No Coincidence

My father hates policemen. Always has. Always will. In 1958 there were constables installed on President Wiseman Avenue in Port of Spain, Trinidad- donned in crisp khaki shirts and black shorts that stopped just below the knee. At 10:15 p.m. a solitary telephone rings at 45 Duke Street. Stella does not have long, it seems. An aneurysm they say. To my 13 year old father it is no different from a heart attack or hearing that she has been hit by the Number 2 bus. He is alone in the house. Dashing about, he grabs his paperboy hat and a poem he wrote for her earlier at school. Hopping on his bicycle, he races down to the hospital to kiss the grandmother I will never meet.

Curfew has been instated to curb recent gang activity. Since then- bottles no longer rain from the roofs of local Rum Shops along Wiseman and Maraval Avenue. He is nearly out of breath and approaching Pitch Lake when Constable John stops him in his tracks. "Ay boy, whuh yuh doin' out pas' curfew on a Wednesday?" It is not so much a question as it is an accusation. My father gives pause to slow his heartbeat. He has already ridden three miles nonstop. "Is meh muddah, Sir. They tell meh she catch a stroke an' cyah move. But..." More gulps for air. "She wake up askin' for meh, Sir." He eyes my father dubiously. "Name, Boy?" My father has no time but obliges. "Neverow, Sir. Kenneth Neverow." Before I am a twinkle in his eye, the distrust for uniformed officers is already forming in my DNA. Constable John glowers at him. "Please Sir. They say she don't have long. An' she askin' for me at the hospital." The air is still- save for distant tires rolling on pavement two blocks over. "You ain't goin' to no friggin' hospital dis time of night! The closest one is a next five miles into town. Who you wit', Boy?! Silk Hats? Desperados? Nah- yuh look like one of dem Renegade boys." A droplet of sweat trails down my father's arm- shocking him into perfect posture. His despair is taking root. "No gang, Sir. I promise you. My mother is sick. That is the only reason I am out past curfew. Perhaps you may accompany me, Sir. Then you'll see." His invitation to the truth only agitates the constable. For a moment his scowl softens to a smile...but it is a mockery. "An' yuh speak the Queen's English when yuh ready, eh? Impressive."

"Alright Renegade. I believe you. Yuh have to go and catch yuh dyin' mother. If you willing to ride, you must be willing to run." In a swift motion he knocks my father off the seat of his bike. His knee opens up from breaking the fall. White flesh first, then tiny beads of red. Twenty-nine years later I will nurse a similar but very different wound while learning to ride my first two-wheeler. I will howl through tears- but he feels no pain upon impact. With one arm the officer lifts the bike and hurls it into the lake on the outskirts of Savannah Park. It sinks quickly. Only soft ripples give any indication of the malice that put it there, taking most of my young father's faith in mankind with it. "I thought you was in a rush, Boy? Run! You can run the rest of the way." With no hesitation my father takes his dismissal and bolts, blood now coloring his left ankle sock. He runs into darkness lit occasionally by garish orange street lights that still blink on at dusk in Trinidad. Heaving, he swings blindly into St. Mary's Hospital- mangled knee and all. A stabbing pain in his side from not stopping. He will not feel the sting on both palms where gravel was embedded until he looks down at his hands two hours later.

Stella Neverow expired at 12:12 a.m. With her she took line-dried Indian Cotton tablecloths, an all-knowing smile and meat pies at Christmastime. No goodbyes were exchanged between mother and son. There is no exact science. It may be Osmosis; or through some loyalty with no name that I inherited this strange conjecture, this deep-seated resentment where lawmen are concerned. Years later he coolly tells me why he believes in miracles. "...because I'll walk on water before I walk on eggshells for some arrogant cop son-of-a-bitch." My father hates policemen. Always has. Always will.