Sweet Paradise by Gene Desrochers (most read books in the world of all time .txt) 📕

“Yes, I was interviewed by a reporter about my family history.”

“Was his name Adirondack Kendal?”

“Yes. Kendal. I told him that Francine Bacon knew my family history in the business. Mr. Bacon made sure everyone knew the deal, especially when he was dying. He wanted to make sure nothing happened to our position in the company.”

“You are referring to Francine’s husband, Dominic Bacon?” I had read about him in the notes from Kendal, as well as in some of my research online. “Sounds like you miss him?”

“Dominic was a complex man. He was hard, yes, but fair. Yes, I suppose I miss him.”

He gazed out the window at the storage area and the bottling going on below. Something wasn’t right. There was a sadness in the man’s eyes, like the golden rays of the sun. Some kind of personal connection Gilroy didn’t want to discuss. Perhaps Dominic Bacon was more of a father figure to Gilroy than he wanted to let on. It would explain why he stayed here.

I plucked a business card from the holder on the corner of his desk. It read: “Gilroy Antsy, Operations Manager.”

“Is there anything else, Mr. Montague?”

“Do you know the status of your reparations payment or what you expect to receive?”

“There are rumors circulating around between those of us who have a, shall we say, history here. They apparently located others but most of the payments are going to workers. The family has a loyal following.”

“Despite the fact that they were slavers?”

“They were not slavers. They were only doing what everyone at the time did. A lot of money and resources were tied up in the laborers purchased. Freeing everyone nearly bankrupted this company and many others. Our loyalty and patience are finally being rewarded.”

“Forgive me, but I’m just having trouble understanding why someone like you would stay.”

“Pardon me? Someone like me?”

“You are well-educated and in a managerial position. I bet you’ve had this position a long time, correct?”

He nodded.

“Is there anywhere to go from here in this company?”

“Not really. Owner of a distillery and as I’ve said, I’m already doing that.”

“Yes, but you make no profit and you cannot truly put your energy into it. To me, you should own this distillery.” I stomped my tennis shoe lightly on the floor. “Wouldn’t that be fair as your reparations? You could have asked Francine for that. She seemed to be in a very generous mood the last couple years. Any idea what brought that on?”

He stood and shoved both hands into his pockets. “I’m not interested in owning Bacon Rum.”

“Why not?” I asked. “You mean if Francine Bacon offered you Bacon Rum you’d say no?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That is not a possibility. She is not offering me Bacon Rum. She is not offering ... her offer is fair.”

“Oh, so you do know what the reparations entail?”

“I think half-a-million is the amount or the total value. Might not be all cash. That’s a rumor.”

“Lots of rumors floating around. The others are dwelling on this a lot apparently.”

“Of course they are,” he said, raising his voice. “It’s more money than any of these people would ever see in two lifetimes. It would change everything or maybe nothing. Most of them are still stuck in a slave’s mentality. They don’t have the emotional capability to break out no matter how much money you hand them.”

“I understand. And you deserve to have things change. Right? You’ve put in years of service to both Francine and Dominic. You know what to do with the means of production.”

He spun around and slammed his hand on his desk. “You’re goddamn right I have! My sweat is on every conveyor belt, shelf, and plank in this place. My sweat and blood!”

“And now Yarey’s too, right? You let her become part of this.”

“That’s what it takes. It’s what we know. We are distillers. She can learn from me, not waste money on useless college degrees or thoughtful platitudes. I read. Books. On my own. I learn with these and these.” He held out his hands and pointed at his eyes. “In the real world you are learning every second if you pay attention. I don’t need anyone to give me instructions or a syllabus to become a better man. This is the best there is. There is nothing out there.” He pointed emphatically at the window.

“Right, right. You’re right. Most college people don’t know shit about the real world.”

“Yes. That is right. That is right. Yes. You understand. I’m surprised. They don’t know anything about reality. About pain. About love. Schools cannot teach you that. And this singing.”

“Singing?”

Now he was making eye contact and speaking with the authority of an expert. He was in an arena where he was in charge. Like a bull, he plowed ahead. These were his deepest convictions, vocalized to a stranger. Sometimes strangers were the only ones people felt comfortable talking to.

“Yarey. She’s got this thing about singing.” His hands were on and off his hips with each new declaration. “She has a performance at Reichhold Center tonight. She does silly gospel music and sings in a choir.”

He now stood at the window looking below. I seized the opportunity to read some of the stuff tacked to his cork board and glance at his desk. All of it related to molasses production and distilling everything from rum to whiskey to sake. The way he spoke now shoved me far away, like the man was talking to himself while I wore earplugs and listened from the closet.

He mumbled something indecipherable, then more forcefully said, “Time to put childish things away. She’s twenty-one. I was already a father at her age.”

He turned around and I twisted in the chair, acting like I’d leaned forward to crack my back. He didn’t seem to notice or care. My stomach was grinding away on the alcohol and the crackers weren’t enough to soak it all up. I’d been here a long