Over the Waters

by Deborah Raney

  Samantha and the merchant carried on a lively exchange in Creole, and before Max knew what hit him, she was piling his arms full of some sort of yams and huge bunches of overripe bananas. He stood there feeling like a beast of burden while she paid the woman. When she'd secured her fanny pack around her waist, she whipped a large plastic bag out of her market tote, held it open and motioned for him to empty the produce into it.

  He did so, then brushed his hands off before taking the bag from her. What he wouldn't give for his corner sink and a strong dose of Betadine scrub about now. But he slung the heavy bag over his shoulder and took the bucket from Samantha. "Okay, what's next?"

  Before she could reply, they both turned at the sound of loud voices across the street. Max watched as two young men, their arms and necks draped with strings of colorful beads, tried to persuade a blond woman to buy some of their wares. She was accompanied by a young native girl, who was tugging on her arm, obviously trying to get her away from the pushy salesmen.

  The blonde spoke American English and Max thought something about her seemed familiar. "No," the woman insisted. "I'm not interested."

  She turned in his direction and he saw genuine fear on her face. Recognition struck him. It was the woman who'd sat across the aisle from him on the flight from Miami. The one whose luggage had been lost at the airport.

  An unfamiliar sensation washed over him. Guilt? He really should have stayed and made sure she was okay. Well, perhaps this was his chance to make amends for leaving her stranded that day.

  He touched Samantha's arm. "I'll be right back." He took off at a jog across the street. He walked up behind the American and put what he hoped would appear to be a possessive hand on her shoulder. He glared at the aggressive salesmen. "The lady told you she's not interested in what you're selling. Now go on."

  The two vendors looked at each other before they shrugged and wandered off in search of their next victim.

  "Thank you." Her words poured out in a sigh of relief, then recognition lit her eyes. "Oh! It's you. Hi."

  "Yes. Max Jordan." He stepped back and extended a hand.

  "Dr. Max Jordan. We were on the same flight into Port-au-Prince last week."

  "Yes, of course, I remember." Her grip was firm, her hand soft. "I'm Valerie Austin. Nice to meet you. Officially, that is."

  "You, too."

  The Haitian girl spotted Samantha and waved. They must know each other. The girl stood on tiptoe and whispered something in Valerie's ear.

  She nodded. "Okay. Just be sure and wait for me. I'll be right there."

  The girl agreed and darted across the street.

  Max hoisted the bag of vegetables higher on his shoulder. "Did you ever get your luggage? At the airport?" He tried to look sheepish. Unfortunately, it wasn't an expression he'd had much practice at.

  She rolled her eyes. "Actually, no."

  "Really? It still hasn't shown up?" Now he truly felt like a heel.

  She shook her head. "It's probably at the airport. We're hoping to go check on it later today."

  "Oh. Well...I hope it's there. I'm sorry I didn't stick around and help you out that day."

  She brushed off his apology with a wave of her hand. "Oh, my, no. I wouldn't have expected you to stay. There probably wasn't much you could have done anyway. Things don't seem to work quite the same here as we're used to." She gave him a crooked smile.

  "You can say that again." His first impression of her had been miles off base. He'd guessed her to be rather dour and unfriendly. Now she seemed quite the opposite. She looked rested and tanned and, in spite of being a bit shaken after her encounter with the pushy vendors, she appeared quite at home here.

  "So you're...just visiting?" he asked. Haiti wasn't exactly a vacation paradise.

  "I'm here on a short-term mission trip. My church back home in Kansas sent me."

  Her answer didn't surprise him. Was every American here a missionary of some kind? He felt a little disappointed at her response. As though she were the enemy. After all, Joshua had essentially been here as a missionary. "Kansas, huh? I'm from Chicago."

  "Oh, really? My sister lives in Chicago."

  "Is that right? How long will you be in the country?" He was merely being polite. He had no desire to exchange life stories with the woman, and yet, something about her drew him.

  "Another ten days," she said. "How about you?"

  "I'm not certain. I'm just here to help out as I can." He knew it came out sounding far more noble than the entire truth, but he didn't want to launch into the whole explanation about Joshua's death. That would just look like a bid for sympathy.

  "Oh, that's wonderful. There's such a desperate need for doctors and nurses here. Are you with one of the hospitals here then?"

  "No, I'm helping out at an orphanage. Up the road...at Brizjanti."

  She brightened. "Really? I'm in Brizjanti, too! Also at an orphanage. Orphelinat d'Espoir. Hope House."

  "Is that right? I'm still grappling with the fact that a country the size of Haiti would need so many orphanages."

  "Yes. I know. Three in Brizjanti alone. It's sad."

  He nodded agreement. "And I guess that's only the tip of the iceberg. It's kind of mind-boggling."

  She nodded. "It's a shame."

  A look of deep sadness hooded her eyes and he wondered what had prompted it. She shuddered almost imperceptibly, as if to shake off the mood.

  Just then, the Haitian girl who'd been with her jogged back across the street. The American woman--Valerie--put her hand on the girl's arm. "Jaelle, this is Dr. Max--" She laughed nervously. "I'm sorry. I've forgotten your name already."

  "Jordan," he supplied, nodding in the girl's direction.

  "Good day," she said in English, flashing brilliant white teeth.

  He cleared his throat and readjusted the bag on his shoulder. "Well, I should let you two go. It was nice to meet you...Valerie, and...Jaelle is it?"

  The girl nodded vigorously, giggling.

  "I hope your trip goes well," Valerie said.

  At that moment, an explosion of gunfire rocked the pavement. He whirled back around.

  The Haitian girl screamed and clung to Valerie, who stood with eyes wide and mouth agape.

  Max stared down the street where the eruption had originated. Black smoke billowed up from the middle of the roadway. A small crowd ran toward them in a human stampede. Behind them the smoke grew thicker and flames shot into the air.

  Max spun around, searching for Samantha and Madame Duval and the others. Not seeing any of them, he shifted the bag to his back and threw a protective arm around each of the frightened women beside him. "We'd better get out of here!" he shouted above the din. "Follow me...This way!"

  Chapter Twelve

  The blood pounded in Valerie's ears as she and Jaelle huddled in Dr. Jordan's shadow. A series of explosions blasted behind them, rattling the shop windows and making the pavement beneath them quake. Time stood still for a split second. And in an instant, a panicked river of bodies caught up the three of them and flowed down the dusty thoroughfare.

  They were running, running, the doctor urging them on, almost shoving them, until they became part of the whirlpool of chaos.

  "This way!" Dr. Jordan cut a corridor through the mass of bodies to the edge of the street, propelling Valerie and Jaelle away from the center of the crowd. To their right stood a row of dilapidated shops. He steered them into a narrow alley between two of the buildings.

  He pushed them deeper into the shadows of the cinder block walls, then scrambled to the opening, and crouched there.

  Beside her, Jaelle whimpered, and Valerie put an arm around her, trying not to let the girl see her own fear.

  "It's okay. We're safe," Valerie whispered to the girl, her breath coming in short gasps. "What happened?" she asked Dr. Jordan.

  He turned to glance at her. "I'm not sure." He, too, was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with each intake of air. Perspiration beaded his forehead
. "It sounded like gunshots, but I didn't see who fired them. I...I think we'll be safe here."

  "Where is Pastor Phil?" Jaelle cried.

  "I don't know. I didn't see him," Valerie said. "But God will watch over him. It'll be okay." She wished she felt more confident of her words.

  A young Haitian couple ran into the alley with a small boy.

  "Do you know what happened?" Dr. Jordan asked the man.

  It was obvious from his furrowed brow that he didn't understand the doctor's English.

  "Jaelle." Valerie urged the girl forward. "Ask him if he knows what happened."

  The girl spoke to the couple and they both started talking at once, motioning wildly with their hands. Finally Jaelle turned to Valerie. "He says that some men set up a--" she struggled to find the right English word "--a barrier...a block in the road--"

  "A barricade?"

  "Yes. That is it. When the police came, the men shooted at them."

  Max and the young father motioned for the women to stay back while they went together to the end of the alley. They stared into the street, side by side, neither speaking. After a minute they walked back toward the waiting women.

  The young man comforted his wife and little boy, while Max told Valerie and Jaelle, "The shooting seems to have stopped, but I don't know whether it's safe to be on the streets yet. I think we should wait here until we're sure things are under control."

  They followed him back to the alley's entrance and stood in the shadows watching the commotion on the streets. Police vehicles rolled through the potholed road honking at the people who milled there now.

  The pandemonium had changed to an aura of excitement. The air was punctuated with shouts. Valerie could only make out a few words, but Jaelle translated.

  "People are saying the university students started fires in the street." She pointed to the west. "See? They are burning tires to create a barricade."

  It wasn't clear whether the shots had been fired by the students or the Port-au-Prince police. Just before Christmas, Valerie had read in the Kansas City Star about several people being killed while protesting in opposition marches. This sounded like more of the same. She'd never dreamed, reading those dispassionate news accounts in the comfort of her apartment, how soon the violence would affect her personally. Pastor Phil had said that Americans or regular citizens were rarely targeted in the protests, but too many innocent shop owners and bystanders had been killed or seriously wounded. No one was safe when clashes like this broke out.

  Suddenly, Jaelle jumped up and waved her arms wildly, shouting. "Pastor Phil!" She darted from the alley like a cat in pursuit of a mouse. Without a word, Dr. Jordan ran after her. He grabbed her by the arms and pulled her back into the safety of the alley.

  "It's too dangerous!" He turned to Valerie. "Did she understand?"

  Jaelle nodded solemnly. "I understand. But look--" She pointed across the street.

  Pastor Phil was walking slowly up the street, his eyes shaded with one hand, his gaze roving every direction, obviously searching for them.

  "It's Phil Greene, the man who runs Hope House. He and his wife came with us to the market."

  "You stay here. I'll let him know you're safe."

  She nodded, and Jaelle followed suit.

  "Watch for my signal. If it appears to be safe, I'll wave you out."

  He stepped from between the buildings, looking cautiously both ways, before he went into the street. "Pastor Phil! Phil Greene!" he shouted.

  Valerie and Jaelle watched from the side of the shop as Pastor Phil glared at this stranger shouting at him.

  "They are safe," Dr. Jordan called across the street. "Valerie and Jaelle are here. Look!" Again, he checked both ways down the street before jogging to meet Pastor Phil.

  Valerie listened to the men's muffled voices and tried to make sense of their exaggerated hand motions as they spoke. Dr. Jordan pointed back toward the alley.

  "Wave, Jaelle, so they know we're okay." They both waved and Valerie gave a strained smile.

  But Dr. Jordan didn't beckon them. Instead, he and Pastor Phil crossed the street together. As they approached, Valerie could see deep lines of worry etched on the pastor's face.

  "I can't find Betty and the girls," he told Valerie.

  "We'll help you look," Dr. Jordan said. "I'm looking for someone, too. Samantha Courtney. We came with Marie Duval and two girls from Madame Duval's home."

  "I know Samantha and Marie," Pastor Phil said. "We'll find them. Valerie, you go with Dr. Jordan. He won't recognize Betty or the girls. We'll cover more ground this way. Do you speak Creole, Dr. Jordan?"

  "No. None at all," he said. "I'm sorry."

  "Then Jaelle should go with you."

  "Okay. We'll meet you right back here in thirty minutes."

  "Good. Be careful," Pastor Phil said. "If things heat up again, don't try to find me. Just get the girls back to Brizjanti."

  "Right." Dr. Jordan gave a half salute. "Good luck."

  Pastor Phil returned the gesture. "I'll be praying for you."

  Dr. Jordan gave a brief nod. "Yes...um...thank you."

  Valerie took in his pained expression and wondered why the doctor seemed so unnerved at the idea of prayers being offered on his behalf.

  Max watched Pastor Phil head down the street. "What does the reverend's wife look like?"

  "Madame Phil? She's petite, gray hair...She's probably in her late fifties, maybe early sixties..." Valerie shrugged and turned to Jaelle. "Do you remember what she was wearing today, Jaelle?"

  The girl closed her eyes and thought for a moment. "A red blouse, I think. Yes. And her skirt. What do you call it? The one she wears often. Blue. Like that." She pointed to Max's blue jeans.

  "Oh, yes." Valerie turned to him. "Denim. She had on a long denim skirt."

  "Okay. And there are two girls with her?"

  "Yes. Mary and Yvette. They're probably twelve or fourteen. Mary had a faded blue bandanna on her head."

  The image brought Max up short. The last pictures he had of Joshua showed him sitting in the Haitian sun with a faded blue bandanna tied like a sweatband around his forehead. He'd worn a smile a mile wide in those photographs. It had bothered Max, seeing him so happy. And bothered him even more that it bothered him so. What father didn't want to see his son happy?

  "Dr. Jordan?"

  Valerie's voice startled him. He shook his head to clear it.

  "I'm sorry. Yes?"

  "What does Samantha look like? That was her name, wasn't it?"

  "Yes. She's American, about your height and weight. Light hair. She's very young. She must be in her early twenties, but she could pass for a teenager. And Marie Duval is a large Haitian woman, tall, very dark-skinned. She has two girls from the orphanage with her. Here...Let's go this way." He started down the street in the opposite direction Pastor Phil had gone.

  "Stay close, Jaelle," Valerie said, pulling the girl to her and following behind. "We don't want to lose you, too."

  The girl nodded soberly and moved closer to Valerie.

  As they walked, they watched store owners hurriedly close and lock their doors, sliding the security gates across the entrances. The street vendors frantically packed their wares and folded up their kiosks. Smoke from the barricade continued to billow into the sky and the streets remained in turmoil as people called out for those they'd been separated from. Police vehicles cruised back and forth, trying to maintain order.

  Max followed the women and the three of them walked for several minutes, craning their necks to look down each alley and through the steel gates into the shop doors.

  Jaelle coughed as the wind changed directions and blew a gust of acrid smoke in their faces.

  Max pulled a wrinkled handkerchief from his back pocket. He unfolded it, shook it out and handed it to her. "Here, put this over your mouth. It'll make it easier to breathe." He turned to Valerie. "I'm sorry I don't have another one."

  Her eyes were watering from the smoke, but she shook
her head. "It's okay. I'll be fine." She pulled up the collar of her blouse and buried her face in it.

  He followed suit, pulling his shirttail up and breathing through it.

  They hurried along the street, none of them speaking, lugging the market bags they'd escaped with.

  As they got farther from the marketplace, things quieted down. Here and there people stood in front of the buildings, shading their eyes and watching the smoke rise over the city. But the sense of urgency had gone.

  "Maybe we should turn back. They surely wouldn't have gone this far, would they?"

  Valerie's brow creased. "I don't think so. Oh, I hope they're all right. I know Madame Phil will be worried sick."

  "I'm sure they're fine." It sounded like an idle platitude even to him, but he didn't know what else to say.

  They kept walking, but when they came to the alley where they'd taken shelter, the street was empty.

  He adjusted the bag of vegetables on his shoulder and rested his hands on his hips, out of breath.

  Valerie shaded her eyes and turned on her heel, scanning the streets in all directions. "Oh, dear...Now what?"

  "I'm not sure." He looked at his watch. "It hasn't been quite thirty minutes yet."

  People were still milling in the street, but things had quieted down a bit. "Let's wait here. If they don't show up in a few minutes, we'll--"

  "There they are!" Jaelle shouted. She took off down the street, her slender black legs kicking up the hem of her skirt as she ran.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Valerie's worried expression turned to joy, and Max turned to see a gray-haired woman and two adolescent Haitian girls hurry toward them.

  "It's Madame Phil!" Valerie called over her shoulder as she ran after Jaelle.

  Max sprinted to catch up.

  "Oh, thank the Lord!" The elderly woman threw her arms around Valerie and Jaelle. "Have you seen Phil?" The pastor's wife looked distraught.

  Max stepped in. "We saw your husband a few minutes after we heard the gunshots. He was fine."