Cross Current (24 page)

My attention was jerked away from the dancers when the door opened and Racine Toussaint marched out and crossed the yard to the thatched hut. Who was with Solange?

“Martine, excuse me,” I interrupted her. “I have to get back to see how Solange is doing. I get worried when I can’t see her.”

“She’ll be fine. In fact, she will be very much better after this. You will see. There are not many children like her who get a
lave tete
." She took hold of my arm and held it fast.

I jerked out of her grasp. “What do you mean?”

She exhaled a puff of air. “Seychelle, she is a street child. A
restavek
. There are thousands of them in Haiti.” There was something about the way she said the word
restavek
, spitting it out, as though she despised even the word.

“So what? Is that supposed to make her less human?” Martine pursed her lips and turned to watch the dancers. “Martine, I’m going back inside.”

“Okay,” she said, and blew out air through her mouth in disgust. “Go on. And if you see that empty-headed niece of mine—Juliette—tell her to get out to the car and wait for me.”

For such a stocky woman, she was fast. She took off and disappeared into the dancing crowd, leaving me certain that I had offended her somehow.

Just as I reached the door with the black cross, I saw Juliette frantically waving me over.

“Juliette, your aunt wants you to go to the car.” I felt like an idiot talking to the ficus hedge.

“Please, come.”

I dropped my head and sighed. After a quick check to see if anyone was watching, I plunged into the bushes.

On the other side of the hedge, a chain-link fence bordered on an alley. We were standing next to Racine and Max’s plastic garbage cans, and it didn’t smell like Erzulie’s perfume anymore. “Okay, what is it, Juliette?”

“The boat
Miss Agnes
."

With that, she had my total attention. “What about it? Do you know someone who was on that boat?”

The girl appeared frightened. She kept tugging at her dress and glancing at the building next to us as though she were afraid she might see someone peering around one of the corners. “I know a girl,” she said in a stage whisper. “She is now
restavek
with friend of Madame.”

“She’s a
restavek
here? In the U.S.? But I thought that was only in Haiti?”

Juliette lowered her eyes and breathed deeply, her nostrils flaring. “N
on
.” She said it so softly I almost could not hear her over the drums. “
Restaveks
are here, too.”

As the realization settled in, I began to feel nauseated.

“Juliette, how can I find this girl? I must talk to her. Can you arrange for us to meet?”

She lifted her face and there was an eagerness in her eyes, as though she expected something from me.

“Tomorrow. In the Swap Shop. The booth is Paris Kids.” 

“What time?”

“Anytime. She work all the time.”

“How will I know her? What’s her name?”

She shook her head. “You will know. Now I go. Madame waits.”

“Juliette.” I had to ask, even though I was fairly certain of the answer. “Martine ... she’s not your aunt, is she?”

She looked down again, refusing to meet my eyes.

“But where is your family?” She shrugged her shoulders very slightly but still did not look up.

“Does Martine let you go to school?”

The young girl raised her eyes slowly and smiled with her lips, but in those eyes there was something old and tired and angry. A fat tear pooled and slid down her smooth cheek. 

“Juliette, I’m so sorry.”

I reached out to her, but before I could touch her, she turned and slipped through the hedge.

XVII

I had been leaning against the side of the building, deep in thought, when I heard a child’s scream.

A branch of the ficus hedge caught on a button of my shirt, ripping it. The door flew open as I came around the corner, and a huge man, dressed in black and wearing a black top hat, ran out, raised his left hand, and pushed me hard. My feet flew out from under me, and I fell to the ground, dazed. When I sat up, he was gone. I’d gotten only a brief glimpse of his face, his mustache and goatee. My eyes had been drawn to the sequined design that adorned his hat: a skull and crossbones.

I pushed myself up and ran into the dark room.

The chair was empty, the pots gone, but on the floor, glistening in the candlelight, was a pool of what looked like blood. There was no sign of the child.

I turned and ran out into the yard.

The drummers’ bodies were slick with sweat as their hands danced over the skins stretched taut across their drums. The pounding beats bounced inside my head, and the rhythm became almost painful. I wanted to yell at them to be quiet, but a part of me was afraid.

The dancers ignored me as I pushed through them, searching for Racine or Max. One man tipped back a bottle of rum, filling his cheeks, then sprayed out the liquid and lit it with a disposable lighter. The ball of fire jumped out of his mouth and seemed to come straight for my hair. I leaped away and fell backward into the arms of a man who was jerking and twitching, his eyes rolled back in his head. He kept in perfect beat with the drums. I pushed myself away from him only to feel something smack me on the backside. When I reached around, my fingers closed on the shaft of a cane. Holding the other end was a strange man dressed in raggedy clothes and dancing a silly jig. The other dancers were laughing and pointing as he mugged and joked in Creole. I let go of the cane when I felt a hand on my forearm. The lady in red, the one Martine had called Erzulie, was speaking to me in Creole. I couldn’t understand a word, but when I shouted Racine’s name, she stroked my hair and my face, then put her arm around my waist and led me out of the crowd of dancers. She pointed to the hut and said something in Creole, the only word of which I understood was Racine’s name. I ran across the dirt yard and burst through the door.

“Racine,” I shouted. The tall woman stood alone in the room before an altar with a painting of the Virgin Mary and dozens of candles, bottles of perfume and rum. The altar was decorated with garlands of Christmas tinsel, beaded flags, and pink silk roses. “She’s gone.”

Racine put her fingers to her lips, indicating quiet.

“There’s blood all over, and Solange is gone.”

She placed her hand on top of my head as though I were a little child. “Calm down. Solange is fine. She is resting.” Her gravelly voice was soft and quiet.

“I heard her scream, Racine. Then this huge man in a black suit and hat ran out. He had a skull and crossbones on his hat.”

The look on her face changed to one of concern. “
Bawon
?"

“I’ve seen that skull before. On dark glasses I found on the
Miss Agnes
."

“Come,” she said, nodding her head. “We will see.” She put her hand in the small of my back and pushed me toward the door.

We crossed the yard at a pace that required me to trot to keep up. She walked past the bloody chair without concern and led me to the back of the room. There on the floor, a small mattress and bedding had been laid out. The white sheets were streaked with bloodstains. “We left her here, asleep. She must sleep after the
lave tete
." She shook her head. “It was the
bokor
."

“
Bokor
? What’s that? I don’t understand. Where’s Solange?” The sound of breaking glass caused us both to turn. One of the bottles had fallen off the altar, and the smell of rum filled the room. Then a section of the curtain beneath the altar moved, and a small hand poked out.

“Solange,” I yelled. The broken glass crunched beneath my sneakers as I reached her side. Her eyes looked huge beneath the white scarf that wrapped her head, and I slid my arms under her and lifted her up so her bare feet would not touch the glass. Her white dress was splattered with blood. Until I felt the tears on my cheeks, I had not been aware I was crying.

I set her down on the bed to check her wounds.

Racine, who was standing behind me, said, “She is fine. She is not hurt.”

“But the blood.”

“It is part of the
lave tete
. We kill a white chicken. It is a gift for the
lwa
. The blood is not hers.”

Then Solange pushed her head back and looked up at me, her brown eyes focused. “We go now?” she asked.

My whole body sagged, limp with relief. She was talking again. I wrapped my arms around her and held her. I looked at Racine over the top of her head and mouthed, “Thank you.” She smiled and nodded as though she had never had a doubt that things would turn out this way.

Most of the time I’d felt so awkward not knowing what to do for this child, but hugging her skinny little frame at that moment felt just right. I didn’t care if they had used dead chickens, magic herbs, visiting spirits, or whatever. Solange was back from that place deep inside herself.

“Sure, kiddo,” I said. “We’ll go now.”

Racine accompanied us across the yard, which was still filled with dancers. I carried Solange on my hip, afraid to let her go. Inside the house, Racine put her cool hand on my arm.

“Wait one moment, please,” she said. She motioned toward the couch. “Set the child down a moment. We need to speak.” 

“Racine, I just want to get her home.”

“You are looking for this child’s father,
non
?”

“Yes.” I sat Solange down on the couch and joined her. “Can you help me find him?”

“Perhaps. We are both searching for the same answers, you and I.”

“I don’t understand.”

She took my hand in hers again. “Now it is my turn to trust you.” She paused, as though trying to decide whether to continue. “Many Haitians try to come to the United States. Some make a cooperative and build their own boats. They work together for their freedom, but it can take many years. Others, they pay the smugglers, money-hungry men who sometimes dump their human cargo rather than be captured. People go with smugglers because they feel they cannot wait any longer.”

“But Racine, what does this have to do with Solange?” 

“There are people here who get word when a boat has left Haiti. A watch is kept and when the boat comes ashore, people drive down to help any make it safely ashore. I was there that night, waiting for someone, when the
Miss Agnes
sank.” 

“You were there? Can you put me in touch with anyone who might know her father?”

“No. And Haitians will not be willing to talk to you, but perhaps they will speak to me. I will see what I can learn. People are very frightened now. It is the
bokor
. It is very dangerous for you to be asking these questions.” She squeezed my hand, then let go. “I have something for you.”

She stood and walked into a room at the back of the house. Solange had fallen asleep leaning against my arm. The house was quiet, though the sound of the drums outside grew ever louder. I wanted to get out of there, and I was tempted to just get up and leave. Finally, Racine returned with a small sachet-like bag on a leather thong. She placed it over my head.

“Do not take this off. This is from
La Sirene
. She will help you, protect you from the
bokor
."

I held the bag to my nose and sniffed. It smelled like old seaweed, and I made a face. “What’s in this?”

“Just wear it, and
La Sirene
will be watching.”

I shook my head. “Who is
La Sirene
?”

Racine smiled. “
La Sirene
is the spirit in the sea, and she watches over you. She will protect you from the
bokor
." 

“And what the heck is a
bokor
?"

“Americans think Vodou is about black magic. This is not so for
mambos
and
hougans
. We are healers. But the
bokor
...” She looked away and lowered her head. She spoke very softly. “He is not a healer.”

I rubbed my hand over my eyes and then thought about Racine’s kindness and concern. “It’s a lot to digest in one night, you know,” I said. “People possessed by spirits, animal sacrifice”—I held up the pouch—“and magic seaweed.” I shook my head and attempted to smile.

She pointed to a painting filled with bright-colored animals standing around a large wooden cross. “Many years ago, when the missionaries in Haiti asked the African slaves to worship the cross that Christ died on, the Africans saw it as symbolic of the Crossroads—the divider between the spirit world and ours. The Europeans were pleased when the Africans accepted the cross, but what they did not realize was that though they and the Africans were looking at the same cross, each was seeing something profoundly different.” She stroked my hair, as if I were a child like the one sleeping between us. “Always remember, Seychelle, you will see what your experience has prepared you to see.”

All the way to the car, Racine kept insisting that Solange was supposed to sleep in the
peristil
overnight, that the child needed to stay for the full benefit of the
lave tete
ceremony. The
lwa
would protect her, Racine said, and she argued it was too dangerous to take her away.

I thanked her profusely for helping the girl, buckled Solange into the Jeep, then turned back to face her.

“Racine, you said you were going to meet someone on board the
Miss Agnes
. What happened?”

I could barely make out her features in the dark yard, but I could sense how her body tensed. After several seconds of quiet, I thought she wasn’t going to answer my question. When she spoke, finally, her voice was tight with emotion. “It was my sister. She never made it to shore.”

At the stoplight, waiting to turn onto 1-95, I saw Solange staring into the darkness, the fear raw on her face.

“What happened back there?” I asked. “Why did you scream?”

She turned to face me. “I saw him,” she said.