Last Hurrah for Daddy

By Natalie “Nats” Keith

I hear a ping and look down at my cell phone. It’s a message from Fritz, my boyfriend of five years, with a picture of a sleek-looking white dinner jacket with black lapels.

 

“One last hurrah for Daddy,” the message says. “It’s beautiful, boo,” I text back.
 

The past few weeks have been difficult. Fritz’s father and namesake, Fritz Anderson Sr., passed away in Jamaica on July 2 and Fritz has been on daily WhatsApp calls with his sister Odette planning his funeral. As COVID-19 was still interrupting life in Jamaica, Daddy’s funeral must be pushed out to Aug. 4.
 

Daddy – who was called Reds, Charlie, and Tailor by those who knew him – was a habitual sharp dresser and a tailor by trade, so Fritz wanted to send his father to the afterlife in style. Days before we boarded our flight to Montego Bay, he bought him an equally sleek-looking Geoffrey Beane watch to complete the outfit. Daddy had given Fritz a new watch every year for his birthday, so Fritz thought it a fitting tribute.
 

Although distressing, the news of his death was not surprising – the elder Fritz was struck by a car four years ago. In the early days, the family was optimistic about his recovery, but with each health setback, that hope faded. In June, after Daddy suffered a stroke, Fritz knew the end was near.
 

The conversations with his father in the years after the accident were mostly a one-sided affair:
 

“Wah gwan, Daddy. You watchin’ TV?”
 

“Get some rest.”
 

“I love you, Daddy.”
 

While Fritz and Odette were planning the funeral, I was busy securing bereavement leave from my employer. Since we’re not married, Daddy is not technically my relative, so our relationship required an explanation. My employer makes a distinction between a “domestic partner” and a “boyfriend” – which isn’t fully clear to me – but I was granted the time off nonetheless.
 

It’s not the first time that we’ve had to explain our unmarried status. We had decided long ago that marriage was off the table for us since he’s already been married twice and didn’t want a third trip down the aisle and I’ve never wanted to be married. In fact, just recently we had decided that, instead of getting married, we would sign “five-year contracts” for our relationship. In March, we had renewed our contract for another five years.
 

“Odette says it’s mandatory that you come to Jamaica,” Fritz tells me after a conversation with his sister.
 

Odette was one of the only family members I knew from Jamaica and I was a bit surprised at the demand.
 

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I say.
 

Fritz’s 15-year-old son, Ethan, was staying with us when we learned of Daddy’s passing. Just a week earlier, we had spent four days in Orlando, visiting the Islands of Adventure and Epcot amusement parks – a first for both father and son. Ethan is a shy, sweet kid – starkly different from his outgoing and sometimes boisterous father.
 

Prior to the trip, Ethan had spent his days (and nights) in the cocoon of our spare bedroom, playing video games into the wee hours of the morning with the door closed. Our mission that summer was to bring him out of his shell and the Orlando trip had helped.
 

“How old are you?” an inquiring young lady had asked Ethan while we were waiting in line to ride Hagrid’s Magical Creatures Motorbike Adventures. “You’re cute!”
 

The young lady, who was with a friend, turned to me. “Don’t mind us,” she said. “We’re just flirty.”
 

The summer had already been an odyssey for father and son – the younger as he learned to navigate the world outside his video games and the older as he learned to negotiate parenting a teenager who lived in Minnesota most of the year with his mother. We were sure Jamaica would be a continuation of that journey.
 

“Every kid has that one summer that’s a game changer. I think this summer will be Ethan’s,” I remark to Fritz and he agrees.
I wonder if the summer will change my relationship with Ethan. I’m lucky if I get him to speak more than a few words to me, although he isn’t much more talkative with his parents. I had seen many pictures of him as a young boy but didn’t meet him until he was 14. I wished I had known him when he was a bubbly elementary school student who dreamed of becoming an astronaut.
 

Whatever happened after it, I knew this trip wasn’t going to be the type of “ya’mon,” all-inclusive resort vacation most Americans associate with Jamaica. And would not bring the same breezy fun of the excursions to Dunns River Falls and the Chukka Canopy Zipline I had taken during Royal Caribbean cruise ship vacations. Rather, it was a trip to pay final respects to a man I had never met in a neighborhood far from the shores of tourism, and meet the family and friends of Mr. Fritz Anderson, Sr.
 

The final item I place inside our suitcase is the Geoffrey Beane watch – stuffed in the middle of all our clothes so it doesn’t get damaged during the flight. I want Daddy’s last hurrah to be perfect.
 

Welcome to Flankers
 

“Flanka, Flanka,” Fritz yells to the stream of taxis as they race and beep their way past us. Cars drive on the left-hand side of the road as they do on other Caribbean islands once colonized by England. I am bewildered by my surroundings. The streets of Montego Bay are a maze of windy, narrow, and often bumpy roads but that doesn’t seem to deter motorists who drive perilously fast and recklessly close to each other.
 

Our flight had been delayed three times on the one-hour, 15-minute flight from Miami International Airport to Sangster International Airport, turning what should have been a half-day excursion into a full-day affair. We hadn’t eaten prior to boarding in anticipation of the home-cooked Jamaican food we knew awaited us at the Anderson family home in the Montego Bay neighborhood of Flankers. By the time we landed the decision had been made – we would head straight to Flankers and check into the Airbnb – located within walking distance of the “Hip Strip” of tourist attractions – later that evening.
 

Flankers is an area known for crime, and officials – even Jamaican ones – warn tourists not to visit. “In St. James Parish, neighborhoods encompassed in the off-limits zone of Montego Bay include Flankers, Norwood, Glendevon, Paradise Heights, and parts of Mount Salem. The downtown ‘Hip Strip’ of bars, clubs, and vendors in Montego Bay is an area where tourists should remain aware of pickpockets and theft,” according to the Jamaica 2020 Crime & Safety Report issued by the Overseas Security Advisory Council in Washington, D.C.
 

A taxi stops and we climb into the vehicle, tossing our large suitcase in the rear. Ethan instinctively reaches for his seatbelt.
 

“You don’t need those here!” Fritz roars and I couldn’t help thinking about the irony of the
statement, knowing how the elder Fritz had succumbed to his fate.
 

“Second street, second house on the left,” Fritz says in Patois, the dialect of English spoken by locals, to the driver. It was all the description needed to find the house after pulling onto to the main road leading to Flankers, McKenzie Drive.
 

The neighborhood is a jumble of small and sometimes ramshackle homes, roaming dogs, and tiny shops. I notice the warning “no pissing on the wall” written in huge red scrawl on a concrete wall right before we turn onto Second Avenue. The first home on the right has two giant letter “A”s in front and I learn later that it is the home of the other Andersons on the block (no relation). We stop in front of the family home.
 

Fritz’s family has lived in Flankers since the 1960s when his grandmother built one of the first houses in the neighborhood. The one-story, three-bedroom concrete house, which the family paints a new color each year, has been passed down through generations: first to Fritz Sr. and now to his older sister, Sandra. In front of the house is a wall, painted the same yellowish orange color as the house, with protective features jutting from its top. In years past, the wall was low enough to sit on, but had been raised several feet in recent years for added safety. Still, it is low enough for passers-by to peer into the yard – which is a routine occurrence.
 

Odette and her 17-year-old son, Ayrton – who everybody calls “Papi” – live in the house along with Randy, a young man who had lost his way in the neighborhood but found a home at the Andersons serving as one of Daddy’s long-term care takers.
 

We unlatch the gate and enter the yard and are immediately greeted by a flurry of introductions and embraces. Everybody has been gleefully awaiting the return of “Junior” as Fritz is called by all in the neighborhood. My American family calls me “Nat,” but my Jamaican family calls me “Nats,” reflective of the Jamaican practice of shortening names and adding an “s.”
 

I am greeted by a string of people – Sandra, Auntie Eva, Ayrton, Randy, family friend Lorraine, and others. There are too many faces and names for me to remember. And then finally, I see a familiar face – Odette.
 

“Here’s my favorite,” Odette says in her warm embrace.
 

Fritz’s life had stabilized a great deal in the years I had known him. His worrisome calls to Odette, a routine occurrence in past years, were all but a thing of the past. Odette gave me much of the credit for his progress, although I didn’t deserve it. Fritz had worked hard on his personal growth over the years and the credit belonged solely to him.
 

We sit in the side yard, which had long since been paved over with concrete and Fritz laments out loud about the absence of the trees that once shaded the yard – bread fruit, coconut, cherry, and the beloved ackee tree he used to climb to watch the planes land at Sangster.

 

“You could come into the yard and eat breakfast,” he explains.
 

Trees provide an essential element of coping with life in Jamaica – shade. Air conditioning is a luxury in many parts of the country, including Flankers, and 90-degree temperatures are routine. The setting sun and the breeze from the mountains in the distance provide some relief, but a dense thicket of trees is the best defence against the sweltering climate.
 

“The trees were like having a/c in the yard,” Fritz said.
I also learn the importance of having a veranda, which is a roofed, open-air gallery located in the front of a house. The veranda at the Anderson home has two couches for seating, a ceiling fan to provide much-needed air circulation, and netting that serves as a “door” to keeps mosquitoes out.
 

I am surprised to learn that, while a/c is luxury, logging onto to a secure WiFi network is not. So, we gratefully attend to this First World order of business, logging onto the network “TRUEZONE” and keying in the password as it is spelled out by Randy.
 

The much-anticipated plates of food arrive, served to us on paper plates where we sit in the
concrete yard. Fritz had requested stewed peas the night before, a wish that was honored, as was Ethan’s request for ackee and saltfish, the Jamaican national dish.
 

“Stewed peas are the only dish we make where there’s no leftovers,” Fritz tells me.
 

At the risk of seeming greedy, I ask to try some of both. The steamed peas (which Americans would call beans) are served with white rice and beef and we quickly devour our plates. I had grown accustomed to Fritz’s Jamaican cooking, and we often ordered takeout from The Dutch Pot Jamaican restaurant at home. But nothing compares to the taste of this authentic family cooking.
 

As we sit and eat, the Patois flows and soon I am engulfed in the seas of voices of a language I only slightly comprehend. Jamaican Patois is an English-based creole language with West African influences, spoken by most Jamaicans as a native language. I had heard Fritz speak it many times and, over the years, had grown to understand much of what he was saying. But new voices brought new challenges and cross talk made comprehension a near impossibility. I looked at Ethan’s overwhelmed face.
 

“Do you understand Patois,” Sandra asks Ethan.
 

“No,” says Ethan with a nervous giggle.
 

“Do you?” she asks me.
 

“I understand some, but not all,” I admit.
 

“The more you listen, the more you understand,” I say to Ethan, trying to offer some support.
 

Odette addresses the elephant in the room.
 

“Junior told you this is a bad area,” she laments. “It’s a good area for parties, for drugs, for guns…”
 

Her voice trails off and I can only speculate about the challenges she must face as a parent. Papi had just finished taking the exams Jamaican school children take when they finish high school and plans for his future were in the works.
 

The neighborhood hadn’t always been so dangerous. The childhood Fritz – and others – recall in the evening hours are filled with memories of the families on the block – the Andersons, the other Andersons across the street, and the Edwards, to name a few. The kids played tennis and soccer in the streets – and then there were the water wars, a particularly fond memory for all.
 

As the older generation swaps stories of the changing neighborhood, I am reminded of the hot summer nights of my youth, sitting on the front porch of my grandparents’ home on Linden Avenue in Somerville, Massachusetts, a city located just outside Boston city limits. All the families would gather outside on their porches – too hot to remain inside – and visit with the neighbors, sharing the stories of the day. The kids would play stickball in the street until the inevitable vehicle was within sight. “Car” they’d all scream and scatter to the sidewalks.
 

It was the sense of community that I remember most, but also the relative innocence and safety of those days. As it had in Flankers, that way of life had long since been lost in Somerville, the victim of gentrification, technology, and the many other factors contributing to modern-day life.
 

As the older generation talks, the younger generation stares at their cell phones, Papi sitting just a few feet from Ethan. They share a few spoken words, maybe a nod or slight smile, and then their heads drop back down to the comforting screens of their phones.
 

Meanwhile, I am dealing with my own shades of awkwardness as the sole white person in the crowd. Ethan is half white, but his skin is dark enough, and his kinky hair makes him resemble the others. I’m not just white, I’m SPF 50+ fair-skinned white, with long blonde hair and blue eyes. I don’t blend in.
 

But I know it is “my turn.” Fritz had accompanied me to my family reunion in 2017 in Acton, Massachusetts where he was the sole black person in a crowd of about 40 family members, meeting all of them in one fell swoop. He handled the situation with humor and grace, and I could only offer the same.
 

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Papi starting at me – again. I wonder if it’s because I’m white or I’m his uncle’s girlfriend. Whatever the reason, I decide that it’s just a matter of curiosity and let it pass.
 

It happens to be Emancipation Day, a Jamaican national holiday. Considering the holiday and the ongoing COVID-19 restrictions, the Jamaican government has set a 3 p.m. curfew, which has long since passed. So we say our goodbyes and head for the Airbnb. Tomorrow is Daddy’s viewing and a long day looms ahead.
 

Nine Nights
 

Nine nights is the Caribbean tradition of holding an extended wake – for nine nights – following a person’s death. Friends and family gather at the home of the deceased and share condolences and memories while playing music, sometimes singing hymns, and consuming large amounts of food and drink.
 

According to Jamaican legend, the voyage from this world to the next isn’t complete until nine nights after death, which is reason for a celebration. The night before the funeral and burial is when the largest gathering takes place – an event that is a great celebration of the deceased person’s life.
 

Since COVID-19 is still very much a concern in Jamaica, Daddy’s funeral had to be delayed for about a month after his passing and the celebration shortened. So, the nine nights were cut to two. When we arrive to Flankers on Tuesday, we are met with a flurry of activity in preparation for the big celebration that day. Music is already blaring from the house next door – located so close to the Anderson home that their separation is more of a formality. Cruze, who Fritz has known since childhood, is playing American pop music from the 1980s and Fritz is instantly reminded of Cruze’s father who had occupied the home years ago.
 

“Hey, Cruze, play some of Papa Zeke’s music!” he yells across the yard.
 

We opt to sit in the rear of the yard because that’s where the shade happens to be in the mid-morning hours of our arrival. There, huge pots are being rinsed in preparation for the cooking that will take place in the rear of the yard, the side yard, and the kitchen. Cooking is a non-stop activity at the Anderson home, duties that are shared by Sandra, Randy, and others. Feeding the neighborhood is a routine occurrence – and not just in the extraordinary event of a funeral.
 

Auntie Eva’s son Pylo, who has served as the family DJ for decades, is setting up a sound system in the side yard. Once a complex chore of lining up LPs or DVDs, it is now simplified by a laptop – which Fritz immediately recognizes as the one he sent to Jamaica nearly a decade ago. Soon, Pylo’s system is good to go – and the music blares in competition with next door.
 

I try desperately to follow the conversation around me, but between my rudimentary understanding of Patois and the cacophony of competing music systems, I am failing miserably.
 

“Somebody’s going to have to turn off their music,” Fritz says to me. “Yeah, right, like that’s going to happen!”
 

The steady stream of visitors continues to arrive, peering over the wall, unlocking the gate, and entering the home unannounced – each with a warm hug for Junior. Fritz is everybody’s favorite son, the local kid who rose from Flankers to attend the University of Technology of Jamaica in Kingston, and then became the Sales and Marketing Director of Coral Cliffs Hotel and Casino and then Margaritaville on the Hip Strip.
 

It is very much an open-door policy at the Anderson home and it is clear that Sandra is the leader, not just of the Anderson home but of the neighborhood. She serves as a “block captain” of sorts and is a caretaker for all. Each visitor is greeted by a plate of food, a beer – Red Stripe, Heineken, or Guinness – or a Malta, a non-alcoholic malt beverage. The morning’s breakfast is a vegetarian feast of plantains, sweet potatoes, yams, rice, and tofu-like food that looks and even tastes like beef, all seasoned to perfection. It is delicious.
 

“This is breakfast, lunch, and half of dinner for me,” I remark.
 

The scene is a vibrant, if not crazed, contrast to the subdued tones of condolence rituals at home – the quiet “ding, dong” of arriving guests with their offerings of covered dishes – baked lasagne, green bean casserole, chocolate chip cookies. They offer a quiet word of remembrance, and after a short visit, they leave.
 

Fritz informs me that parties – whether in mourning or otherwise – are an almost everyday
occurrence in Flankers.
 

“It’s always like this here,” Fritz tells me, shaking his head.
 

“Always?” I ask in amazement.
 

“Always.”
 

Another face peers over the wall. This time it’s Junior – the other Junior in the neighborhood – asking for money. His story is a sad, but not uncommon one in the neighborhood – a bad twist of fate leads to substance abuse, which leads to despair.

 

“We just gave him money yesterday,” says Sandra with a sigh.
 

Fritz reaches into his pocket for some loose Jamaica dollars, but none are small enough to relinquish.
 

“You’ll have to come back tomorrow,” Fritz tells Junior. “I’ll have some change then.”
 

Ethan sits quietly in the side yard, his phone – for the time being – tucked in his pocket. A youthful face pops out from the door to the kitchen and looks in his direction.
 

“You play Mortal Kombat?” a voice says in thick Patois.
 

“Huh?” Ethan responds, a quizzical look on his face.
 

Papi and Randy, who are sitting nearby, burst into laughter.
 

“He doesn’t understand you!” they roar.
 

But the young man, another cousin who also happens to be named Ethan, is undaunted. He asks again, and this time, Papi and Randy translate. “He wants to know if you play Mortal Kombat!”
 

“Yes,” says the American Ethan, the slightest hint of interest in his voice.
 

The Jamaican Ethan scrambles off to retrieve a gaming console and soon the two are playing non-stop. In the absence of translators and the need to communicate to keep the games going, the American Ethan is forced to understand the Jamaican Ethan, who good-naturedly admits to being trounced by his cousin.
 

“He’s won 18 games in a row,” he says with a laugh.
 

Odette hands us a pin bearing the image of her father with the inscription “Forever in our Hearts Fitz Anderson, 1944-2021.” I can’t help noticing that his first name is misspelled, but I keep the observation to myself. We place the pin on our tee shirts, learning later that his name was misspelled on his birth certificate, as was his date of birth, Dec. 26 instead of Dec. 28. The incorrect information is carried over into the funeral service program.
 

“Daddy didn’t mind,” Odette explains.
Soon, it is mid-afternoon and time to head to Delapenha’s Funeral Home to view Daddy; I
accompany Fritz and Sandra on the trip to downtown Montego Bay. The taxi ride is like all the others – a brisk expedition through the jumble of narrow streets navigating potholes and dodging other vehicles. We emerge from the taxi and must complete the remainder of the voyage on foot – a dizzying journey past a rush of food vendors on the maze of streets leading to the funeral home. Fritz recognizes that I am dazed by the surroundings and grabs my arm to guide me as I walk. I follow his lead, crossing streets when I’m prompted and stopping at streetlights when needed. I am grateful that I don’t need to make these decisions on my own.
 

The door to the funeral home opens and there is Daddy, lying in a white casket wearing his white suit jacket with black lapels. A flood of emotions overcomes me even though I’ve never met Daddy – it’s one of the perils of being an empath. Fritz and Sandra are hunched over him, their emotions seemingly more restrained than mine. I step back, struggling to hold back my tears.
 

“He looks so fat,” Sandra says in anguish to the funeral home attendant, “and there’s too much makeup.”

 

The funeral home attendant explains the challenges of embalming a body after somebody has suffered a stroke. She wipes some of the makeup off his face.
 

“I just want him to look like somebody we know,” Sandra pleads.
 

Though he doesn’t show it, I know Fritz is experiencing a flood of his own emotions. In the weeks prior, I had gotten glimpses of his grief in off-the-cuff remarks like, “so this is what it feels like to lose somebody close to you” and “when will I feel better?” I tried to comfort him as best as I could. “You have to let grief run its course,” I said. “It gets easier with time.”
 

Fritz peers into the casket and strokes his father’s hair – one last touch for the man whose name he shared. “Oh, Daddy, Daddy,” he coos.
 

He pulls the Geoffrey Beene watch from his pocket and places it on Daddy’s wrist.
 

“He looks good,” I offer.
When we return to the Anderson home, Ethan is safely tucked under the watchful wings of his
cousins. The cousins joke, and Ethan laughs along with him. Fritz and I marvel at this site,
remembering the aloof teenager we had experienced earlier in the summer. The party shows no signs of stopping, but I am spent.
 

“Poor Nats,” said an empathetic Odette.
 

“I’m sorry, boo, but I’m exhausted,” I tell Fritz.
 

While Fritz and Ethan carry on, I am driven back to the Airbnb where air conditioning and blissful silence await. I watch half of the movie “Superbad” trying to jolt myself back to normalcy in the wake of today’s events. Sleep comes quickly that night.
 

Saying Goodbye to Daddy
 

Fritz and I arrive to Flankers at 7 a.m. Wednesday and I am grateful for the relative quiet – there is no loud music, just the sound of the television airing an 800-meter race of the Olympics.
 

“The lactic acid is pouring through their bodies!” the British announcer says as the runners are nearing the finish line.
 

Ethan had spent the night in Flankers with his cousins, so we bring his suit for the funeral – black jacket, black slacks, black shirt, black shoes, red vest, and pink tie. The clothing and shoes all belongs to Fritz, but they fit Ethan perfectly. The lining of his jacket is a bit loose – and could have used the tailoring skills of his grandfather – but it would have to do. Fritz wears a tan jacket, tan slacks, white shirt, grey vest, and gold tie. Both are a fitting tribute to the natty dresser all remember Daddy to have been.
 

The hearse is due to arrive at 8 a.m. and the bus that will take family and friends to the gravesite at 9 a.m. Normally, the funeral service would have been held at Flankers Seventh-day Adventist Church on Churchill Street just a short walk from the Anderson home, but the rules surrounding COVID-19 dictate that it must be held outdoors.
 

As we wait for the hearse, the unthinkable happens – loud music starts blaring from the house next door. It is another day in Flankers, and another party is set in motion.
 

“It’s 7:30 a.m.!” I say in amazement.

 

“How do you live this way?” Fritz says shaking his head.
 

“I suppose you get used to it?” I answer.
 

A short while passes and, again, more music fills the air. This time, however, it’s gospel music blaring from the arriving hearse.
 

“That’s the hearse!” Fritz chuckles.
 

“Of course it is!” I say in amusement.
 

People from the neighborhood stream out of their homes and spill onto the streets. Cell phones emerge from pockets, and video streaming and picture-taking ensue. Some pose in front of the casket, others next to the hearse. I join the activity in the streets, caught up in the pageantry of the moment.
 

“Watch out!” somebody yells as a car rushes dangerously close past me and, again, it’s not hard for me to understand how Daddy succumbed to his fate.
 

I go inside the house for a moment to take a break from the chaos in the streets. By the time I return, the police are on the scene. Three police cars surround the hearse, and four officers stand in the streets – AK-47 automatic rifles strapped across their shoulders. I stare dumbfounded at the spectacle and ask Fritz whether Jamaican police officers commonly carried automatic weapons.
 

“They have to, it’s what everybody has,” he tells me.
 

It’s unclear to me why the police have arrived since loud music is the norm in the neighborhood. I wonder whether somebody had called them, but it seems unlikely since nobody seems fazed by their arrival. But, just like that, with no explanation and little fanfare, the police leave just as quickly as they arrive.
 

A short while later, the bus arrives that will transport family and friends to the funeral service and interment at Hillview Memorial Gardens in Moore Park, St. James. It’s about a 45-minute drive through the countryside to the graveyard and, to my amazement, I am starting to get used to the country’s windy roads.
 

We make our way to the top of a hill where a tent has been erected for Daddy’s funeral. I enjoy the panoramic views of the Jamaican countryside in the background of the casket and think about how pleasant the location is. People are slowly making their way to his casket, although many have opted to remain the shade of trees nearby. Family members from the neighborhood of Clarendon have joined those from Flankers.
 

“It won’t be long now, Daddy,” Fritz says.
 

The ceremony begins, and one by one, family members share stories about Daddy – the tailor, the sharp dresser, the man who beat everybody at dominoes. I instantly wish that I had had the opportunity to meet him. Ethan and Papi read from 1 Corinthians 15:5-57, and then it was Fritz’s time to deliver the eulogy.
 

“We are here in the celebration, in the thanksgiving, of my father, our father, Mr. Fritz Albert Anderson,” he says.
 

“Clarendon, are you here?”
 

“Flanka, are you here?

 

“Clarendon and Flanka, let us once more raise our voices and give Mr. Reds Anderson, Charlie, Tailor, one big goodbye.”
 

“Bye!” the crowd yells.
 

“A little bit better than that. Hip hip!” Fritz says.
 

“Hooray!” the crowd responds.
 

“Hip hip!”
 

“Hooray!”
 

“Daddy, we were raised that it is dead real, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead real, that after we die, we will at least come back for Judgement Day and, as such, we live our lives accordingly with anticipation to gain eternal life.”
 

“Daddy, as I affectionately called him – still call him that – was a man of men among men, a small axe for big trees. A most wonderful man, and a God-fearing man, a God-loving man. And that is how we were raised.”
 

A smile came over my face as I breathed in the moment, relishing the celebration of life – one last hurrah for Daddy.
 

Fritz went on to share a few of his fondest memories of Daddy.
 

“We had schools in Flanka, but I always went to school Downtown, and Daddy had a shop
Downtown,” he says. “Every single day, EVERY SINGLE DAY, he would leave work and walk to my school to bring me lunch. The lunch they sell at school no good. I would eat juicy beef, all the food from Downtown. Him bring lunch for the teacher dem, too.”
 

Fritz then shares the story of the watch.
 

“Every single birthday, EVERY SINGLE BIRTHDAY, Daddy bring me a brand-new watch,” he says.
 

By the time we return to Flankers, the music next door had evolved into a raucous pool party, with an inflatable pool in the front of the house and a hose to squirt girls as they dance in the streets.
 

Ethan is sitting on a concrete wall with his cousins, girls whispering in his ear as he smiles in delight.
 

Fritz and I decide to join the young party crowd and dance for a moment in the street to squeals of laughter from the cousins and embarrassment to Ethan.
 

“I want to show him how it’s done!” Fritz jokes.
 

Stacks of cardboard boxes with the day’s meal of chicken and rice are stacked in the kitchen and a cooler filled with beer and Malta sits in the side yard. Visitors come and go during the waning hours of the afternoon and soon there is no more food to share.
 

“Food finish, liquor finish, party finish,” says Odette as Fritz nods his head.
 

One Last Trip to Flankers
 

Thursday marks a day of rest for all, but on Friday, we head to Flankers one last time to visit with family and pick up Ethan who, by this time, doesn’t ever want to leave Jamaica. He asks his mother for a specific date for his return.
 

“He wants his plane ticket bought!” Fritz tells me.

 

We arrive to the Anderson home and, fortunately, there is no loud music – just a raucous game of Ludi. Popular in the Caribbean, it is a table game adapted from India and introduced in England in 1896. The objective of the game is to be the first player to move all their markers from the starting base to the home base. Players move their markers strategically in a clockwise direction according to the count of the dice, knocking their opponents’ markers off the board along the way.
 

The homemade board is perched on the knees of the four players, who use bottle caps and coins as their markers. The players roll the dice with vigor, so much so that at times they skip outside the boundaries of the board and onto the floor. Ethan, who has learned the game quickly by observing others, is off to a slow start.
 

“You have to roll the dice like you mean it!” counsels Randy.
 

Ethan obliges, slamming the dice onto the board. With each turn, the noise level increases as the players’ strategy unfolds. I am watching the action intently, hoping to learn how to play as quickly as Ethan had. I am reminded of the raucous games of Left-Right-Center, a fast-paced dice game that my large and often loud Italian family likes to play on Christmas Day gatherings. I am finally relaxed and even enjoying myself.
 

Fritz takes the lead and becomes a target for the other players. He welcomes the challenge.
 

“Everybody target Junior, but Junior going to win,” he announces, slamming the dice onto the board.
 

Meanwhile, Fritz and Odette engage in some friendly sibling rivalry. After Odette miscounts, Fritz corrects her – slamming her markers as he moves them across the board.
 

“Learn fe count,” he lectures.
 

I chuckle – and Ethan does, too. Even Odette looks at me with a smile.
 

We enjoy one last Jamaican meal, I drink a few Red Stripes, and it’s time to say goodbye.
 

“Thank you for everything,” I tell Sandra with a hug.
 

“Are you going to come back?” she asks.
 

“Definitely,” I say.
 

And I mean it.
 

Leaving Jamaica
 

We arrive early for our flight out of Sangster and the check-in process runs smoothly, leaving us with time to kill at the airport. The flight is delayed for about 30 minutes.
 

“It should be longer so I can go back to Flanka,” says a wistful Ethan.
 

“It’s official,” says Fritz. “He never wants to leave.”
 

We walk outside the airport and buy some Jamaican beef patties for breakfast at a nearby stand. While I’m looking around for a place to sit, I hear a young voice.
 

“You can sit here,” says a girl sitting at a table nearby.
 

“That would be great, if you don’t mind,” I say, taking a seat.

 

She has a yellow water bottle with “Jamaica” printed on the side and a plastic container filled with snacks. She is holding a small electronic device.
 

“Can you guess where I’m from?” she asks me.
 

She speaks without a hint of Patois, so I assume she is from the United States.
 

“New York?” I guess.
 

She forms her two index fingers into the shape of an X to let me know that my guess is wrong. I guess again.
 

“Chicago?” “Boston?” “Philadelphia?”
 

With each subsequent guess, I get more Xs.
 

“I give up,” I say.
 

She raises her right arm over her head and waves it in a circle.
 

“Jamaica!” I finally answer correctly.
 

Next, are the invitations to guess her age, grade, and name. I learn that she is 7 years old and will enter the third grade in September. Her name is Gabriella Gaby Abby and she is waiting for her mother, who is standing nearby underneath the Avis rental car company sign, to finish work.
 

“I’m bored,” she tells me – more than once.
 

Ethan is sitting close by, observing my interactions with the young, bored girl.
 

“Did you braid his hair?” she asks.
 

“No, I’m not that talented,” I answer. “It looks good, though, right?”
 

“Does he have any friends?” she asks.
 

“Nope, none,” I joke.
 

Ethan cracks a smile and plays along. I am grateful for this small gesture on his part and wonder what has sparked his openness. But I imagine that these may have been the types of conversations we may have had when he was an inquisitive 7-year-old.
 

“Nope, zero,” he says.
 

“You’re his only friend,” I say.
 

Gabriella seems pleased.
 

“Do you want to practice screaming without noise coming out of our mouths?” I ask.
I raise my clenched fists and open my mouth wide, shaking my head as I pretend to shout. Gabriella loves the game and does the same.
 

“No, louder!” I say and we repeat our noiseless “screams.”
 

Gabriella pulls a bead from her jeans and hands it to me as a token to remember her. She hands another to Ethan. I place it dutifully in my bag and Ethan does, too. Soon, it is time for us to head to our flight and Gabriella to head to the restroom.

 

“Well, Gabriella Gaby Abby, I will never, ever, forget you,” I say.
 

The flight is short and uneventful, as is the Lyft ride home. As I unpack and get back to everyday life, my surroundings seem familiar and yet somehow different from just a few days earlier. Memories of Jamaica – and all the events of the week – fill my head.
 

As we settle into bed that night, Fritz holds me tight.
 

“Are you glad you reupped our five-year contract?” he asks.
 

“Absolutely,” I say.And I mean it.