Flower of Heaven

by Julien Ayotte

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Author Photo Credit: Glenn Ruga

  Copyright © 2012 Julien Ayotte

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1479274739

  ISBN 13: 9781479274734

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62347-577-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012916918

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  To my wife, Pauline, and my children, Barbara, David, and Julie, with love

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 1

  What is it about New England that the natives find so appealing? Jim Howard asked himself every so often while never once giving a thought to moving away from this most confusing of climates in the world. As an insurance salesman in a small city of seventy-five thousand people in the northern corner of Rhode Island, Jim was constantly on the road to surrounding communities drumming up as many new customers as he could from his company’s weekly ad in the Providence Sunday Journal.

  What is it, he pondered that November day in 1987, keeping New Englanders satisfied, in spite of the upcoming below-zero temperatures for the next three or four months, not to mention the ridiculous fuel bills that go along with it. From conversations he had with most of his prospective customers, none of them either liked the cold or were anxious for it to come, and yet, they would never dream of leaving it. Oh sure, they’d talk about retiring South and how they couldn’t wait, but Jim knew this was typical New Englander talk, never once really expecting to shed this climate.

  “Fr. Richard Merrill, St. Matthew’s Rectory, 310 Mendon Road, Lincoln, RI,” read the returned post card from last week’s ad. “What the hell does a priest want with life insurance?” he mumbled to himself, obviously expecting his trip to the nearby town to be another waste of time or, at best, the sale of a cheap term policy which didn’t generate much in the way of renewed commissions each year from the policy premiums. Who would he name as the beneficiary? Why waste his money on insurance? Insurance is for protection, he thought, and to prevent financial hardship on a family because of the loss of a loved one. He had never sold a policy to a priest before. What would he say, “Father, how many children do you have?” or “we’ve got to consider the blackout years, Father, those years where you could be unemployed or disabled until you’re eligible for Social Security benefit.”

  Continental Life in Providence, where Jim’s home office was located, and Harry Abramian, Jim’s regional manager, didn’t care who the post card came from. It was from an interested potential client that required follow-up and the inquirer was located in Jim’s territory. Normally, Jim would have chucked the reply in the trash can and merely reported to Harry that Father Merrill changed his mind and had no further interest. Jim’s curiosity, if for no other reason, made him call Father Merrill that Thursday afternoon to set up an appointment to discuss exactly what he had in mind. They agreed to meet the next day.

  “Good afternoon, St. Matthew’s, may I help you?” a cheery little voice echoed with a slight Irish accent.

  “Father Merrill, please, Jim Howard from Continental Life calling.”

  The housekeeper at the rectory door warmly invited him in. “Please be kind enough to have a seat in the living room, and I’ll get Father Dick for you.”

  Jim, a Roman Catholic himself, could easily relate to being inside a rectory, the home and business offices, all in one, for Catholic priests. He was very active in his parish’s activities and had, on more than one occasion, attended various functions in the same setting. As he sat in the parlor, he couldn’t help but notice the plush décor of the room. Every piece of furniture perfectly placed where you’d expect it; rich furniture typical of the inside of rectories where money is no object. Image is all that counts. After all, he thought, every parish pastor will tell you how important it is for the religious to have proper quarters to show off to parishioners and to the bishop when he visits. Oddly enough though, as he recalled, the bishop probably visits each parish but once a year and Jim couldn’t help but notice that these furnishings were very expensive looking, not typical of the homes within the community it served.

  Why is it that people who do not pay for what they have always want and expect the best? All that ran through his mind was the thought of a domineering Father Merrill, the “I deserve the best” type who had a few bucks to his name and figured life insurance as an investment even if he didn’t need it. A typical priest who complains about his schedule and the number of Masses he has to say each week, not to mention the funerals, weddings, and other activities he’s involved in. Don’t forget the sermon he must prepare for each week, a chore that priests would have you believe is like preparing for a weekly inaugural address.

  “Mr. Howard, Father Dick Merrill.” Jim startled as a huge man approached him and introduced himself. This was no ordinary looking priest, six feet, four inches tall, silver white hair, very tanned, and a smile that had pain written all over it.

  “Nice to meet you, Father. Beautiful rectory you’ve got here.”

  Father Dick’s eyes quickly scanned the room as if he hadn’t even noticed where he was. He appeared to be out of place with the richness of it all, as if he would have felt more at ease in a mission on a tropical island with a grass hut for a church and a hammock for a rectory. Maybe it was the sandals he was wearing and the big straw hat he had just removed as he entered the room.

  “I hate this weather, would have stayed where I was, where it’s warm. I’m getting too old for cold weather and it’s not even winter yet!” Father Dick motioned to Jim to sit down as he sat facing him. “You’re a man who’s been recommended to me because of your honesty, loyalty, courage, and sincerity in your work and in your whole life, Mr. Howard.”

  “Excuse me, Father,” Jim chimed in. “I represent an insurance company, but something tells me this isn’t about life insurance.”

  “Harry Abramian sent you to see me only because I asked him to; the post card was just a way to get you here. Actually, Mr. Howard, I used Mr. Abramian as a way to get you but your name was really given to me by Jack Bumpus, you probably remember him as Major Jack Bumpus, your old military boss some years ago.”

  “Excuse me for asking, Father,” blurted out the more than startled Jim Howard. “How in the world do you know Jack Bumpus? He doesn’t exactly hang out in your circle of people.”

  It was obvious to Father Dick by now that Jim Howard’s curiosity had reached a level of excitement and that he suspected there was going to be more to this little afternoon meeting than the sale of a small life insurance policy to a local parish priest.

  “Please, Mr. Howard, let me explain”, said Father Dick in an attempt to bring the conversation down to an easy pace again. “Jack and I met in 1975 in Haiti. I was visiting some missionary
friends of mine there as I do, normally about once a year, when I take my vacation from parish work. One afternoon during one of my shopping trips to Port-au-Prince, a car nearly hit me when I was crossing one of the streets in the city. Actually, I fell to the pavement to avoid the oncoming car.”

  “There I am, sprawled out on the ground in tourist clothes, wearing a straw hat, and native Haitians going about their business as if I wasn’t even there. Then a hand was extended to help me up and Jack Bumpus was on the other end of the hand. There he was, smiling from ear to ear, and simply said, “You gotta be a tourist. Nobody else comes within ten feet of the maniacs driving on these streets.”

  As he continued to speak, Father Dick saw that Jim Howard’s interest was becoming more intense in what surely, to Jim, was a name from the past, a past he had hoped to forget about and hadn’t thought of for nearly ten years.

  Father Dick had merely introduced himself as Dick Merrill when he thanked the man who had come to his assistance, the man with the big smile and rugged face that appeared to have a thousand stories behind it. It was quite customary, Father Dick recalled, not to make a big deal of being a priest when vacationing, and he didn’t like the people he met feeling as if they had to always watch what they said because they knew he was a priest.

  Dick Merrill and Jack Bumpus hit it off from the very start, as if Jack Bumpus had adopted this hopeless tourist with the huge frame but gentle manner. There was something about Dick Merrill that Bumpus liked, his sincere appreciation for the helping hand, his offer to buy him a drink, which Jack never refused, or the instant reaction some people get at meeting fellow Americans in foreign surroundings. As often as Father Dick had been to Haiti, he would still fumble his way around the streets of the cities. This was his fifth visit to his old seminarian buddy, Father Edward McNeil, who had left his parish in Racine, Wisconsin, in 1969 to help the poor in Haiti.

  After exchanging small talk about the weather and other general conditions in Port-au-Prince, Jack asked Father Dick what he was doing in Haiti, explaining in no uncertain terms that the country wasn’t exactly a garden spot for tourism, nor was it safe for a foreigner to walk the streets. Jack pointed out to Father Dick that he stood out like a bull in the arena, a prime target for pickpockets, muggers, beggars, you name it.

  “I could say the same for you, you know,” exclaimed Father Dick, trying not look as awkward as he knew he really was in this situation.

  “It’s different for me, Dick; I’m used to this crap and the natives know it,” chuckled Jack, obviously pleased at the way Father Dick was attempting to protect his ego. “I’m what you would call a soldier of fortune, a mercenary, a military man who’s been trained to expect the worst and then to cope with it under most circumstances. I just finished an assignment for my employer over here and I’ll be heading back to the States in a couple of days. What brings you to this god-forsaken place?”

  When Father Dick revealed that he was a priest, Jack was surprised and excited, not so much at learning that this new acquaintance was a man of the cloth, but rather at the prospect that Father Dick knew his way around more than he originally thought.

  Father Dick somehow felt he had to tell Jack Bumpus who he really was and, casual outfit or not, related to him how he was visiting his missionary friend assigned to a small village on the coast.

  Jack Bumpus was not a popular person to be roaming around the city. Local military authorities somehow knew of his clandestine activities and were watching him like a hawk everywhere he went. Even at his hotel, Jack did not feel safe sleeping behind locked doors.

  “You wouldn’t have a room to spare at the mission until my flight to the States in a couple of days, would you, Dick, or should I call you Father Merrill?” Jack asked. “I’d really like to get a good night’s rest without keeping an eye and ear open at the hotel. I’ll pay you or your missionary friend for the room and I’ll even throw in a hundred dollars for food and drink for the next two days.”

  Father Dick quickly accepted the offer, knowing that Father McNeil would be ecstatic at the money for the mission, and both of them headed to pick up Jack’s luggage and check out of the hotel. To avoid much attention, Jack gave money to Father Dick to cover the hotel bill while Jack left using the rear entrance after picking up his bags. Once Father Dick had settled the hotel bill at the front desk, he met Jack at the bus depot, two streets over, and they boarded the next bus headed for the trip back to Saint Marc, a small town where the mission was located.

  Mercenaries, Father Dick reflected as the bus bounced along the dirt road, are hired guns, not so much for good causes but, oftentimes to the highest bidder. What kind of person could Jack Bumpus be to sell himself to any government or rebel group making attempts to gain control of some underdeveloped country? Who was this man who sat next to him on the bus, where did he come from and why would he so easily admit to a stranger that he’s a mercenary? And yet, he was friendly and generous and American, a welcome relief to Father Dick in a country where Americans were scarce except at missions outside the main cities, missions like the one outside of Saint Marc. Bumpus’ charismatic approach puzzled Father Dick and he wasn’t sure that this generous man did not have more in mind than just a place to stay for a few days. No one offers that much money for a room, sight unseen, unless perhaps he himself wanted to remain unseen.

  Father Dick seemed to want to overlook Jack Bumpus’ way of life in exchange for non-religious companionship, if only for a day or two. After all, he thought, this is supposed to be a vacation. And besides, pondered Father Dick, he would surely get a chance to know this man better in the next two days, so why prejudge him before he had his say. Priests were trained to be good listeners and Jack appeared, to Father Dick, to be an extrovert, very outspoken and likely to reveal himself at some point before his flight left Haiti.

  At 3:00 p.m. the bus approached the outskirts of the town and stopped at the entrance to the mission compound. When Jack first laid eyes on the mission area, he probably thought about going back to Port-au-Prince and taking his chances at the hotel. Father Dick had told him that the facilities were primitive but that the mission was a paradise when compared to the native conditions in the area. But Jack had seen worse, Father Dick was certain, as the bus stopped to let them out.

  Beyond the large wooden structure, similar to Army barracks, both men could see children gathered together listening to a white-haired, very tanned priest dressed in a long white robe.

  “Father McNeil, I’d like you to meet Jack Bumpus. I met him in the city and he was helpful to me after I nearly was hit by a car,” shouted Father Dick. He shouted because Father McNeil was hard of hearing and hearing aids cost money, money that could be used to buy more food, clothing and tools for the local residents in need.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bumpus. Anyone who helps out a friend of mine is welcome here anytime. Are you hurt, Dicky?” asked Father McNeil with genuine concern for his friend’s well-being.

  “No, no, I’m fine, Eddie, more embarrassed than anything. Jack wants to stay with us for a couple of days before his flight back to the States, if that’s okay with you? He’s even offered to pay a hundred dollars to the mission to help out.”

  “One hundred dollars? Do you know what that kind of money can do over here?” gleamed Father McNeil, a man in his mid-fifties, whose years in the hot sun had added too many wrinkles to his appearance. “Let’s go inside to the kitchen and have some iced tea. I also have some wine and brandy if you’d rather have that,” motioned Father McNeil as they headed for the priest’s quarters in a small building adjacent to the wooden one.

  The mission was small, three buildings in all, but it was clean. The left side of the main building served as a local clinic and was run by three nuns from the Presentation of Mary order. No major ailments were treated there but it took care of emergencies and infections that set in from time to time; and besides, it was free. The right side of the building was a chapel and part-time school during the da
y. Adjacent to the building, on each side, were two old Quonset huts, each with screened-in porches added to the front. One was used to house the nuns and to store food and supplies received from the States for distribution to the people in the district. The other was Father McNeil’s house and the kitchen for feeding needy people at evening meals. It was furnished with wooden tables and benches, assorted chairs, and counters where food was served cafeteria style. Electricity was restricted to a few overhead lighting fixtures and several extension cords connected to one or two outlets against a wall.

  “Not the greatest accommodations for you, Mr. Bumpus, but we’re not here for a vacation or to live in luxury,” Father McNeil said as the three walked through the open kitchen area to reach the living quarters at the rear of the building. “We’re lucky, though. We’ve got some electricity and I’ve got a generator out back when the electricity goes out more often than not. That’s more than the other two missions on the island have; so, I’m more fortunate than they are.”

  “What’ll it be folks, iced tea or spirits?” Jack Bumpus passed on the tea and settled for a brandy while the two others had iced tea. After several minutes of assurance that Father Dick was not hurt in any way, Father McNeil turned his attention to Jack Bumpus. “We don’t get too many visitors here, Mister Bumpus, except for fellow priests who spend a week or so down here to get a break from their rich parishes up North,” Father McNeil stated with curiosity in his voice. “What brings you to this tropical paradise you see before you?”

  “I’m a representative from a textile manufacturer in North Carolina who’s been thinking of opening a plant in Haiti, Father, and I just came down to explore the possibilities. I’ve been meeting with local officials in Port-au-Prince.”

  Father Dick’s face turned pale in amazement and he immediately turned away from Jack Bumpus and stood up to face Father McNeil. “Eddie, why don’t I show Jack where he’s going to sleep and he can put his luggage there and freshen up before we get ready for dinner.”