The Cay

by Theodore Taylor

I remember that at one point my fear turned to anger. Anger at Timothy for not letting me stay in the water with my mother, and anger at her because I was on the raft. I began hitting him and I remember him saying, “If dat will make you bettah, go ’ead.”

I said to Timothy, “I want to be your friend.” He said softly, “Young bahss, you ’ave always been my friend.” I said, “Can you call me Phillip instead of young boss?” “Phill-eep,” he said warmly.

Because it had been on my mind I told him that my mother didn’t like black people and asked him why. He answered slowly, “I don’ like some white people my own self, but ’twould be outrageous if I didn’ like any o’ dem.”

I asked him why there were different colors of skin, white and black, brown and red, and he laughed back, “Why b’feesh different color, or flower b’different color? I true don’ know, Phill-eep, but I true tink beneath d’skin is all d’same.”

In my world of darkness, I had learned that holding a hand could be like medicine.

Old Timothy, of Charlotte Amalie, was dead. I stayed there beside him for a long time, very tired, thinking that he should have taken me with him wherever he had gone. I did not cry then. There are times when you are beyond tears.

I buried Timothy, placing stones at the head of the grave to mark it. I didn’t know what to say over the grave. I said, “Thank you, Timothy,” and then turned my face to the sky. I said, “Take care of him, God, he was good to me.”

I saw Henrik van Boven occasionally, but it wasn’t the same as when we’d played the Dutch or the British. He seemed very young. So I spent a lot of time along St. Anna Bay, and at the Ruyterkade market talking to the black people. I liked the sound of their voices. Some of them had known old Timothy from Charlotte Amalie. I felt close to them.

I hope to find the lonely little island where Timothy is buried. Maybe I won’t know it by sight, but when I go ashore and close my eyes, I’ll know this was our own cay. I’ll walk along east beach and out to the reef. I’ll go up the hill to the row of palm trees and stand by his grave. I’ll say, “Dis b’dat outrageous cay, eh, Timothy?”