Toby took a long drink of water. He wished it was whiskey and Coke instead. Despite making him gravely ill, he remembered how the drink had calmed him early on in the night, how it had made him feel tingly and weightless and carefree, like he was fearless and could do anything.
That’s how he wished he was feeling now, instead of a giant ball of nerves. “Well, I thought it was about time I...” Toby cleared his throat, took another sip of water. “I just wanted to say, you know, thanks, for what you did for me. You must think I’m rude, not coming over here sooner, but I really appreciate what you did.”
Toby groaned inside. That ‘thank you’ had sounded so lame, so trivial compared with the magnitude of Mr. Joseph’s act.
But Mr. Joseph smiled thinly and nodded. “You’re very welcome Monsieur Fairchild. I’m just sorry I couldn’t help your friend.”
Toby shrugged. “There was nothing you could’ve done. Frankie was... well, there was nothing you could’ve done.”
“Hmmm,” Mr. Joseph said, looking down at the table. “I guess not.”
There was a moment of silence between them, and Toby noticed then how quiet it was inside the house; there was no clock ticking, no TV or radio humming in the background—it was too quiet. Toby shifted again in the chair.
So, is that it? Can I go?
“So, how are you feeling?” Mr. Joseph said, looking up. “Are your injuries healing okay?”
Toby nodded. “Yeah, they’re healing fine. I still feel a little stiff and sore, but I can walk around now. In fact, I walked all the way over to the cemetery today. To visit Frankie’s grave.”
“Was that the first time you had visited your friend’s grave?”
“Yeah. Pretty lame, but I just couldn’t face going there until now, you know?”
Mr. Joseph gazed at Toby, and it was like the old man was staring straight through him. His eyes were like black marbles and Toby was taken aback at how deep with nothingness they were. “Yes, I know,” Mr. Joseph said.
Toby blinked. “You do?”
“I know what it’s like to lose a loved one. I know how it feels to leave loved ones behind and the fear of wanting to go back to them, but being afraid to face them at the same time.”
Toby finished off the glass of water. “Yeah,” Toby said, tears welling up, though he tried his hardest to stop them.
“Would you like another drink?” Mr. Joseph asked.
Toby looked to the empty glass. Answering no would probably put an end to this conversation and he’d most likely get up and leave; answering yes would indicate Toby wasn’t ready to leave yet.
Toby chose his words carefully.
“Yeah, I guess,” he said, and noticed the gentle surprise in the old man’s face.
Mr. Joseph took Toby’s glass, got to his feet and shuffled over to the sink. When he came back, he not only brought the full glass of water, but the bottle of rum and a second, empty glass. He sat down, placed the water in front of Toby. He was about to pour rum into his glass when he stopped. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Toby shook his head. “Not at all. It’s your house.”
Mr. Joseph half-smiled. “This isn’t my house. A house is a home. And my home is...” He stopped, glanced at Toby and poured a tall glass of white Rhum Barbancourt. He took a sip, closing his eyes and shuddering as he did. When he opened them, he said, “Rum is like water where I come from.”
“Where’s that?” Toby asked.
“Haiti,” Mr. Joseph said, and darkness swept over his face. “Haiti is where I’m originally from.”
“Where’s Haiti?”
“It’s near Cuba, it’s part of the Caribbean.”
“Oh,” Toby said, unsure exactly where Cuba was. He knew it was somewhere near Florida, but he couldn’t picture where in relation to Florida Haiti was. It sounded like a strange, exotic place. He pictured palm trees and beaches and beautiful women wearing hardly any clothing.
So Mr. Joseph is from Haiti. He thought of some of the places he and the other kids used to speculate Mr. Joseph hailed from: outer space, man-made from some mad scientist, even from the bowels of Hell itself.
“It’s only a tiny country,” Mr. Joseph continued. “Together with the Dominican Republic, it makes up the island of Hispaniola.”
“Oh,” Toby said again, wishing he had paid more attention in Geography class. “Sounds beautiful,” he said.
Mr. Joseph chuckled. It was a low, throaty sound, almost dusty, like it hadn’t been aired in years. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you. It’s just... to hear Haiti being called beautiful... I guess it is beautiful; some parts of it, anyway. Do you know what a Third World country is, Monsieur Fairchild?”
At least he didn’t have to look like a complete dweeb. He nodded. “Like Somalia?”
“Right,” Mr. Joseph said. “Well, Haiti is a Third World country, one of the poorest in the world. A lot of it has to do with...” Mr. Joseph smiled, took a nip of rum. “Well, it’s a long, complex history, Monsieur Fairchild. Trust me, it’ll bore you to tears.”
Toby smiled back, grateful for Mr. Joseph’s thoughtfulness; he wasn’t in the mood for a history lesson. But he was curious about a few things. “Why do you keep calling me mis...mis...?”
“Monsieur? It means mister in French.”
“Is that what they speak in Haiti?”
“Well, they mostly speak Creole there. It’s like French...only slightly different.”
“Oh. So which part of Haiti are you from?”
“I was born in a small town called Pignon. That’s roughly in the middle of Haiti. Look, I’ll show you.”
With one bony finger, Mr. Joseph drew an imaginary diagram on the table.
“Haiti is like a crab’s claw. The south is the longer pincher. See?”
Toby nodded.
Mr. Joseph jabbed his finger a few times on the table. “I lived here. Slightly north of the middle.”
“What’s it like in Haiti? Desert?”
“Oh no,” Mr. Joseph said. “Mountainous. There are mountains all over. But there are also plains, farmland where they grow a lot of rice and coffee. The area where I lived is known as the central plateau region. There’s a lot of farms there, where they grow produce and raise cattle.”
“Is that what you did? Grow produce?”
“Yes. I started working in fields, helping my papa, when I was twelve.”
Toby’s eyes widened. “Twelve? Why did you start so young?”
“I had to. We were poor. Most kids in Haiti work. It’s a lot different country than America, Toby. A lot different. I worked as a farmer for almost sixty years. It’s where I met Mangela, when I was thirty-four.”
“Who’s Mangela?”
Mr. Joseph lowered his gaze. “My wife,” he said, softly.
Mr. Joseph is married?
This was news to Toby. He had never heard anyone mention Mr. Joseph having a wife—was she the loved one he had left behind?
“I didn’t know you were married,” Toby said.
Mr. Joseph nodded. “A long time ago. Her family moved from Hinche, that’s a little further south than Pignon, to a small plot of land near the town when she was twenty-one. I got to know her family, and I fell in love straightaway. She was more than ten years younger than I was, and beautiful.” His face turned to stone. He stared at the glass of rum for a long time before snapping out of the trance-like state. He downed the rest of the alcohol, poured another glass and said, “But you don’t want to hear about all that. So let’s see, we got married when I was thirty-five, we had a daughter a year later, Felicia. We bought our own plot of land just after Felicia was born, where we grew lots of produce and raised some cattle.”
“Did you like farming?”
“Oh my, yes. Mangela and I both loved it. So did Rachel.” Mr. Joseph glanced at Toby and added, “She was my granddaughter.”
No wonder the old man always looked so sad, so lonely, Toby thought—he had family waiting for him back in Haiti.
/> How many people in Belford knew about Mr. Joseph’s life back in Haiti? Toby wondered. Did anyone?
“Can I ask you something?” Toby said, finishing off his second glass of water.
“Of course, Monsieur Fairchild.”
“I don’t want to seem rude or anything, but why did you leave Haiti? If you have a wife and daughter, I don’t understand why you’re living here?”
“Had a wife and daughter,” Mr. Joseph said. His eyes closed and Toby expected to see tears wash down his cheeks. But they didn’t come. “They’re both dead. As is Rachel.”
Toby’s breath caught in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Mr. Joseph’s eyes remained closed. He poured what was left in his glass down his throat.
Toby winced, imagining the alcohol tasting like turpentine or white hot fire.
“I think, maybe, it’s best you go now,” Mr. Joseph said.
Toby got up from the table.
“Thank you for coming around. It meant a lot to me. Now I can be at peace. Goodbye Monsieur Fairchild.”
When Mr. Joseph neither opened his eyes nor got up to show Toby out, Toby said, “I guess I’ll see you around,” and then he left Mr. Joseph’s house the way he had come.
Outside, he sucked in the balmy summer air and taking one last look at the decrepit old house with the equally decrepit old man living inside, drowning his sorrows in a bottle of rum, Toby started across the street, unaware until he felt the warm tears flowing down his cheeks that he was crying—and unsure of the reason why.
That night, Toby dozed in fits and starts, never in slumber for longer than half an hour before something—a dream, a nightmare, a memory (still more indecipherable flashes from the night of the attack—splashes of blood, a baseball bat—though he now felt like something was trying to push its way to the surface of his memory, something important)—would wake him with a jolt and then he would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he would ever fall into a deep sleep and stay there.
At around two-thirty, drifting somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, he heard a faint pop!
His eyes sprang open. His breath got stuck in his throat. He lay in bed for a few startled moments before he was able to breathe.
Toby had never heard a gunshot before; at least, not in real life, only on TV and in the movies. So the noise could’ve been a car backfiring.
But what he had seen the night of the campout while peering in through Mr. Joseph’s window jammed itself into his head and wouldn’t leave.
Toby sat up, flung the sheet off his body and hopped out of bed. With heart hammering inside his pale, sweat-soaked chest, he walked over to the window, pulled back the curtain and gazed down at the darkened street.
He saw the light immediately. It was the only one on—back side window; the kitchen. With the curtains drawn, the light was muted.
Toby gulped down a nervous breath as the sound of the distant pop echoed in his head.
What if it was a gunshot? What if Mr. Joseph has...?
Toby shivered as he turned away from the window.
He thought back to how sad and defeated Mr. Joseph had looked yesterday (Goodbye, Monsieur Fairchild). He desperately hoped the noise was just a car backfiring, or some kids setting off firecrackers, but his gut told him otherwise.
What should I do? I can’t go back to bed and try and sleep, not after hearing that noise.
He wondered—should he wake his mom and dad and tell them of his fears? No, he wasn’t five years old. He couldn’t run to his mommy and daddy every time he was scared or unsure. It was high time he started taking charge of things himself.
Besides, telling Mom and Dad would mean admitting that I had sneaked over to Mr. Joseph’s that night, that I had spied through his window.
No, there was no need to cause any needless alarm or worry just yet. He would cross that troublesome bridge only when he deemed it necessary.
But I have to know if Mr. Joseph is all right.
Toby was certain that if he were to peer through the kitchen window, he would see Mr. Joseph sitting at the table, drinking tea, or maybe rum, his head intact, no smoking gun lying on the floor. But there was that nagging voice that wondered: what if he wasn’t?
With a deep sigh, Toby bent down and plucked a T-shirt off the floor and slipped it over his body, then pulled on his sneakers. He crept up to the door, opened it slowly, wincing as the hinges squeaked, and then slipped through the narrow gap.
Out in the dim hallway, Toby tread carefully, the window at the far end of the hallway shedding enough light for him to see where he was going. When he reached the staircase, he glanced back at his parents’ room. The door was half open, darkness lay beyond, so he started down the stairs, taking each step one at a time.
He kept as close to the edges as possible, hoping doing so would stop the boards from creaking, and when he stepped onto the floor at the bottom, he breathed a soft sigh of relief and then headed for the kitchen.
Moonlight streamed through the kitchen windows, lighting the room so he was able to tip-toe to the back door without banging into the table or chairs. When he reached the door, he clicked the lock, turned the knob and eased the door open.
A crisp breath of wind slapped him in the face. It had rained for most of the night, dousing the worst of the heat. The rain had stopped now, but the shower had left the pre-dawn air fresh and smelling of wet grass.
Toby closed the back door gently and then made his way along the side of the house, to the street.
This is crazy, Toby thought as he crossed the street and started along the sidewalk, eyes darting between the dark houses and shadowy trees. He had never been outside at this hour; had managed to stay up this late only once before, last summer when he and Frankie had stayed up to watch a Friday the 13th marathon. They had waited until Toby’s parents were asleep, and then had sneaked downstairs. Keeping the volume on low and sitting almost nose-to-screen, they had watched the second half of Friday the 13th Part 2, all of Part 3, and Toby alone had watched Part 4. After watching a young Corey Feldman hack Jason to death, and deciding that was enough blood and slaughter for one night, that staying up till three o’clock was a good effort, he had woken Frankie and together they had headed back upstairs, Toby’s parents none the wiser.
The early morning was deathly quiet, it seemed even the night animals were asleep; the only sound was leaves scraping along the sidewalk, and as he continued towards Mr. Joseph’s, the image of a madman stalking teenagers around a campground suddenly seemed all too real.
He inched along the pavement, passing the Kleins’ sleeping house, soon arriving at the very much awake and ominous house of Mr. Joseph.
Toby stopped, glanced around, saw no one (unless someone is watching from an upstairs bedroom window...) then headed down the side of Mr. Joseph’s house, trying to be as quiet as possible, though certain that Mr. Joseph could hear his footsteps, or even the beating of his heart.
He passed the first window, the family room, which was bathed in darkness, stopping when he reached the second. Toby closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.
Do I really want to look? he thought. What if I see him sprawled on the floor, blood and brains splattered everywhere?
Nerves fluttered inside his gut like angry butterflies were trying to escape.
I have to look. What if he’s hurt? After everything he did for me, I at least owe it to him to look. If he’s hurt, then I’ll go and wake up Dad. Who cares about all the trouble I’ll be in for sneaking around at this time of night, or how I even knew that the gunshot had come from Mr. Joseph’s in the first place.
Toby opened his eyes and stepped up to the kitchen window.
Found he was staring at a wall of pale yellow curtain—this time, he was unable to peek through any gaps.
What now? he wondered.
Did he risk knocking on the door?
What if Mr. Joseph is perfectly fine? What will I say when he opens the door? “Hey, I saw you put a
gun in your mouth last month and I thought I heard a gunshot so I came over to see if you had blown your brains out...”?
Toby sighed.
He considered heading back home, back to the safety of his bed, back to the safety of ignorance.
But he knew there was no way he could do that now. He couldn’t turn around and go back to bed without finding out if the noise had come from Mr. Joseph’s.
So Toby headed around to the back of the house, hoping to be able to see inside from one of the windows there.
The backyard was littered with garbage, the grass was knee high, the small shed shrouded in darkness, but Toby didn’t study any of it too closely. He was much too nervous.
The back door window curtain was also drawn, but not all the way, so Toby stepped up to the door and peered in.
He drew in breath.
Mr. Joseph was on the floor, one arm raised, clutching at a chair, trying to drag himself up off the floor. The other chair was on the ground, legs pointed at the ceiling like a dead animal that had gone belly up.
“Oh my god,” Toby breathed.
He’s hurt, was Toby’s first thought. And then: What if he’s had a heart attack? Or a stroke?
Toby didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the knob, turned, found it unlocked. He pushed open the door and stepped into Mr. Joseph’s kitchen.
The first thing that hit Toby was the smell: like whiskey, only sweeter. And underneath the alcohol was the smell of smoke; well, not smoke exactly, not like cigarette smoke, but a smoky odor.
An empty bottle of rum was tipped over on the table, its contents spilled over the wooden surface and dripping to the floor in a steady drip... drip... drip... There was a pool of clear liquid on the floor near the table.
“Mr. Joseph, are you all right?”
A tired, strained voice answered: “Toby?”
“It’s okay, Mr. Joseph. Hang on.”
“No,” Mr. Joseph said. “Toby, go away.” He sounded exhausted, on the verge of a breakdown.
Toby was about to step forward and help the old man up. But then Mr. Joseph turned towards Toby. Toby froze, a scream caught in his throat.
The Awakening Page 21
