She hadn’t. They sat on opposite ends of a bench. Samuel found out why she wanted to see him, her eyes—always her eyes—directing the full force of what she said into his heart.
“Pregnant?”
“That’s right, or actually, what’s wrong. I have an appointment tomorrow for an abortion. I wanted you to know.”
“I’m the father?”
“I wouldn’t call you that. But you are responsible.”
He thought about Sarah, her little hands and toes, how peaceful she looked when asleep. He wanted to take his child fishing. Samuel never fished, but he knew he would with his son, the boy wearing a baseball cap, the two of them sitting in a rowboat, talking and laughing, tumbling over each other when Gary, the name he would give him, caught a big one! A baby boy…He was sure it was a boy…
“I don’t want you to do this,” he said.
“So what? It’s not your decision.”
“I have a right—”
“You have no rights. I’m the one who’s pregnant.”
“With Peter’s bastard,” he blurted out.
“Fine, if that makes you feel better. I didn’t come here to argue, just to let you know.”
“Why?”
“So you’ll remember.”
“Kate, I can take care of the baby. Let me have him.”
“Him? An it? Thank you, but that wouldn’t work.”
“I’ll hire someone to help me—”
“A baby would keep us in a relationship forever. That’s not going to happen.”
Samuel felt the weight of her words, thrown like stones, crush his heart. The final end of love for Kate. A sadder loss, the certain death of his unborn child.
“Don’t think this is easy for me,” she said, her voice trembling.
“Do you need a ride?” he asked robotically. “Money?”
Kate got up and walked away.
Alone, Samuel reached out for the son he would never know.
The Night Crawler did nothing for his friend. He asked me, was that a sin? This is my child. I can call Mr. Smith…
Powerless to change what would happen, he waited for tomorrow.
21
Two days later, Samuel went to the Baptist church and again sat in back. After the Sunday service ended, he stayed in the room.
Portly, with a round, friendly face and pale eyes, the Pastor came over and introduced himself.
“I’m John Williamson.”
“Samuel Baas,” and they shook hands.
“Are you waiting to see me?” the Pastor asked.
“If you have time.”
“All the time we need. May I sit down?’’
Samuel moved over.
“How can I help you, son?”
“This isn’t easy…”
“I’m not here to judge you.”
“I was dating a girl. We made love…more than once. I wanted to get married first, but that didn’t happen. She became pregnant and had an abortion. I’m ashamed, I feel guilty. Most of all, I’m very sad. I helped create a life that will never be.”
“You have a good heart, Samuel. I’m afraid most young men in your position wouldn’t feel this way. Yes, you have sinned. That’s the heaviness you feel. You and your girlfriend made choices and are responsible for the consequences. As Baptists, we believe each person is accountable before God. But there is hope through Jesus Christ. Salvation requires having faith in him, his death and resurrection. Are you a Christian?”
“I’m not anything,” Samuel answered.
“You are God’s child,” the Pastor said. “Faith alone can save you. Through the waters of baptism your sins are forgiven. You arise cleansed and reborn.”
I tried that in the Gables Court pool, Samuel thought.
“I will be forgiven?” he asked.
“If you believe in Christ’s sacrificial death,” the Pastor answered.
“Rebirth for me, but my son stays dead.”
“Son?”
“The child…”
“The wages of sin are death,” Pastor Williamson stated, his pale eyes now completely colorless as a burst of bright light though the stained glass window turned the room even whiter.
Samuel got up and left.
In front of his apartment door he found a package wrapped in brown paper and string. He read the attached note.
Hi Samuel,
I’m not there to walk with you but I know you also enjoy art.
I hope you like this.
I thought it best if I moved.
You are a great guy. I will miss you.
Kate
Samuel opened the package. The colors of the painting matched what he saw in his heart.
Two silver leaves floated down together from a black tree.
At Kate’s apartment, the new managers, a skinny man and woman, carried cleaning supplies and a vacuum cleaner inside.
22
Summer again, the hot brightness briefly replaced by afternoon downpours, black and sudden, the short-lived expulsion of rain and lightning leaving behind sticky humid air.
Before moving from Gables Court, Samuel called Mr. Smith and had Gary’s Stallion delivered to the home of the company’s bankrupt owner. Men in dark suits stacked the cans against the front door.
In his new apartment south of Miami, Samuel lived in a complex with hundreds of units, all the buildings looking the same. No one used the pool or tennis courts. Cars in crowded parking lots glistened in rows as shiny as sardines. Tenants knew their neighbors only as names on mail slots.
Although the Lucite furniture he bought made the standard dimensions and white wall layout of his apartment look like the waiting room in a dentist’s office, Samuel didn’t care about the décor. Pleased he had a working air conditioner in the bedroom and instead of a broken accordion wall a solid one with a door he could close, he spent most of his evenings reading in bed. Sealed in, no traffic sounds, one small light, he would often glance up from his comics and looking at the painting Kate had given him, remember her…her eyes…her touch…
Sometimes he played his only record, waiting, in the drift of gray, for James Taylor’s line, But I always thought I would see you again…
Samuel decided to quit Stavros’ law firm.
“Are you sure?” the attorney asked, the gold in his office expanded beyond the wallpaper to gilded framed paintings of cowboys, Indians, dogs playing poker and, on black velvet, a sun-baked Parthenon. He glittered too, his silk tie and cufflinks as shiny as the golden top of his walking stick. “We are doing very well. In a year Baxter will be gone and we’ll have his land, what’s left of his money, and can start building our first casino. You’re very bright. You learn quickly. There’s no limit to how successful you can be with us.”
“Thank you, Mr. Stavros, but I want to do something else.”
“Which is?”
“Open my own law office.”
“That’s ambitious! Have you discussed this with your father?”
“No…”
“I’m sure if he knew, he would want you back in Boston practicing law there. He’d refer you clients. Father and son, working together. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Samuel didn’t answer.
“I see…Well then,” Stavros stood, Samuel getting up quickly, the wide desk between them.”
Mr. Smith walked over from where he had been sitting in a corner of the room.
“Remember what I told you.
Don’t be a putz.”
His sunglasses on, he waited at the office door, locked it after Samuel left.
After closing his vacation and expense accounts and adding to the sums withdrawn proceeds from sale of the Corvette, Samuel sent a check in the total amount to his father. He bought an old car and began paying his South Miami rent. Able to find affordable office space in a building, mostly apartments, located between a small grocery and used furniture store in Little Haiti, his two, street level rooms smelled of cooking grease, garlic, onions, fried goat meat, and plantains, the odors wafting down from the rooms above. In his reception area, its walls peeling and water stained, two plastic chairs faced a small desk. His desk, also small, wobbled. He had two metal folding chairs, one for himself, the other for potential clients.
His first client, a heavily perfumed woman in a low cut blouse and short skirt, sashayed into his office, her pink, plastic, high heeled shoes clicking on the linoleum floor.
“You the lawyer?” she asked.
Samuel stood to greet her.
“Yes ma’am,” he answered.
“Ma’am,” the man behind her laughed, his wide brimmed hat, silk shirt, and rhinestone studded jeans, all bright purple. “Heard her called many things before, never that.”
“Cop pulled me over,” the woman told Samuel. “There were others girls doing the same, but the prick busted me. Doesn’t seem right.”
“It’s not,” Samuel said. “It’s called selective enforcement.”
“Yeah, that’s what I mean!” She flashed a gold tooth smile at the man. “Selective force men! So can get me off?” she asked Samuel.
“I can try. What were you pulled over for? Speeding? Taillight?”
“It was her taillight, for sure,” the man answered. “Big ass one.”
“I wasn’t driving, honey.” Black lined, false eyelash heavy, her eyes showed she was now the teacher. “I’m a working girl. Got my regular corner right on Biscayne Boulevard near the motels. Maybe you’ve seen me.”
“I don’t think so…”
“Wasn’t looking or I’m not pretty enough? Now don’t get all red faced. I’m just teasing. You gonna take my case?”
“I can represent you.”
“I need a lawyer too,” the man said. “I didn’t take a dime from her. I was just there saying hello.”
He became Samuel’s second client. They offered to exchange her services for representation in both cases. Samuel agreed to accept $50 instead.
Most days the only people he saw were the ones who came in to use the bathroom.
Samuel knew he needed to find a cheaper place to live and liked the idea of moving closer to his work. It seems disrespectful to have a nice apartment when those he wanted to help lived a tumbledown life. He found a room to rent in one of the large, but faded homes across Biscayne Boulevard, the owner, Mrs. Damour, an old woman widowed years ago and her son dead. Before moving in, Samuel cleared away the overgrown weeds and cut the grass.
To brighten his office, he painted the walls, cleaned the floor, bought plants and a fish tank.
“I’m not feeding them,” the woman said, walking in, carrying her typewriter. “You want fish, you take care of them.”
“Vera!” Samuel stepped forward to hug her, stopped as she shoved the typewriter at him.
“Find a place for this, and not on that shitty desk. Looks like it’ll collapse if you breathe on it. If you think I’m working there, you’re crazy.”
“Work for me?”
“No, I just like carrying a typewriter around. Come on, Baas, don’t act stupid.”
“This is great, Vera, I could really use your help. The problem is, I’m not really making much. Maybe someday…”
“Did I say I need your money?” Vera glared at him. “Put the typewriter down and get me some cigarettes. Pass out your business cards while you’re at it. I’m going next door to see if I can buy a descent desk and chair. Doubt I’ll find anything. That place is a dump too.”
Samuel hurried to the grocery store.
Summer became fall, Miami’s brightness undiminished by the slightly cooler air. In his office, Samuel studied immigration law.
A perfect accompaniment to Vera’s hoarse voice, the intercom crackled.
“There’s a girl here. Says she knows you. Has a complaint about her landlord. Isn’t that a surprise?”
The page of the law book in front of him suddenly blurred. Samuel gripped the edge of his desk.
If I wait, she’ll go away.
He had moved on to a new life. Mrs. Damour made him breakfast, cooked dinner and each night, as they ate, asked him how his day had gone. They sometimes played cards. Business had picked up. While crossing the street to solicit a john, Samuel’s prostitute client had been hit by a car. After getting her a large settlement, she and her boyfriend pimp began referring clients to him. He also represented Haitians seeking asylum.
Samuel had put Kate’s painting in the closet. When thinking about her, it was only to wonder if she, or he, would ever have another child.
I don’t need her…
Vera buzzed again.
“Did you hear me? Are you sleeping?”
“Send her in,” Samuel said.
Memory and undead love pinned him to airless space.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t run.
His heartbeats quickened with each approaching footstep…
“Hey, Sam. I hope you don’t mind me dropping in like this but I checked in the yellow pages for a lawyer and there you were! I’ve got a problem. The bathroom ceiling is caving in where I live and the owner’s taking his time fixing it. I sent him a letter and kept a copy. Are you too busy to see me? I can come back but I’d really like your help now. You look great! Cool suit. Where I work I get a discount on all the cosmetics!”
Green beyond the color of sea glass, to the promise of spring buds, her eyes drew him into their light. What would his father and van Gogh see in them? Spiraling swirls of thick, saturated hues, radiant and exploding into fields in bloom?
I see this too… Maybe colors aren’t gray when the light creating them comes not through the eyes, but the heart.
“Please, have a seat,” he said to Mary and knew he would finally ask her to dance.
Part II
Vase with Dead Leaves
1
Always willing to give her opinion, Vera made a difficult choice for him even harder.
“Are you crazy? Buy a condominium? You’re lucky you can afford toilet paper!”
“I’ve saved a little. The bank’s ready to foreclose. To get a mortgage I have to live there.”
“If you’re going to help someone, help me! Not some worthless drunk you feel sorry for! You’re an idiot!”
Samuel had lived with Mrs. Damour for two years and with her had a home. But Pierre and his wife, Lovely, about to lose their condo, needed money. So Samuel bought the unit from them. On a rainy day, they moved out and he moved in.
Once a week, for a year, Samuel visited Mrs. Damour, shopped for her groceries and mowed the lawn, until all this suddenly ended. Excited to see her, he had brought a chocolate cake, her favorite dessert. No one answered when he knocked on the door. He tried again. A neighbor, walking his dog, told him she had died. Samuel took the cake back to the condominium and opened a bottle of Mateus. The cake with wine tasted bitter.
He often drove slowly past the dark house and remembering her, knew she had loved him. One night, after turning onto her street, Samuel saw a light in the window and thought the impossible.
Out of the car and at the fence, he pushed open the rusting iron gate, its hinges squeaking.
No, this is crazy.
Ready to turn and leave, Samuel stopped when the front door opened.
“If you’re planning on robbing me, you’re a noisy son-of-a-bitch,” the man said while holding onto the door handle for support. “Let me save you the trouble. There’s nothing here worth stealing. If you’re selling something, I’m not buying. If you want to bring me to Jesus, take Him and your goddamn fairy tales with you and get the fuck away!” Coughing, he bent over.
“Are you OK?” Samuel asked. “Should I call a doctor?”
“Fuck you!” Breathing heavily, he slumped down, sat head against his knees.
Samuel hurried to the porch and easily lifted him up.
“…I don’t need shit…” Very thin and frail, he leaned on Samuel who, after helping him inside, then onto the couch, went into the kitchen and brought back a glass of water.
“I can make tea. You’re shivering.”
“You can fucking leave. Let me have it.” He took the glass, drank, swallowing a pill.
Samuel got a blanket from the closet and placed it across the man’s legs.
“How’d you know where to find that?”
“I lived here until last year,” Samuel answered. “This room’s so dark. Let me turn on another light.” He did, just as the man said no.
Samuel snapped the lamp off and stepped back from the couch. He had seen him clearly: thin blond mustache, bright yellow hair, a gaunt face covered with purple spots.
“Pretty, aren’t I? You’re Samuel Baas.”
“Have we met before?”
“You would have remembered. I’m Leo Damour.”
“Mrs. Damour—”
“Was my mother. I found her little notebook. Names. Dates. Rent. All very tidy. You were her last tenant.”
“She told me her son died.”
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