“I appreciate all you’ve done for me, Mr. Sullivan.”
Sullivan stepped back.
“Jesus H. Christ! How long have you known me?”
“A couple years.”
“Do I charge you rent.”
“No sir.”
“What happens to those referral checks you keeping putting on my desk.”
“You rip them up,” Samuel answered.
“That’s because I like you, boy! Apparently you don’t know it, but we’re friends! So take some more friendly advice. All this sir and mister bullshit ends today!”
“Yes…James….”
Samuel heard the child inside of him whisper. He’s a great man who let’s us stay in this small part of his world. We are what he calls us. Boy.
Two years ago, in immigration court, Samuel watched a heavyset attorney with ruffled red hair greet the bailiff, court reporter, deputies, and clerks by name. The judge called him Sully.
“Who is that?” Samuel asked the lawyer sitting next to him.
“James T. Sullivan. Boxed, worked as a fireman, then became a lawyer by going to night school.” The man snorted, smoothed down the strands of his comb-over. “He’s come a long way for someone who started off representing Negroes and Jews—I’m sorry, I mean Jewish people. You’re too young to know it but blacks once needed a police pass if they were on Miami Beach past 6 PM. They could use the beach only on Mondays, trash day. No Hebrews were allowed to live south of 5th Street.” He looked at Samuel. “That’s all changed, hasn’t it?”
That day, after presenting his case and losing, Samuel left the courtroom and while at the elevator, thinking about what he could have done better, Sullivan walked over and invited him to lunch.
How can we be friends? the boy inside Samuel now asked. We are trespassers in the world of men like Mr. Sullivan and our father.
Sullivan stepped closer to the desk.
“I remember a warehouse fire,” he said. “They’d stored flammables inside: diesel fuel, motor oil, kerosene, paint, stuff like that. Place went up like a torch. We pumped water on it, tried to keep the fire from spreading. It didn’t work. Sparks caught the abandoned house next door. The wood was dry. Windows exploded from the heat. When we first got there we checked it out, didn’t find anyone living inside. But as the smoke and ash closed in, we heard someone yelling for help. We found him. The warehouse burned down and we lost the house too, but if we hadn’t been at the scene that homeless guy would have died. Here’s my point. Buildings burn, lawyers lose cases. Stay professional, don’t get emotionally involved, make sure you have a life outside the office. Who knows? Someday you might actually save one of your Haitians.”
“That won’t do much good for the others when the Tonton Macoute come to their door,” Samuel stated.
“You can’t have that on your shoulders. We’re lawyers, not God. We don’t perform miracles.”
“You did.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When I was looking for copy paper I found in a box the medal and citation for bravery the fire department gave you.”
“I should have done better.”
“Better than what? You went into the house and carried the man out.”
“In putting that stuff away,” Sullivan said. “There was a cop there too. We all did what was expected.”
“Know what I thought when I saw the medal?” Samuel asked.
“No. Will I like the answer?”
“I wished I could have been with you, done something that mattered.”
“You’re here with me now. We live in the real world, son. There are rules and consequences. Wishes are for fairytales.”
“Especially if you’re a Haitian at Krome Avenue,” Samuel said.
“Let’s get back to women. I have this niece, Margaret. Nice girl, visiting from Iowa. She’s staying at the Castaways. How about doing me a favor and show her around? She’s your age.”
“I’m 34.”
“That’s a shock! I thought you were younger. OK, seven years difference, close enough. I’ll call her and set things up.”
“I’d like to meet her but it’s not a good time,” Samuel said. “I just got this new client—”
“The old guy who left?”
“The government claims he was a guard at Treblinka and didn’t disclose it when immigrating here.”
“Smart of him. Haitians and now a Nazi.” Sullivan shook his head.
“He was born in the Ukraine and captured by the Germans. He guarded potatoes, then joined a Russian army fighting the communists. It’s complicated.”
“Of course. And knowing you, you’ll bust your ass for him.”
“Like you did for your clients,” Samuel said. “You were arrested, sent death threats, but you got the pass law and zoning restrictions changed.”
“I also had fun! Lots of women! Parties! The wonderful Miami Beach sun! I’m still living, Samuel! Margaret’s in room 427. Her last name is Kelly. She’ll be expecting your call. No pressure, just a date. She’s very…how should I put it? Wholesome. Like you.”
Samuel remembered the special time when he was a virgin.
“I don’t want you to think there’s anything wrong with her,” Sullivan said. “She lived in a convent for awhile. Never took her vows. You two should get along great!” He slapped Samuel on the back, left behind the scent of the white carnation he always wore in the lapel of his shiny gray, three-piece, polyester suit.
Samuel reached for more aspirins.
He continued researching the law, decided late in the afternoon to visit Daniel.
“Here, Vera, deposit this when you can.” Samuel handed her Gleba’s check.
“What kind of case?” she asked, her old, wrinkled face no different than it had been for the last nine years, the smoke from her cigarettes, drawing moisture from her skin, preserving her features the same way osmosis did in the curing of a pork jowl.
“Denaturalization,” Samuel answered.
“You could have gotten more. Hope it doesn’t bounce.”
“I’m going to Krome. See you in the morning.”
“I’ll be here, sitting and doing my job. I don’t have time to be fooling around like some other people I know.” She made sure Sullivan’s secretary in an adjacent cubical heard her. The woman, Tammy, kept pecking at her typewriter. She wore short skirts and often, for a few hours, disappeared into Sullivan’s office.
Samuel took the elevator down.
“Hi Mr. Baas,” Ginger greeted him when he got out. “I hope Mr. Sullivan is in.”
“I think so. I saw him earlier.” He held the door for her.
“Thanks!” and she smiled brightly. Ginger’s makeup did little to cover her pockmarks. The platinum color of her long dry hair, ironed straight, looked unnatural. But what Samuel always noticed first about her was her chest. Although he tried to avert his eyes, Ginger’s enormous breasts took up so much space they demanded attention.
To avoid getting whacked by them he leaned back as she stepped past him. A prostitute, she visited Sullivan, but not for business. He donated to her medical fund, Ginger saving money for breast reduction surgery.
The door closed with her snuggly inside the elevator.
Driving his gray Chevy Vega, Samuel left the parking lot and after taking the Venetian Causeway to Miami, headed west toward the Everglades. On Tamiami Trail he again noticed how the two lane road dammed the flow of water from Lake Okeechobee. Starved for freshwater, sea grass in the Everglades side of the roadway died twisted and brown, their color so different tha
n the green blades of the underwater meadows he remembered seeing years ago when traveling to Key West with Kate.
Kate…Whenever he drove along Tamiami Trail toward the detention center, he thought about her. She sent him birthday cards, had given him the nude photographs of herself he kept in his dresser drawer and never took out. If Kate had a lay-over she’d sometimes call and they’d have lunch together, always at the same hippie style restaurant.
The road turned muddy, Samuel keeping the Vega in tracks left by other cars. At the center’s front gate he handed the guard his I.D. Originally the site of a missile base, the expanded facility now interned Haitians behind a chain link fence with concertina wire looped across the top. Built at the edge of the Everglades, the detention center’s location next to a swamp with alligators and snakes discouraged escape attempts.
Without speaking, the guard gave Samuel back his papers and signaled him on.
Haitians on a barrack’s rooftop watched him cross the courtyard and enter the reception area. In the conference room, Daniel stood waiting. Handsome, but very thin, he smiled warmly, his eyes large and brown, his smooth skin the color of coco. When they shook hands Samuel felt small bones.
“You’re eating…”
“All the time!” Daniel answered.
They sat at a small table. Samuel opened his briefcase and took out two new shirts.
“A gift. I hope I got the size right.”
“Thank you, Mr. Baas, but no.” His face still open and friendly he touched Samuel’s hand. “This is a crowded place. People don’t always act as they should. If you have too much here, it is a problem.”
“Is someone hurting you? If they are, let me know. I’ll report it.”
“I am fine! I get along with everyone! I watch, see what happens. I don’t want any trouble.”
Samuel put the shirts away.
“I haven’t heard about the appeal. The judge is still deciding.”
“What in life doesn’t take time?” Daniel said. “Each day is its own story.”
“I’m always amazed by you. You accept what is happening and stay cheerful.”
“That’s because I’m old,” Daniel said.
“You’re 17!”
“No one is 17 who sees his father beaten, then hanged for not paying the Tonton Macoute their civil donation. No one is still a boy who watches his mother dragged away because she tried to cut down her husband’s body. The Macoute firebombed our little store, then came looking for me. How can I be young when I had to run and at night float out to sea on inner tubes? I never told you this, Mr. Baas. I had filled an old bleach bottle with water, but it didn’t last. My lips cracked, my mouth became dry and sticky. The sun burned my skin. I urinated black water into my bottle and drank it. Then there was no more, even of that. My mother and father called to me from the ocean. ‘Drink the sea,’ they told me. Salt crusted over my face and t-shirt. My eyes felt sunken in. I passed out and awoke confused. Where was I? Why were there bones in the sea? ‘Come swim with us,’ my father said. My mother held out her hands. I stood, ready to escape. My life had ended. I wanted to die. Then I saw the beach.
“I have lived many lives and am prepared for what happens next. Yes, there are bad people here but not many and none are the Tonton Macoute. I have food, water, and a place to sleep. If I go back to Haiti I go knowing I am free. I no longer fear death.”
“I won’t let them deport you.” Samuel immediately regretted saying it.
“You will do what you can,” Daniel said. “You are my friend.”
Samuel got up and left without looking back at him.
The sun setting, he drove toward Miami through dark shades of twilight gently sifting down. On this darkening, empty road, he remembered Daniel’s touch.
Although he still liked fast food, Samuel also ate at the Chinese restaurant across from his condominium and Captain Conch down the street where, sitting alone and using a wooden mallet, he’d smash crabs on a newspaper covered table. Tonight, instead of dinner, he bought books about German concentration camps.
He read in bed but after a couple chapters shut the book and drank a beer. He didn’t want to think about the SS or the trains.
Is Burger King open? Should I get a steak sandwich from there, again eat it in my room? Samuel remembered when his family still dined at home. Minnie set the table with Royal Copenhagen china and poured wine into crystal glasses. I was seven. Then family time ended and I sat in the kitchen with her. Fast food never took Minnie’s place…
The Nazis shoved Jews into cattle cars… I’m not hungry.
I miss coming home to Mrs. Damour.
Samuel saw her knitting and listening as he told her about his day. Her face changed, the wrinkles gone, the eyes becoming green.
I’m back.
With Mary. Over eight years ago.
I suggested going to the zoo.
“Sure, Samuel, whatever you like.” She smiled, and lightly touched my arm.
It was a hot day. The animals were sleeping.
“This is boring,” Mary said.
“They’re probably bored with us. Humans looking at them is what they see everyday.”
“Why can’t they do something?”
“They’re relaxing. This is how they live.”
“I’m not talking about the animals, silly. I mean the people who work here. They could poke them, get them moving. This place smells.” She wrinkled her nose.
We left.
I thought she might like Vizcaya.
We didn’t go inside the Villa or spend much time in the formal gardens.
“Hurry, slow-poke,” she said, walking fast. At the base of the steps leading to Biscayne Bay she posed next to one of the carved females on Cleopatra’s barge.
“Who’s prettier, Samuel. Go on, be honest.”
“They’re stone,” I answered.
“You’re an ass!” She walked away in a huff. I ran over to her.
“I’m sorry…”
“Do you think I’m pretty?”
“Yes.”
“Better looking than the other girls you know?”
I thought about Kate.
“You have beautiful eyes,” I said.
“Is that all? What about the rest of me?” She stepped closer.
“I’ve thought about you for years,” I answered.
“Now you’re forgiven!” Arms out, Mary twirled, her long blonde hair flying. She suddenly stopped. “Have you dated a lot?”
Back then, nine years ago, I had only gone out with Kate and Susan.
“There’s been a few girls.”
“How many?”
“Five…six…”
“And I’m the prettiest!” She took me by the hand and we ran.
Mary summed up the Miami Seaquarium with one word: fish.
She worked in the cosmetic department at Burdines.
“It’s hilarious,” she told me. “The old women who shop there think if they use some expensive cream they’ll look like me. What a laugh! Daddy wants me to come home but I like being independent. That doesn’t mean I send his checks back! You helped me with my slime-ball landlord but what really made the difference was having enough money to move. You should see all the neat stuff I get to try on at my counter! I look great. No wonder those women buy from me!”
When powdering her face Mary kept her compact’s mirror out of the bright sunlight.
“Even I look better in the dark,” she said. “Keep being nice to me. You’ll see.”
I was h
appy just to date her.
We never went to the beach.
“I don’t like sweating or having creeps stare at my body,” she told me.
What Mary did enjoy became our routine: dinner, then the movies. The restaurants she picked were expensive, the kind where, when I was young and we occasionally dined out, my parents showed me the haughty etiquette required of the rich. My father and mother’s rudeness embarrassed me. I was glad when these restaurant trips ended.
More difficult than budging for my dates with Mary was returning to the world of privilege I had rejected. Snobbish waiters, who would have been all smiles if serving father, didn’t hide their distaste for us. We were the youngest couple in the restaurants. Mary wore short skirts. I had long hair. With their cold politeness, quick, almost surgical removal of the menus and silent placement of our meals, the waiters made sure I knew we didn’t have the social status required for eating under their chandeliers.
“Look! It’s pink!” I remember Mary saying to one of them while pointing to where she had sliced her filet mignon. “I can’t eat this!”
I stared into my water glass. My large tip didn’t change anything. Head down, I left feeling the man’s disdainful, half-hooded eyes on my back. I wanted to tell him that not just my father but also all his friends drove Cadillacs.
Mary agreed to try Cuban food.
“It’s noisy in here,” she said. “Why do they have to speak so loud?’
“Probably just sounds that way to us because it’s Spanish,” I said. “Don’t you like your steak?”
“No. There’s onions and this yucky sauce all over it! And the bananas are fried!” Mary pushed her plate away and ordered ice cream.
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