Carnival Sunday, 1973

(Flash Fiction)

It was a scene. A husband, a wife and their two toddler sons huddled down in the ditch by the side of the Beetham Highway. Sunday’s sun was on its way to gone; three of them were in tears and one of them was filled with glee.

The plan had been simple. The family would head out after dinner for a drive about; the car windows metallically framing live footage fresher and faster than that on the television. Several loops on the airport road guaranteed the thrill of vibrating seats under their thighs. The heavy roar of a tourist-heavy passenger jet drumming forcefully beneath the car’s pleather as it stutter-bumped down onto the tarmac of their humble, single-terminal, island airport. After, the boys would be dropped off with Aunty Constance. Mom and Dad would make their way to the Queens Park Savannah for cool coconut water and then beyond to catch the season’s calypsos booming out from the buzzing hive of a Carnival tent. It was the time of year for crooning and dancing, for the rhythmic pelting of waists in the form of romantic duos and drunken threes to beckon the night. Spiced rum flowed onto the streets and washed over the yawning cracks in the sidewalk that for once went unnoticed.

Moist and warm, the sea-kissed air wrapped itself around them in lieu of jackets, freeing their elbows and knees of fabric. The blue Nissan hatchback picked up speed as it entered the Beetham, purring along with only the slightest strain to be heard coming from the engine. From behind the wheel came Dad’s tales of his yesteryear track and field heroics. Avery was listening with rapt attention. Stirl was gazing out the window, looking far into the distance, valiantly counting all of the birds in the dusking sky. “They’re flying home now. Getting ready for bed,” he noted to himself while chewing at the saliva-mushed corner of his baby blanket. Mom chuckled as Dad recalled how he edged out Bertie So-and-So at the tape to clinch the illustrious island-wide high school 400 meter trophy. She patted his knee, gently chiding him for repeating the same old story yet again. Avery laughed with them both, diplomatically balanced between joining in on his Dad’s feigned hurt and surprise, all the while implicitly backing the truth in his mother’s teasing. The car’s metallic paint, catching the last rays of sunlight, cast the foursome as a tiny blue comet gliding softly and peacefully along its determined path. 

And then it happened. In a flash, Stirl was gone. Yes, gone. Out of the car, through the door and into the encroaching night. 

Avery’s laughter rapidly morphed into a desperate cry, “STIRRRRL?!” and, without a moment’s hesitation, he dove into the wind that was roaring through the open door, into that same oncoming night. Mom’s mouth gaped open in a ceaseless scream. Dad jammed on the brakes. The comet swerved off its course, blazelessly screeching to an abrupt stop. Mom and Dad jumped out of the car, her eyes catching the limp seatbelts lying useless against the empty back seat, never harnessed unless as punishment. They ran wildly down the road, into the darkness; the buttery sun having fully melted into the burnt toast horizon. “Avery!”  “Stirling!” The two of them pleading for their two boys.

From somewhere, down and out to the side of them, came sobbing. They scrambled down the embankment, a tangle of elbows and knees, into the drainage ditch that partnered the Beetham. Blinded by tears, they found Avery, scraped up and holding his little brother, crying, “He’s alive!” Stirl, smiling, one hand fisted around his baby blanket, pointed to the sky and kept on counting the birds he had flown out to follow.

And that was it. A thankful scene. A husband, a wife and their two toddler sons huddled down in the ditch by the side of the Beetham Highway. Sunday’s sun was on its way to gone; three of them were in tears and one of them was filled with glee.

Radha Lin Chaddah

March, 2017