Before rising into the clouds, It looked down proudly. It had done Its job, finally. It had murdered the place where Its owner’s evil had thrived for decades. Now Its exterior was about to become infamous for keeping his secrets for so long. Its spirit hovered over the colony of news crews gathered to report the tragedy that was also Its triumph.
“Breaking news this morning, ladies and gentlemen. We’re live in South Ozone Park, Queens, on 123rd Street just off of Rockaway Boulevard, where fire department and construction crews are working to get to an unknown number of people who are trapped in the basement of the house behind me. As you can see, the house was in the process of being torn down. On Sunday, this house was nearly gutted by a three-alarm blaze. The recent snowstorm halted the demolition work that resumed just yesterday. Today, just before dawn, an attentive member of the demolition crew saw smoke coming from a large drainage pipe in the basement. When he came closer, he heard screams for help. We don’t know how many people are in there, who they are, how they survived, or if there are any casualties. What we do know is that they’ve been trapped in this basement for days. There is no news on the whereabouts of the owner of the house.”
Lanfè!
“First responders are working cautiously but quickly to pull the house apart without disturbing the foundation. The house is at serious risk of collapse because of the work that had already started after the fire that ripped through here last Sunday. Fortunately, the weather is warmer than the single-digit temperatures we had two days ago. It is forty-one degrees now, which is making this very delicate operation much more bearable for the crew working to free the people in the basement.
“We’ll continue to bring you the latest on this developing story.”
Lanfè!
“Breaking news…ABC was the first on the scene this morning, watching what has turned out to be just a shocking story. Just a few moments ago, four women and a young boy were pulled from the basement of this house.”
One, two, three, four, five stretchers. Sheets and blankets cover heads. Four waiting ambulances so Sol could ride with My.
“Their conditions are unknown, but we’ve been told that they looked emaciated and sooty, as would be expected after several days in the basement of this house that nearly burned to the ground. A demolition crew had been working to tear down the house earlier this morning when they heard sounds coming from a pipe…I don’t know if you can see the corner of the house behind me where the pipe was removed. They pulled five people out of the basement, including, I was just told, a little boy who looks to be about three or four years old. Again, four women and a young boy have just been rescued from a house in South Ozone Park, Queens. They are alive. They are safe. We still don’t know who they are or how they survived.
“We’ve been told that the owner of the house is at Jamaica Hospital, just a few miles from here. He’s recovering from an unknown illness. Authorities have not been able to speak to him about the developments at his house.
“We’ll continue to bring you more information as we receive it.”
* * *
—
LA KAY was proud that It had finally done something good. It had managed to save a few of the generations of lives that had been entombed in terror, terrible self-blame, unearned shame, and, most of all, violence so extreme it had eaten them from the outside in and back again. It finally loved Itself and indulged in remembrances of laughter and the smell of savory cooked food, the heat of forgivable loving arguments, the callouses scrubbed smooth on the bottoms of hardworking feet that had borne the weight of factory laborers, housekeepers, nannies, and other stand-up immigrants. It now loved the other houses too, watching them mourn and envy Its end. Hoping to someday expose their truths and save even one life struggling to breathe.
La Kay’s shell lay gutted and splintered like a child’s Popsicle stick structure that had been stepped on by raging giants. As It looked down, It wondered if anyone would mourn It or find a reason to keep the memory of La Kay alive.
One room. One, two, three, four hospital beds so Sol can lie next to My.
“This story keeps getting more and more shocking, bizarre, and tragic. We just learned that the four women and the little boy who were rescued earlier this afternoon had been held captive in the back room of this basement for as long as twenty years. They allege that the owner of the house behind me had kidnapped and held them against their will. Neighbors are shocked that the man some of them have known for nearly forty years could have committed such a horrible crime. The whereabouts of Lucien Louverture this evening are unknown.”
“This is CNN. Another in a long line of tragic stories of abduction and decades of captivity in a house in one of New York’s largest boroughs. We’re here at a house in South Ozone Park, Queens, where four women and a little boy were rescued earlier this morning from the basement of a house that was about to be demolished. How many more times does this have to happen in this country and around the world? How do we make sense of the evil?
“The owner of this house had held one of the women for over twenty years. She and the others, including a four-year-old boy, are recovering at various hospitals throughout the city. Obviously, their long road to recovery will include both physical and psychological care. Some of their families have been notified. No news yet if the boy was born in the basement or abducted more recently, but investigators are trying to learn as much as they can from these very fragile victims…”
Lanfè!
“The owner of the house left Jamaica Hospital in the early hours of the morning as this story was unfolding. His whereabouts are unknown. Police have undertaken a massive search. Neighbors say that he could not have gotten far since he has difficulty walking after a stroke that left him partially debilitated.”
Lanfè!
“Police are said to be questioning the homeowner’s girlfriend, Leona LaMerci, to ascertain his whereabouts. She was found at her home with a former tenant of the house of horrors, Dieuseul François. The tenant is said to have been in possession of the taxicab belonging to the alleged culprit in these crimes. Both the girlfriend and the tenant are in police custody. Although there is no evidence that they had any involvement in the crimes, they are being held for questioning to determine their knowledge of or what part they may have played in the abduction and imprisonment of the victims.”
One, two, three, four leave the hospital. Zero is dead.
“This just in. We’ve learned that one of the women, Asante, whose last name we have yet to learn, has died in the hospital. We do not know the cause of death. Such a tragedy.”
“As the days go by, we’re learning more and more about this tragedy in Queens, New York, where four women and a little boy were held captive for as long as twenty years. Like many parts of the city, the neighborhood is a predominantly immigrant enclave of working- and professional-class homeowners who came here to make a better life for themselves and their children. Those who’ve lived on this street for many years are shocked to learn that one of their own could have been masking such evil and insanity. The man appears to have been bold enough to abduct a young girl on his own block. One of the women lived just seven houses down from where she was kept. A very focused search was undertaken in 2010 to find Colette ‘Cocoa’ Jean-Baptiste. We’re told that her abductor had even joined the search and put up some of the reward money. Her family will make a statement in the next few hours.”
One, Two, and My. Only Three is happy. Family hugs, tears, more embraces, whispered “I loved you’s,” “I’ve missed you’s,” “I thought we’d lost you’s.” Only Three can sing joy.
“A bright spot in this story about the house of horrors. Colette ‘Cocoa’ Jean-Baptiste is home with her family. They will soon be moving to Los Angeles, California, where Cocoa will launch her singing career. She has been signed by an as yet undisclosed music mogul and performer. We can only speculate who this might be. Such wonderful news coming af
ter a week of learning about the unimaginably shocking and terrifying ordeal.”
“We’re standing by to hear from the attorney representing the three daughters of Lucien Louverture. They are said to be living outside of the New York metro area—three successful career women with families of their own. Let’s listen.”
“On behalf of the three women who refuse to refer to themselves as the ‘daughters’ of Lucien Louverture, I am asking the media to respect their privacy. They are as shocked and devastated by what they’ve recently learned about the abductions and horrors in what was once their childhood home. They have been estranged from the alleged culprit for decades and have no idea of his whereabouts. They are cooperating with law enforcement officials in their search for the man. Like everyone, they want justice for the victims. Thank you.”
“Authorities are having difficulty locating the family of two of the women who were rescued a week ago after being held captive for over a decade in a house in South Ozone Park, Queens. We are told that they may have come here from Mexico illegally.
“They’d been abducted as teenagers. We’ve learned that their mother had languished in a U.S. detention center for years and had been deported over a decade ago. While such actions are not new, deportations have increased at a feverish pace under our nation’s new administration. To date over 460 parents, mostly from California, have been deported without their children by ICE officials. That figure does not include the scores of undocumented parents throughout the rest of the United States who have been detained by ICE, separated from their families. As the fate of a little boy and his family hangs in the balance, supporters from the nation’s premier advocacy groups have already announced that they will lobby for asylum on behalf of the two women.”
And then only three. One, Two, and My to count.
Lanfè!
SOL
Sol sat alone on a steel bench in the detention center that had been carved out of a women’s federal correctional facility. She did not know exactly where she was except that she was no longer there. This place was not far off from where she’d been kept for what she now knew had been sixteen years. She wasn’t happy. Relieved, yes. She felt the healing on its way like a far-off mare slowly trotting toward her. She was still imprisoned, just behind cleaner walls, under brighter lights, with less unkind jailers holding her hostage. She bit down on her lip waiting for them to bring My to her. As much as she wanted to be with him, she didn’t want him to live in this place either. He had earned his right to live free on the outside that was also on the inside of America. He had been born in the country’s dirt, not merely on its soil. Even if they sent her back to a distant and frightening unknown, he, at least, deserved freedom outside these walls. She heard her name being called and stood up quickly, hoping that she would see him finally.
I am not One. I am not Zero, Two, Three, or Four. I am Sol.
Solange is what Cara called me. No last name. I do not remember, or I do not know my father or his name.
“Solange! Solange!” I hear the agent yell as if I am not sitting there close by, alone. “Come with me.”
I follow. I don’t dare ask a question. I stand at a counter, my face staring at the face of another agent.
“Name?”
“Mine or his?”
“His.” She doesn’t look down when she types.
“My.” I cannot see the screen.
“What kind of name is that?”
I shrug.
“Is it M-y?”
I don’t answer. He is My. Because of Two and Three. I mean, Chiqui and Cocoa. They thought he would be a girl. They agreed on Marisol. For a boy they agreed on Mar-y-Sol. I only asked why there, why then.
“Miss? Miss? Is it M-y?” Under her breath I hear her say, “Only white people give their kids names like that.”
I say, “No matter.”
“Last name?”
“I don’t know.”
“There has to be a last name.”
I say, “You like ‘Smith’? You want ‘Smith’?”
She writes. Again, she barely whispers and shrugs her shoulders.
I hear her eyes say, You barely look twenty. Her mouth says, “Is this your real age? Thirty-one?”
I say again, “I don’t know.”
Her eyes say, “You had him when you were sixteen.” She counts wrong.
I say, “Thirty, more or less, not twenty.”
I hear her eyes roll. I see her say something I can’t hear.
She has no idea. I do not tell her where I have been. She wants to know only where I came from, so they can send me back.
“Are you sure he was born here?”
“Yes.”
“But they didn’t give you a birth certificate in the hospital.”
“No. Not in the hospital.” I do not explain. She is locked up like me because she has not heard. The others in here have. They know my story from television. I learn the same way. I know who Cocoa is now. She has family. Not like mine. Not like Chiqui and My. We are in here now and in there again.
“Father’s name?”
I don’t answer.
Again, her eyes say everything. Her body says a new thing. “Is my shift over?”
I stare. I almost cry.
“You have a last name for him?”
“Doctor’s name who saved My is ‘Lamar,’ ” I say.
“First name My. Last name L-a-m-a-r. Middle name?”
I sigh. “No.”
“Date of birth?”
I count backward to when I believe Four died. I mean Nihla. I add three months.
“May 21, 2012.”
“You seem pretty sure about a child with no birth certificate.”
I feel tears in my eyes.
“5-21-12,” she says slowly. “I’m gonna play those numbers.”
I feel tears on my face.
“That’s eighteen dollars and fifty cents. We’ll take it out of your commissary. People have been sending you money. You know, a lot of big-shot lawyers are trying to get you out of here, allow you to stay.”
My mouth makes a sound like it’s about to scream.
“The document will be ready in a few days. Your advocate will pick it up.”
I hear myself say, “What about My?”
“Your son? He’s waiting for you.”
“What about my sister?”
“You have a sister in here? Let me check.” She looks down at her screen. “She’s somewhere in this place. I guess you’ll all be going together.”
I do not ask where.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Love is me thanking all of you for loving me:
Ife and Essen, for the honor of being your mother. You have made me grateful for the challenges of single motherhood because I have you all to myself.
Marjorie Momplaisir, my first love and soul mate, who was the first to inspire and encourage me to live and write.
My mother and grandmother, who consistently send me their love and messages from the spirit world.
Matante Tida, for your support and generosity without which the publication of this book would not have been possible.
My special readers who never got tired of rereading my work anytime you were asked.
Mononc Jojo, for being my multilingual dictionary, correcting my Kreyòl, and whispering the secret that I am indeed your “fave.”
My soul sisters who listened, prayed, and comforted me as I cried, reassuring me that my time would come: Paula Baia, Angela Mayfield, Kathy McLean, Laverne Marable.
Anuraag Maini, a friend whom I didn’t expect to become a friend, who shares his compassionate spirit in a soul-poor place.
My life teachers and adoptive parents, Ngügï wa Thiong’o and Pamela Newkirk.
My supporters at Victoria Sanders & Associate
s for taking a leap of faith and introducing me to…
Benee Knauer, who taught me how to build a book and advocated for me when I didn’t have the words.
Carole Baron, for trusting me with your friendship and reputation.
Charitybuzz, for giving me an entrée into the book-publishing ecosystem by connecting me with the gracious Jean Feiwel and Monique Patterson.
The Universe that has conspired to bring forth its message through me.
The Omega who is love itself.
A Note About the Author
Francesca Momplaisir is a Haitian-born multilingual literature scholar and writer of fiction and poetry in both English and her native Haitian Kreyòl. She holds undergraduate and graduate degrees in English and comparative literature from Columbia University, the University of Oxford, and New York University. She earned a doctorate in African and African diaspora literature as an NYU MacCracken fellow. She is a recipient of a Fulbright fellowship to travel to Ghana to research the cultural retention and memory of the transatlantic slave trade. Francesca is the proud single mother of two sons and resides in the New York City metro area.
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