The gun was still in Ian’s mouth, and his hand still held it in place, as though it wanted to be ready in case his brain, which was splattered against the bed frame and the wall, decided to reconstitute itself. Taped to his chest was a piece of paper. Phil peeled it off carefully, recoiling when his hand brushed the warm skin. He began to wonder now: How long had Ian been dead? The gun had a silencer, he noticed. Fuck, it could’ve happened while he was outside with Doug. The note said:

Bury me in Jamaica. Play lots of music. Tell lots of lies about me. Say I was a good man.

book four

chapter sixteen

On the day of Ian’s funeral Fire woke up from a hard-earned sleep with death trapped in his pores. Yawning and stretching, he wiped the sleep from his eyes, and tied a noose with a lock of hair and dangled it over his thumb. He lay there on his back awhile, in a lime green poplin shirt, breathing nonchalantly as if survival were not instinctive but a curious afterthought. Digging in with his elbows, he raised himself to the edge of the bed and gazed through the open door. A bright, red dawn was bleeding through the mist. The mist was gray … not white this morning. Gray, he thought, like the sea must have been on the trip that brought the Africans here. Red, he thought, like it must have been when the bravest chose the mouths of sharks. Death before dishonor.

He leaned toward the nightstand and spilled a cup of water as he tried to tune the radio. White noise surged and popped and snapped. Down toward the hundreds he tripped over a rising sound and held the knob with trembling fingers. He couldn’t afford to lose it now. A horn was sailing through the blues, surging on an ancient tide. The Bird was playing “Now’s the Time.”

He drew the purple sheets against himself, sat up hugging his knees, then lay down again. It had rained last night and the air was damp, adding a bite to the mountain breeze. He hadn’t eaten since Claire had called to share the news—nine days now—and he’d lost a bit of weight. How much, he didn’t know. But these khakis in which he’d slept last night—he gathered the waistband now—would slip over his hips if he didn’t wear a belt.

At first he’d told himself that he was fasting. After that he said that he was busy. Which he was. He’d been taking care of everything: writing the obit, shipping the corpse, arranging for cremation, planning the funeral, and covering the costs—because Ian had died penniless, and Miss Gita couldn’t afford to bury him. Even in death he felt a need to care for him.

But there was another reason, one which he only discussed with himself, and even so, always in a whisper, and never directly: deep in his heart he believed that he had failed Ian, that he had allowed his infatuation with Sylvia to distract him. Why, he would ask, had they spent their last hours together discussing only his hurt? And wasn’t he the one who had told Ian that no one would care if he killed himself?