“You all right?” Elaine asks. “Want me to drive?” Robbie lies asleep on her lap.
“No. I’m okay.” The overcast sky and now the rain have brought on an early dusk, and Bob switches on the headlights.
“You should go to bed when we get home. Really, Bob. I’ll finish the packing.”
Bob exhales jets of smoke from his nostrils, and the windshield, despite the defogger fan, clouds over. Reaching one hand forward, he rubs away a square that lets him see the road directly before him. “No. I couldn’t sleep even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to.”
“You must be exhausted.”
“Yeah, sure. Of course.” He glances into the back seat. The girls are slumped in opposite corners, lost in their private thoughts. “Listen,” he says in a low voice, “I’m going to drop you and the kids at the trailer. I guess I’ve figured out what I should do with the money. And I have to do it tonight, if I’m going to do it at all. Okay?”
Elaine stares straight ahead at the windshield. After a few seconds, she reaches out with her free hand and wipes a head-sized circle clear.
Bob asks, “Don’t you want to know what I’m going to do?”
“No. Not especially, no. So long as you get rid of it, and we don’t take it with us away from here.”
“I’m going …”
“Bob, I don’t want to know. I don’t. Really. I don’t know why, but it feels … cleaner not to know. Better, for the future. Our future. Okay?”
“Okay. Good.”
She asks when he’ll be back, and he says he can’t be sure, by morning anyhow. Sooner, if he’s lucky. “And I feel lucky,” he says. “For once.”
They pull up and stop in front of the trailer, and the girls are alert as puppies again, complaining about the rain. “Just run inside. The door’s unlocked,” Elaine tells them, and they scramble from the car and splash through puddles to the trailer.
“Drive careful,” Elaine says, hefting the baby to her shoulder. “The roads are wet. I don’t want you dead.”
“You don’t?”
“Don’t joke about stuff like that, Bob. No, I feel like our life is over, though. The old life, I mean. The one we imagined when we were kids. That old me and that old you are dead already, I think. Maybe it’s good they are. I don’t know. No, I don’t want you dead, Bob. I want to grow old with you.”
“Didn’t you always want that?”
“I guess I didn’t. I just wanted to be young with you. You know? And that’s what I’ve been, until now.”
“Yeah. Me too. I feel so old now. Old as my father. It’s strange, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Be careful,” and she opens the door. She gets out of the car, grunting with the effort, slams the door closed and disappears behind the clouded glass. Stretching across the seat, Bob rubs the window clear and watches his wife climb the steps, where, as she opens the door, she shifts the baby to her hip, and then the door is closed, and she is gone.
An hour and a half later, Bob turns left in Key Largo at Blackwater Sound, crosses the bridge and leaves the Keys on the Route 1 causeway to the mainland. The rain has passed over, scudding northwest across the bay toward Naples and Fort Myers and on up the Gulf Coast, and now, ahead of Bob and slightly to his right, an egg-shaped moon droops in the purple sky over Miami. He follows the moon, its yellow light reflecting off the old canal alongside Route 1, through the Everglades to Florida City, where he picks up the Dixie Highway north through alternating suburbs and truck farms, until the suburbs take over altogether and the huge orange glow from the city, blotting out the moon and stars, fills the northern sky from east to west.
Though the land is flat, a mere three feet above sea level all the way in from the Keys to Miami, Bob feels, as he enters the gleaming city, that he’s descending from a high plateau. Along Brickell Boulevard, south of the Miami River and north of Coconut Grove, he passes between tall royal palms, and on either side, the pink mansions of deposed Latin American politicians and generals hide behind poinciana bushes and chain-link fences. Across the bay on his right is Key Biscayne. He passes terraced luxurious high-rise condominiums that house heroin and cocaine couriers from Colombia whose million-dollar cash deposits help keep Florida bankers happy, and then he drives between the banks themselves, clean white skyscrapers with window glass tinted like the sunglasses of a small-town sheriff.
When he crosses the Miami River in the center of the city, he’s downtown and can see Miami Beach across the bay, where people live in hotels and live off hotels, a city where there are no families. Then north along Biscayne Boulevard, past the grandstands from last month’s Orange Bowl parade, empty and half demolished and throwing skeletal shadows over the grass of Bay Front Park, until he passes out of downtown Miami and enters dimly lit neighborhoods where there are no more white people—no white people on the sidewalks, no white people in the stores or restaurants, no white people in the cars next to him at stoplights. This is where he wants to be. He knows, from what newspapers and boatmen on the Keys have told him, that he’s in Little Haiti now, a forty-block section of the city squeezed on the west by Liberty City, where impoverished American blacks boil in rage, and on the other three sides by neat neighborhoods of bungalows, where middle-class Cubans and whites deliver themselves and their children anxiously over to the ongoing history of the New World.
He parks the car on North Miami Avenue one block beyond Fifty-fourth Street, in front of a small grocery story open to the street and still doing business, despite the late hour. There are burlap sacks of what look like flour stacked on the sidewalk and crates of rough orange yams, plantains and red beans. Several women inside the store talk to one another, while a man with spectacles pushed up on his shiny, mahogany-brown forehead totals their purchases. Bob takes a step inside, listens to the swift, soft Creole the women are speaking, and when, at the sight of him, they go silent, he steps back to the street.
Farther down the block, he comes to a record shop, speakers over the door shouting music onto the street, and he opens the door and walks inside. Everyone in the shop—three teenaged boys, a pair of young women, a bearded man behind the counter—stops talking and proceeds to examine a product, records, needles, plastic disks for 45s, microphones, until Bob leaves, when they resume their loud, quick conversations, and the music plays raucously over and over.
He enters a restaurant on Fifty-fourth with closed Venetian blinds facing the street. A slender brown woman holding long, narrow menus greets him at the door and in French-accented English politely asks how many people are in his party. Bob peers across the room, sees large, beefy black men in three-piece suits, fashionably dressed women, a few children at table, and he says, “I’m … I’m looking for someone.” He pretends to search the room for a friend, then says, “No, sorry, he’s not here yet, thanks,” and ducks out.
In a bar, seated on a stool at the far end, Bob orders a Schlitz from a short, stocky, mustachioed man wearing a cream-colored silk vest buttoned tightly across his belly. There are a dozen or more booths and small tables behind him, where three or four women, young and pretty, wearing heavy makeup and miniskirts and glittery, low-cut blouses, sit alone, one woman to a table, drinking. At the bar, four or five young men, boys almost, who seem to know each other and the bartender as well, talk, drink, smoke cigarettes and snap fingers in time to the music blatting from the jukebox in the corner by the open door. It’s what brought Bob in from the street in the first place, the music, Haitian, loud, friendly, warm and available to anyone willing to listen.
The bartender brings the beer and glass and sets them down in front of Bob without once looking at him.
“How much?”
“One dollar fifty.”
Bob hands two ones over. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks,” the man says, and starts to move away.
“Quiet tonight.”
“Yes. Well, Wednesday, you know. It’s late.”
“Say, listen. Ah … I was wondering,” Bob says.
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“Yes?”
“You’re Haitian, right? That’s a Haitian accent, right?”
The man examines Bob for a few seconds, this battered white man, large, unshaven, eyes in caves, clothes dirty and rumpled, and he says, “Yes, I am Haitian.”
“Cigarette?” Bob says, pushing his pack forward.
The man hesitates, then takes one. “Thanks.”
Bob lights his cigarette. “You probably know about those Haitians that drowned day before yesterday, right?”
The man steps back. “Well, yes. From the newspapers.” He eyes Bob warily.
“Me too. From the papers, I mean. Sad, isn’t it?”
“Ah, yes. But it happens. Such things happen.”
“But some get through anyhow, right? Some of them make it to shore. I read that.”
“I suppose so.” The man starts to leave. Farther down the bar, the young men have ceased talking and have taken up watching Bob and the bartender. There are four of them, two with bushy Afro haircuts and long sideburns, the other two, younger, with short haircuts. All four are dressed up for a night out, billowy nylon shirts cut and unbuttoned to expose their chests, tight, bell-bottomed slacks, slipon shoes with pointed toes. Two of them wear heavy gold chains around their necks and copper bracelets on their wrists. All four are faceless to Bob, kids out looking for some action. He supposes they have a car parked outside, a beat-up Olds or Pontiac with elaborate hub caps, the dash and rear deck covered with pile carpeting.
“Listen, friend, can I ask you something?”
The bartender returns, and Bob slides a ten-dollar bill across the bar. “I was wondering …” he says in a low, confidential voice, “if you could tell me something.”
The bartender palms the ten and pockets it without changing his expression of calm, mild curiosity.
“Those Haitians who drowned the other day. I wondered if there were any survivors. You know?”
“I think not. No survivors. The sea was rough. Why do you ask?”
“Well, see, I got a friend, Haitian guy who works for me, out on the Keys, and he’s looking for his people, his family, see, and he was wondering.”
“Why will he not come and ask himself, then? Why do you ask?”
“Yeah, I understand that, I realize how it looks, me doing the asking and all. But, y’ see, he’s got to be careful about that sort of thing. You know. Because of his papers not being so good. You understand.”
“Ah. Yes.” The man turns away again. “I am sorry, mister, I know nothing of the people from the boats.”
“Wait!” Bob says. Reaching into his pocket and drawing out the packet of money, he peels off a twenty and lays it on the bar.
The bartender stares for a second at the thick wad of bills in Bob’s hand, then at the twenty before him. “I know nothing of those people. You should drink your beer and go. We close soon,” he says, and walks slowly but emphatically away.
Bob picks up the twenty and wraps it around the others and shoves the money back into his pocket. Finishing off his beer in one long gulp, he slides off the stool and makes for the door. As he passes the young men at the bar, they turn and watch him.
“Hey, mister!” one calls. He’s tall and broad-shouldered and wears a thick denim cap nested in his huge, bulbous Afro.
Bob turns and says, “Yeah?”
“You want something? Maybe you want a girlfriend, eh?” he says, winking and flashing a wide grin.
“No, thanks,” Bob says, and he steps outside to the street. Behind him, the youths laugh and start talking in Creole to the bartender, who ignores their questions and proceeds to grab up their glasses and empty bottles and hurry them out the door.
Down on Fifty-fourth, a few blocks east of where I-95 soars overhead, Bob spots in the distance a small clot of people, a few women and children, but mostly old men, shaky, decrepit-looking, dressed in rags and ill-fitting castoffs. The people have gathered on the sidewalk beside the open side door of a large brown and white Dodge van. Attached to the top of the van and running the length of it, like a political poster, a large, hand-painted sign cries: The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand! Repent! Matthew 10:7.
As Bob nears the group beside the van, he sees at the center a tall young white man, blond and wearing jeans and a hooded gray sweatshirt with Florida State emblazoned across the front. Inside the van, a woman, also in jeans and sweatshirt, with the hood pulled over her head like a monk’s cowl, hands the young man, in sequence, parcels wrapped in brown paper and then what appear to be paper cups of hot soup. The young man in turn passes the goods to the people gathered around him, first a parcel, then a cup of steaming soup, which the recipient, tucking the parcel under his or her arm and stepping away from the van, slurps down in relative privacy and furtiveness, as if hunger were a slightly embarrassing secret.
Bob edges up to the van, hears the young white man speak Creole to the people, who remain silent, who simply reach out, take the parcel with one hand, the soup with the other, and back away to make room for the next person to come forward. And in a few moments, Bob himself is the next person.
The white man is in his early twenties and extremely tall, several inches taller than Bob. He’s gaunt rather than skinny, a physically strong man overworked, and his short, straight hair is thin and already disappearing at the temples, giving his face an unnatural boniness for one so young. His bright blue eyes are small and deepset, a Swedish or Norwegian face, with large bones and delicate skin. Holding a parcel in one long hand and a cup of soup in the other, he says to Bob, “Praise the Lord, brother,” as if it were a command, the price of the gifts.
“Praise the Lord,” Bob murmurs, but he refuses the gifts and steps aside to let an old, bewhiskered fellow behind him take them. “I want to talk to you a minute.” “Oh?”
“Yes. It’s important.”
“Okay. Sure. Jennie,” the man calls to the woman inside the van. “Can you handle the rest yourself? There’s only a couple more.”
The young woman sticks her head outside, examines Bob, then the remaining Haitians. “Okay, sure, Allan. No problem.” She’s a pretty young woman, Bob notices, with freckles on her face and neck. She pushes back her hood, revealing long, pale brown hair tied in a ponytail that swishes heavily, healthily, as she hands out the parcels and ladles the soup from a large stainless-steel drum.
Allan walks around to the rear of the van, pulls open the door and sits wearily down inside, his feet up on the bumper. “Hi. My name’s Allan,” he says, extending his hand.
“Bob.”
They shake hands, and Allan says, “You wanted to talk. You look worried, brother.”
“I am. I need some help.”
“Of course. We all do. Are you saved, Bob?”
“What?”
“Do you know Jesus, Bob?”
“Jesus? Know him? Well, I guess not, no. I mean, I’m … no.”
“You haven’t given your life over to Jesus yet?”
“I guess not. No, not really.”
“That’s okay,” Allan says brightly. “You will, Bob.”
“I will?”
“What church do you belong to, Bob?”
“Well, none, I guess. I mean, I was raised Roman Catholic. But I haven’t been in a while. You know.”
“Things are pretty bad, though, aren’t they, Bob?”
“Yeah.” Then, impatiently, “Listen, I have to ask you how to do something for me … for these Haitians and all.”
“Okay, sure, Bob.”
“Well, you sort of specialize in helping out the Haitians, right? I mean, the refugees.”
“They’re the lost sheep of Israel. But we do the Lord’s work everywhere, Bob. Jesus said, ‘He that receiveth you receiveth me.’ So there you are. But yes, we’re helping the Haitians especially. They need food and clothes, so we find Christians who’ll pay for it, and then we give it out to them. Jesus said, ‘The kingdom of heaven is like a net that was cast into the sea and gathered of every kind.’ Do you
know your Bible, Bob?”
“No. Not really.”
“Read it, Bob. It’s God’s word.”
“Yeah, I will. Look, Allan, I got some money here, a lot of money, and I want you to give it to the Haitians. These people here, people like them.”
“God bless you, Bob! That’s incredible, brother. Praise the Lord!” The man claps Bob on both shoulders. “God bless you!”
“Well, no, it’s not my money, exactly. It … it really belongs to them, see. The Haitians. And I’m trying to get it back to them somehow, that’s all.”
“How’s that, Bob?”
Bob studies the man for a second, then says, “You guys are like priests, right? I mean, I tell you something, it’s confidential, isn’t it?”
“I am a servant of the Lord, Bob, yes, but a far cry from a Catholic priest, I’m afraid.” Allan laughs. Then seriously, “Whatever you tell me, brother, I’ll hold in strictest confidence. Unburden yourself, Bob.”
Bob takes a deep breath. “Well, I’m a fisherman, see, and I brought some Haitians over from the Bahamas … a while ago. They paid me for it. Anyhow, well, some of them didn’t quite make it, if you know what I mean….”
“No. What do you mean?”
Bob lowers his voice almost to a whisper. “Some of them drowned. Coming ashore.”
Allan looks into Bob’s dark eyes for a long moment. “Some of them drowned? Coming ashore?”
“Yes.”
“You brought them over in your boat? And some of them drowned?”
“Well … yeah.”
“Then you … you’re that man in the papers with the boat, up at Sunny Isles?”
“Yes. I am.”
Allan brings his large hands to his mouth, lifts them to his forehead, and cries, “Oh, my God! That’s awful!” He gapes at Bob and whispers, “Lord have mercy on your soul, Bob.” He studies Bob’s face for a moment, as if to determine his sanity, then says, “I … I don’t know what to tell you. Except that you should get down on your knees, you should give yourself over to Jesus, Bob. Save your soul, brother,” he pleads. “Now, before it’s too late.”
Continental Drift Page 43
