The director’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Is that so?”
“He sent me here himself.” Charlie detected a quiver in her mother’s voice.
The man stood looking at the four women, as if sizing them up in his head. His attention was broken by the sound of a soft thud through the wall behind him. He seemed to jump at the chance to get away. “You must excuse me for a minute. I need to make sure the staff has everything under control.”
Charlie and her mother eyed each other nervously as he backed out of the room.
Senzey dropped down onto a wobbly wooden bench.
Lizbeth took the opportunity to poke around, checking behind curtains and sifting through shelves as though she might find Lukson hidden among the tin plates and cracked cups.
“He is lying,” Senzey said. “I know he is lying. Just like those others were lying to me about Lukson being dead.”
Lizbeth crammed one ear up against the wall, waving a hand at Senzey to be quiet.
“Why do they make it so difficult? I am his mother.”
Lizbeth continued to snoop, her hand jiggling a doorknob. Charlie and April stayed in place, their eyes locked on the doorway through which the man had disappeared.
“How can they live with themselves?” Lizbeth ranted as she looked around the cold, spare room. “Having those children all shut up in a place like this.”
It was then that the orphanage director returned. “Lukson. Yes, I remember now. A chubby baby, with light hair?”
“Where is he?” Senzey demanded, stepping so close to the man that their noses were practically touching.
“Your baby,” he said, as he took a deep breath and folded his hands against his chest, “is gone. Congratulations, he has been adopted.”
38
Bea struggled to keep up with the mambo’s pace, the hem of the long yellow skirt tripping her up and messing with her progress. She had been told to dress in bright colors—no black, no white. Modest, and, most importantly, clean. Worried that the wear she’d already placed on the clothes she’d brought down to Haiti might show, Bea was forced to raid Charlie’s suitcase, knowing that the girl had not even touched any of the nicer things Bea had insisted she pack, instead hopping into her jeans and T-shirts each morning without a thought.
The walk wasn’t far, but it was tricky, and the stray sounds of gunfire here and there weren’t making it any easier. After weaving their way through what, to Bea, felt like a rat’s maze, the mambo finally came to a stop. She handed Bea a piece of cloth, a red blur through the thick lenses of her glasses.
“It is a moushwa,” Mambo Michèle explained. “A scarf, for your head.”
Bea could feel the weight of an evening storm approaching. The mambo had warned her that they could very well be out all night, which was fine with Bea. An invitation to participate in an official Vodou service wasn’t something that was bound to come twice in her lifetime. The brief note she’d left for Charlie and the others would have to suffice. She would explain the rest tomorrow.
After their offering to Èrzulie Dantòr a few days earlier, the mambo had mentioned to Bea that there was one other step they would need to take to make sure they would get the loa’s help. “Sometimes several different kinds of travay are required in difficult situations. You will come with me in two days. Just you, and nobody else. It is our secret.”
Bea had almost forgotten, with the shock of April appearing on the veranda of the Abernathy that morning. They’d ended up spending a long day together at the hotel, a lucky consequence of the street demonstrations. But as April and the others were preparing to leave for the orphanage, the mambo’s invitation had come back to mind. Bea had told them to take care and wished them luck when they finally left, crossing paths with the mambo as she mounted the stairs.
“We are entering the peristil, our house of worship,” Mambo Michèle now told her. “What you will find there will be almost like a party, a party to honor a group of spirits. You are meant to have fun, to enjoy yourself. I am hoping that Èrzulie Dantòr will appear, to speak with you. Did you bring the fruit?”
Bea nodded and patted her tote, which held the mangoes and papayas she’d managed to wangle from Stanley. The fruit was for the loa, an offering to the spirits. The mambo took Bea’s arm and led her inside, where the chaotic signs of last-minute preparations signaled a late start—orders were being shouted out from all corners of the stuffy room, chairs dragged across the floor, the odor of garlic and onions permeating the air.
“Now we sit,” the mambo said. “The Priyè Ginen, the prayers, will begin soon.”
“But that is not possible,” Senzey argued, her fiery eyes locked on the man standing across from her. “I did not sign anything saying you could give my baby away. I have the papers right here.” She took them from her bag and shook them in his face. “That was not the agreement.”
“I am sure you are wrong,” the orphanage director insisted, before turning to Charlie’s mom. “Maybe you can explain.”
“No,” April shook her head. “There is nothing for me to explain. That’s your job. And, I might add, if you did adopt this baby out against his mother’s wishes, it seems to me that it’s something the police would be very interested in. Am I right?”
The man drew back in surprise. “Mrs. Clark, this is simply a misunderstanding, that is all. Perhaps you can come back tomorrow, just you and your husband, and we can talk.”
“We can talk right now. Without my husband.”
“We’ve got all night,” Lizbeth piped in.
“We’re all ears,” Charlie added, taking her phone from her pocket to record a video, making a show of it for the orphanage director’s sake.
“Now, where is that baby?” April demanded, squaring off in front of the man.
Bea sat before the altar with the rest of the congregation, her head bowed and her feet bare. The prayers began in what appeared to be French, one word flowing into the next like a gentle wind blowing across the room, Jésus … Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, the call and response reminding her a bit of a gospel church back home. She closed her eyes through the dozens of verses, the chanting a sweet lullaby to her ears. Then the spoken prayers stopped, replaced by the sounds of a muted rattling, drummers tapping softly on their instruments, and a gentle clapping of hands.
The mambo leaned in to whisper in Bea’s ear. “They are calling out to the spirits,” she whispered. “Making way for them to arrive.”
Bea listened as the voices lifted into song, the room filling with melodies that sounded old, and powerful. And then suddenly, as if someone had spun the dial, everything changed. The drumbeats grew louder, the applause sharper. The songs became faster and shifted in key, the call and response more frantic, the words ringing out in a language Bea had never heard.
“The children are sleeping. This is no time to talk. You must go, now!”
“I’ll be happy to tend to those little ones while y’all have your discussion,” Lizbeth offered, trying to push her way around the orphanage director’s firmly rooted body toward the closed doors behind him.
“That will not be necessary,” he said as he barred the way.
“Where are your records?” Charlie said. “We need to see who took that baby. And we’re not leaving until we do.”
“The records?” The man fumbled his words.
“Who has my boy?” Senzey yelled. “Lukson!” Her shouting blended with the crying of a woken child.
“I’ll bet he is here,” Charlie heard her mother say. “Right here, behind one of those doors.” Charlie turned toward her, trying to figure out what she was up to. “That boy—” Her mother stepped closer to the man, until they were practically touching. “He must be quite valuable, for you to be going to all this trouble.”
The man shook his head. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
“Don’t you dare treat me like a fool,” April snapped. “I know damn well what goes on here, how those children are precious to you o
nly as a way to line your own pockets. A boy like Lukson? He’d be worth ten times more than any of the others. That light hair and those blue eyes must work like a magnet to pull the money out of donors’ wallets. How many sponsors has he attracted, can you tell me that? How many dollars has that baby earned for you?”
The man looked as though a boiling brew were rising up through his body, ready to explode right through his head.
“Let us see the children,” Charlie’s mother demanded. “Now.”
The prayers were over, the chairs cleared away. “It is time to call to the loa to dance with us,” the mambo explained. “If Èrzulie Dantòr comes, I will bring you to speak with her.”
“But what do I say?”
“You tell her your problem. Ask her for what you want.”
The sound of drums brought their conversation to a halt, followed by what seemed like a hundred rattles shaking in time to the beat.
“Anonse o zanj nan dlo,” the voices rang out in song.
“And now we begin,” said the mambo.
“I will call the police!” the man shouted as April pushed her way past him.
“You will call the police?” she laughed. “Go ahead and call them. And while you’re at it, why don’t you call the ambassador? Call the damn president! Bring them all on. I’m not the one with something to hide here.”
Charlie and the others followed as April opened the door to the first bedroom, the smell of urine hitting them like a brick. In the darkness, Charlie could barely make out the tiny bodies lumped together in two and threes, on cots stacked up halfway to the ceiling. Senzey ran from bed to bed, peering at the piles of sleeping children who were all too big to be her own. One little girl, alarmed by the activity in the room, awoke with a start and began to whimper, holding her thin blanket close to her face. Charlie stayed behind for a few minutes as the others moved on to the next bedroom, gently stroking the child’s hair until she fell back to sleep, just like her own mother used to do for her.
Out in the hallway, things were becoming more heated, as the orphanage director continued to threaten the women. “I have already called your husband,” he shouted at April. “He has sent somebody to get you. They are on their way. He told me you have no right to be here.”
The room itself seemed to have come alive, the walls throbbing with drumbeats growing faster and louder, the floor bouncing with the weight of dozens of pairs of feet pounding to the wild rhythms. Bea could not keep herself from joining in. It was as though she were being pulled by invisible hands, swept into the crowd of revelers who were happy to include her as one of their own.
She had no idea how long they’d been dancing, their bodies swaying and twirling back and forth to the melodies, Bea holding up her long skirt with one hand, while the other held fast to Mambo Michèle. At the mambo’s insistence, they’d paused a few times for something to eat and drink, for a chance for Bea to sit and allow her sweat to dry. But Bea had no interest in sitting still. This was one party she was not going to miss.
Faster and faster the beat accelerated, the rattles now producing one continuous purr, the songs thundering across the room. Suddenly Bea felt herself being pulled back by the mambo. Around her she heard gasps and a sympathetic clucking, the sounds of people witnessing another’s ordeal.
“What’s happening?” she shouted above the frenzy.
“It is a woman, she is jerking and falling.”
“Is she okay?”
“We must leave her alone, to allow the spirit to enter.”
Bea stood back, a swirling sea of color thrashing around her, her own heart keeping pace with the pulse of the room, the collective joy and energy an incredible force that seemed to be lifting her soul as high as the clouds. She stood swaying and clapping until she heard the mambo speak her name.
“Madame Bea, it is her. It is Èrzulie Dantòr. It is time.”
Charlie saw her mother visibly pale at the director’s words. And then, as if energized by some remote force, April roared back into action.
“Rights?” she screamed. “How can my husband talk about rights? Neither of you two crooks would know lawful from criminal. Now, where are the rest of the children?”
“There are no more children here. You have seen them all,” the director insisted, standing up to her like a rooster with its chest puffed out.
“Well, you’re going to have to prove that to me.” She pointed to a pair of unopened doors behind him, at the end of the hall. “Who’s going first? You, or me?”
Bea could sense the thick air of the encircling crowd. The drums kept up their driving rhythm; the songs continued to fill her ears. The mambo gently pushed her forward, then let go. Bea stood alone, the room pulsing around her. A sudden breath on her face signaled the loa’s presence. Bea felt two strong hands clamping over her own as she was led into a jerky dance, rocked from side to side by another’s forceful command. A strange clicking arose from the person before her, a sound from deep in the back of the throat. In an instant both Bea’s hands were above her head as she was spun in an awkward twirl that had her stumbling to the ground. And then it was over.
Bam! The door crashed in at the force of their feet. It had been locked. And the orphanage director had refused to open it. What were they supposed to do but kick it in, which they did with the strength of an army of four fueled by anger, determination, and the kind of love that comes from the bonds between woman and child. All it took was one peep from the baby in that room and the door came tumbling down. And there he was, as soft and precious as Senzey had described, his hair a silky halo, his blue eyes wide with surprise. Senzey grabbed him to her breast, looking as though she would never let go.
Lizbeth stood by with her mouth wide open. “Oh my Lord,” she finally said, reaching out one finger to gently stroke the top of his tiny head. “Hello, my sweet baby.” She turned to the others in awe. “He’s the spitting image of his father.”
Charlie saw tears begin to flow from both Lizbeth and Senzey, and felt her own eyes watering.
“We have to get out of here,” her mother said. “Fast.”
The orphanage director stood, speechless, his eyes glued to the broken door torn from its hinges.
“And you,” April said, backing up as the others hustled toward the front door, “don’t you think you’re going to get away with a thing. I’ll be back. And next time, I’m bringing every honest cop I can find who’s not on your payroll, any government official who has the decency to do what’s right, and we will shut this place down. And you and that fucking husband of mine, you are both going to go down with it. I guarantee it.”
Charlie stopped outside the door, waiting for her mother to catch up. And when she did, the woman found herself wrapped up in the hug her daughter had been waiting ten years to give.
39
The sun had not yet risen when Bea showed up back at the hotel. By that time, Charlie and April had both given in to the allure of sleep, curled together on the wicker sofa beneath the veranda’s broad eave, where they had camped out watching for a pair of headlights winding up the hotel driveway that would signal Bea’s safe return.
Their own return to the hotel had caused quite a commotion, with the baby screaming from hunger, and a mad dash through the hotel in a futile search for a bottle. Stanley delivered a pot of warm milk to the table, and Senzey tried to feed Lukson with her finger. The baby, frustrated and starving, screamed even louder. Then Lizbeth took over, attempting to get him to take some milk from a cup, which ended with a soaked dishtowel and not much more. It was Robert who finally came up with the solution of a syringe from the hotel’s first aid kit.
After the baby had calmed, the women retreated to their rooms, Lizabeth carrying a pile of soft, clean cloth napkins, courtesy of the hotel laundry, which would have to suffice for diapers until the next day. Comforted and sated, the baby was tucked up for the night on the mattress between his mother and grandmother, neither of whom were likely to take their eyes off of him for
the sake of a night’s sleep.
It was already late when Charlie and April found Bea’s note, stuck in the doorjamb of the room Charlie shared with her grandmother. Charlie turned the key and flipped on the light, finding her grandmother’s bed empty. April read Bea’s message out loud.
“Off on a mission! Do not worry. All will be fine. Do not wait up. I am in good hands.”
“What the hell?” Charlie hurriedly checked the bathroom, not wanting to really believe her grandmother was missing. “That’s it? That’s all she had to say?” Where could her grandmother have gone at this time of night? And in the middle of a riot? What was she thinking? Charlie rushed out the door and scurried down the covered walkway to Robert’s room, her mother close behind.
“What is it?” he asked, his eyes heavy with sleep. “Is everything okay? Is it the baby?”
“It’s my grandmother. Do you know where she is?” Charlie found herself shaking in the warm night air.
“Madame Bea? I assumed she was sleeping. She is not there?”
Charlie shook her head. “She left a note, but didn’t say anything about where she was going.”
Robert took in a deep breath. “That is strange.” His eyes drifted up toward the full moon above. “But at least the city is quiet, for now.” He placed his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “I am sure you are worried. If you would like, we can call the police, but I would not expect them to do much tonight. I suggest you be patient and wait. Bea will be back. I have a feeling I know what she is up to, and she will be kept safe. Try to be patient,” he repeated.
Charlie’s mother took her arm and led her back downstairs to the veranda. “He’s right, you know.” She sat and patted the cushion beside her.
Charlie sat, her gaze focused on the millions of stars that hung like a canopy across the sky.
“It never has been easy, living with your grandmother.”
Charlie didn’t need her mother to tell her that. How many times over the past year had she found herself the victim of Bea’s stubbornness?
“She always seemed to be one step ahead of everyone else, her intuition telling her more about what was going on with me than I even knew myself.”
Island on the Edge of the World Page 22
