How to Escape From a Leper Colony: A Novella and Stories by Tiphanie Yanique

Author:Tiphanie Yanique [Yanique, Tiphanie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Literary, Short Stories (Single Author)
ISBN: 9781555975500
Google: PsjTnQEACAAJ
Amazon: 155597550X
Publisher: Graywolf Press
Published: 2010-03-02T00:00:00+00:00

II. Anexus Corban

Just last night Anexus Corban had glass installed in the window holes and now he can keep the big wooden shutters open. He can see outside and still keep the air conditioner on and still keep the noise and mosquitoes out. And this morning he also realizes that the sun shines right in, casting lovely shadows about the room. This is an additional bonus. So now Corban cannot help but smile too broadly.

When the door opens with a jingle it is okay that Corban is smiling big. It is Father Simon. He is not a customer. He is a visitor. He comes to look at the coffins. It is the place on the island where the priest feels most comfortable.

The store is never crowded, so often when Corban and Simon are there together they talk to each other. Today Corban is proud of his windows. “Do you have anything new in, Anexus?” Simon speaks with a British accent, even though he is from West Africa and only spent a few years in Britain as a young seminarian. This cover-up suits Corban fine. Even endears Simon to him. Corban, who is pure French-Trinidadian, has trained his own voice to give the inflections of an island man rooted in the St. Thomas soil.

Corban wants to tell Simon to look at the new windows but he knows that his friend is less interested in light and the effect of the light. The priest wants only to know about the coffins. Corban doesn’t let this dampen his mood. Today is a good day and such days must be savored. Before he can mention the new windows, two girls in school uniforms walk in. “School project,” the blond one says as she waves her notebook at Corban. He knows they are lying. He knows that though he is running an honest and important business, for some his shop is just a curiosity. They are both attracted to the children’s coffins, but the darker one slinks away shyly to the Mexican coffins that are closer to the counter, where there is less light. He looks at her and his chest tightens. There is something about her. Her face there in the shadow. The resemblance is only slight, but today, with his new windows, Corban is vulnerable to the past’s intrusion. The girl reminds him of Usha.

Corban forces himself to come from behind the counter, where he displays small things like keepsake urns and cloth handkerchiefs, to ask the girls if they need some help.

“We’re picking our coffins,” says the brown-skinned girl with a sureness that is unexpected, and yet all Usha. “Your sign says custom made.”

“For a history project,” the other one quickly interjects and opens her eyes at her friend.

The girls wear ties. They are seniors in high school. Private school, by the colors they’re wearing, but Corban can’t tell which one. He knows they will ignore the plain pine coffin held together with wooden nails. That one is for the Muslims; they most often request its strength and simplicity.

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