centenery. The local fishermen preferred to venture out into the protected waters of the neighboring countries, than to veer in that direction. But there a father and husband was. Centenery was considered a curse. And even Deo, as much as at times he longed for his family, this was not a place to come near.
So with the exception of the occasional letters Shelly wrote him, and post cards the children made by hand to send him; this was the only contact he had with them.
And now, he sat at the table, a stranger in their lives.
Of their four children, Sarah was just a few months old when he left. Too young to understand what had happened. But her bulging mocha coloured eyes, glazed over, like dew falling from dead mango leaves, the night police came and took him away. It was a showery Friday evening. Shelly remembered as though it was just a few hours ago. Jasmine, the oldest, was a few months over five, she remembered, but had since blocked out the visions of her father being dragged away. That night, about three, or possibly four corvettes came racing to the house. No sooner had you heard the sirens coming from around the bend by the cemetery, they were there.
Deo was not going to run, he was waiting, but something else was on his mind. He was playing over the moments leading up to the incident. But after the scream, the explosion and the smell of sulfur burning, everything else was a blur. One fire fly zipped continuously in front of him, as he sat on the front step of the house. The little insect was spelling something before his eyes. It looked like a name. But to a man with little time counting against his freedom, he could not make sense of it. As quickly as Deo entered one of the cars, the door closed and away he went. He did not look back to see his family, his neck was arched as he peered through the windscreen.
With the cars out of sight and her husband gone, Shelly just stood there, her eyes became a torrent. Encircled by her children and a spot on the stairs were her husband had just occupied, the smell of freshly mowed grass mixed with manure filled the air. A reminder courtesy the car wheels which had just pull out from the front yard.
The evening was serene. Deo now said just about three words to his wife, since walking through the door. The children were quiet too, as if trying to make adjustments in their thinking. Questions no doubt needed to be answered. But who was going to start? Was this even the right time for questions? At least one thing was certain, there was a man named Deo Narine in the house that night. Tomorrow, the village will have the chance to meet him. For men like Deo, probably word was already being spread in the village.
About one hour had passed so far. The time though seemed longer. In a cage, time goes slowly. He became used to this. But just sitting there in the kitchen, Deo began to feel time itself had stopped. Although he was in his house, he felt as though he was invisible to the home. The white and gray striped shirt and khaki three quarter pants was all he came home with. This suit was one of the best he had acquired, keeping clean and worn only on special occasions. Out here, it is just cloths. Cloths if sold could purchase maybe a cigarette or a drink of rum and nothing else. On the islet, men could lose their life for accidentally staining possessions like these.
As Deo sat in the kitchen, his mind tried to make sense of what his sight beheld. The table in front of him seemed different to when he sat there the last time. It appeared bigger. Probably because of the size, when compared to the one he had in his prison cell. Either way, it felt strange. The six chairs around the table were worn and unsteady; their previous light brown colour had now taken on a dark grayish shade, lightened by the constant scrubbing and polishing. From where he sat, he saw the kitchen sink propped up with two pieces of wood. Wood Shelly must have fastened to keep the tattered stand from crumbling to the floor. The kerosene stove was blackened and choked by the soot. A shade highlighted on the few cooking pots, hanging from four inch nails, driven into the wooden wall.
He cocked his head to the side, surveying the room. Placing his elbows on the table, he exhaled.
He had always longed for his freedom to be with his family, but now, he felt as though the distance they had was what his family needed. His thoughts raced. Much the same as the night he was taken away. He wanted to get away from them. Thinking, maybe it was a wrong idea to be let go from a secured place. A place he had control over. Perhaps the judge was wrong and that he was not a rehabilitated man. At that moment, he wanted to return to Centenery. To the place where he hid behind stone walls and prayer someone his life will end. But even behind bars, new travelled fast. And without saying a word, it was understood that Deo Narine was to be touched by no one.
Now, the house was a wooden ‘L’ shaped structure with three rooms; two ten by twelve bedrooms and a ten by ten kitchen area. The average size of most houses in the area. The toilet and room for bathing was outside. This too was the same for a number of other people in the neighborhood. The community was simply designed, and the people h
ad a view of not having too much bothered them.