As he reexamined himself he thought of Ian, and then Sylvia. And he began to feel, more than comprehend intellectually, her insecurities and fears. Sylvia was not the one who was out of step. It was him, for he was a privileged romantic in a competitive world barely open to black artists. He wanted to see her now, to apologize for his arrogance, for disappearing without saying goodbye. To hold her face and say, Sweet girl, I am sorry.

Should I call her? he began to think. Or should I write? As he considered his options, the phone rang. It was his father.

“Hello, Dada. How are you?”

“Have you seen the Gleaner?”

“Yes.”

“Well, how do you expect me to feel? You and Ian are on the front page looking like two criminals.”

“I don’t want to argue right now, Dada,” Fire said. At times like these, he thought, I wish that I could just hang up or tell him to leave me alone. But for all his flaws the man was an elder, and elders must be respected.

“I have to go,” he said as his father paused to take a breath.

“I’m not finished.”

“I don’t know what else to say.”

“Well, we can finish tomorrow. The Major and I are going up to Newcastle, so we’ll come for tea in the afternoon. And tell Ian I have some words for him—acting like a damn ruffian like that.”

“It shocked me when he struck him too,” Fire said in a low voice, looking over his shoulder for Ian and feeling like a traitor.

“Not me,” Mr. Heath said. “He’s always been like that. I thought he would grow out of it eventually. But breeding is something that you just can’t buy, Fire. Look how I try with that boy. I took time away from you so I could help to raise him and look what happened. Left on his own he fell almost right back where he came from. And on top of everything he hasn’t called or come to see me since he’s been here. Take it from me, ingratitude is worse than witchcraft, and that boy is ungrateful. He’ll take, take, take, but he will never give. Anyway, tell him not to worry. The Major says he’ll call the commissioner and get the charges dropped.”

“I see,” Fire said distantly.

“So we’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Yow, pack,” Fire shouted to Ian as soon as he hung up. “We’re going to the Lighthouse first thing in the morning.”

Later that evening, as the sun withdrew so the moon could shine, Fire sat at the kitchen table and wrote a letter to Sylvia.

There are two ways to get to Port Antonio from Kingston. There is the Junction Road, a looping ribbon of asphalt that gift wraps rugged hills, and then there is the East Road, the longer route, which shadows the coast through the parish of St. Thomas like a ruffled hem on a dress. The Junction Road is shorter and more scenic, but also more dangerous. It flirts with the lips of hungry gorges and dashes toward blind curves.