by Dina Rae
Candy stood still and dialed 9…
Something warm was dripping down her back. She reached around and touched her lower back. Her hand was wet and sticky. “No!” she screamed and then turned around. “Rio? Is that you? Why would…” She took a few steps forward and then folded to the floor. She saw Brittany lying on the floor by the kitchen table. Blood was everywhere. Her field of vision diminished, and then faded to nothingness.
***
Rio read Brittany’s Facebook posting. Infuriated by her humiliating comments, he hopped in his car and drove over to her house needing closure. Now that school was officially over, he could no longer get into trouble. A tiny part of him still wanted her. He deluded himself into thinking she missed him as well.
He rang the bell and knocked on the door. He saw her stagger down the hallway.
“Go away!” she screamed.
“I’ll go away after I get my final say,” Rio said.
Brittany wouldn’t open the door. Rio turned the doorknob and found it unlocked. He entered her home uninvited and followed her into the kitchen. By her walk and speech, he knew she was intoxicated.
“Brit, you been drinking? Don’t think I ever saw you this hammered.” Rio’s eyes scanned the kitchen. There was a cutting board with lime rinds sitting by the sink, tequila, mix, and a glass pitcher on the otherwise clear surface of the kitchen island.
“Yeah, I had a few. So what?” she slurred.
Rio’s eyes continued to observe the area. He wondered if she was alone. “Your boyfriend, Henry? He drinking with you?”
“Oh no. I drink alone, with nobody else…,” she sang. “You know that old song? And he’s no longer my boyfriend. He wants nothing to do with me. I know. I deserve it, right?”
Although great news, Rio was alarmed by the big knife she held in her right hand. Was she using it for the limes? He then noticed her shirt and shorts were blotted with blood. “Brit, you’re bleeding. Should I call an ambulance?” Rio slowly approached her.
“Don’t you dare! I know I’m bleeding! I’m trying to…You wouldn’t understand,” she said.
“What are you trying to do? Cut yourself up?” He spotted a razor blade by the cutting board. “Are you a cutter?”
“No, you fucking moron! I’m pregnant, okay? And I thought I could…” Brittany garbled.
“Give yourself an abortion? Let me call the ambulance,” Rio said.
“I said no!” Brittany lifted her hand and pointed the blade at him.
“I get it. At least let me call your mom. She’s a nurse and she’ll…”
“Fuck that! Fuck everything!” she shouted.
“But you could die,” Rio whispered.
“Fuck life. It’s so overrated. And why do you care anyway?” Brittany sneered.
“Because I care about you.”
“Why? I’m a god-damned whore. Don’t even know who the father is. Could be yours for all I know,” Brittany said.
“Mine? If it was mine, I’d stick around, help raise it. Why don’t you give me the knife?” Rio begged.
“Why are you here? You said something about a final say?” Brittany asked.
“It doesn’t matter. Look, I was mad about the shit you said on Facebook, but I’m not mad anymore,” Rio replied. His only concern was getting her help. Fate was what brought him here. It was up to him to save her from killing herself. “I don’t care who the father is. I bet your mom doesn’t care either. Please put the knife down and trust me.”
“Right. You’re a fucking wife beater. You make me sick! Just get out before I call the police!” she exclaimed.
Rio lunged toward the phone. “Call them! Go ahead, call the police!” he screamed.
“You asshole!” Brittany was erratically waving the knife around and then slashed Rio’s hand as he reached for the phone.
“You crazy bitch!” he screamed while his hand leaked blood all over. He reached for the phone with his other hand. Before he could punch in the numbers, Brittany lifted up her shirt and ripped another seam down her stomach. Blood ran down her hips and legs.
“Stop it!” Rio screamed.
She defiantly continued carving up her abdomen, looking possessed, unrecognizable.
Rio dove at her right hand, trying to wrangle the knife free. She turned to the side and he missed, but pushed her against the wall. With both hands she grabbed the knife and pointed the tip between her breasts. Using the wall as a brace for her forearms, she threw her torso down onto the knife. The blade slid into her like a grapefruit. Blood gushed out, staining the wall.
“No! I love you!” Rio screeched.
She slid to the floor. A pool of blood quickly formed underneath her body.
Rio rushed over to her and plucked the knife out of her sternum. It made a horrifying suction sound that made him dizzy. He heard a faint voice coming from the front door.
“Brittany? Ms. Bonaducci? It’s Candy Fontana.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck! I’m covered with blood, holding a knife, standing next to my dead girlfriend. She’s never going to believe me. No one will. I’m not going down for this, he thought. There was only one way out.
Once she entered the kitchen, he made his move and pounded the knife into her back. She quickly sank to the floor. Her phone bounced across the kitchen. She was alive, calling his name. There was no turning back.
Rio grabbed the heavy glass pitcher and smashed it on his teacher’s head. Now she’s dead. He took a moment to collect his thoughts. I’ve got to clean this place up.
He wrapped up his bleeding hand and got busy. Within an hour, he had the kitchen floors and countertop sparkling clean. The place reeked of ammonia. He found some of Brittany’s sweats that fit him and changed clothes, throwing his old clothes with the bloody towels into a gym bag he found from Brittany’s closet. He did a comprehensive walk-thru. Convinced no one could ever prove that he was there, he swung the gym bag over his shoulder and drove home.
Once in his room, he hid the bag and then cried. He had never been so scared in his life. His fear wasn’t from watching Brittany throw herself onto a knife, or even killing Ms. Fontana. What scared him more than anything was getting caught.
Part II
Summer Vacation
Chapter 36
Haiti, June 2010
First Week of Haitian Mission
The panic of the day bled into desperation throughout the night. News of Henry’s disappearance had spread throughout the volunteer community and Haitian law enforcement. Jessica remembered Henry’s passport. The picture was copied by the police and circulated around the Port-au-Prince area.
The Novaks’ parish and new campsite friends formed their own search and rescue squads. Because of the high crime rate, all agreed to arm themselves. The women and a few men were ordered to stay back for protection. Tom kept a look out for Henry. Unlike the other women, Jessica refused. She wore a flannel shirt and stuffed her long brown hair into a baseball hat. Even without makeup and the butch outfit, her dainty features could not mask her femininity. The disguise was enough to blend in with the other men.
“What about Natalie? Shouldn’t you stay back with her?” Tom asked, wanting to keep her out of harm’s way.
“No, she’s with Carol, Keith’s wife. I’m going with you no matter what. So don’t try to talk me out of it.”
“I won’t. Do you blame me for this? Honesty, please,” Tom asked.
“No, of course not. Kids wander off all the time. Could have just as easily happened on my watch.”
“I doubt that. Just about impossible. You’re a good parent,” Tom interjected.
“Stop it. We don’t have time to bicker. We’re going to find him. Now quit blaming yourself.”
Tom nodded. She was right about Haiti. Hell, she was right about everything, especially when it came to Henry. He just wished for once they could do regular things that families do. Not that a mission was regular, but it was the closest thing to a vacation they had had since Henry’s birth. He wi
shed his son was like everyone else, but wishing was never going to change Henry, and wishing was why Henry was now gone. And not an ‘I told you so’ was uttered from his wife. He never realized it before, but Jess was too good for him. Oh God, forgive me. Jessica needs her son. We all need him.
Tom’s search party was the smallest, consisting of himself, Jessica, and a Haitian policeman, Officer Moliere. All of the squads synchronized their radios while patrolling the area. Officer Moliere agreed to escort them through the nearby Haitian refugee camp. There were at least 50,000 misplaced people living there, and they had seven squads armed with weapons and reams of Henry’s picture. A needle in a haystack. But Henry was a really big, white, and tall needle, hoped Tom.
The endless quilt of tents overwhelmed him. They slowly passed out Henry’s picture to those who were awake. Some looked terrified. Tom confused this with guilt and came on strong.
“It’s okay. They’re afraid because it’s late, I’m a cop, and you’re white. Please quit being so intimidating, and let me do the talking,” the officer warned.
Time went by at warp speed. The first rays of the sun came up and still nothing. They were deep within the campground. Up ahead they saw a Red Cross kiosk and stopped for water and a snack. The lines were already forming. While they took their break, Officer Moliere radioed the other policeman working with their search parties. “Uh huh. Sounds like an idea. Hold on. Tom, do you know Keith? He said Henry was babbling on about Haiti all morning. After you left he began talking about houngans and Voodoo.”
“Yeah. That’s Henry. He’s a walking encyclopedia,” Tom affirmed.
“Keith just thought after your son mentioned the Voodoo that maybe he took off to see a service. Is Keith over-reaching?” reiterated the policeman.
“Oh, I could hug you! No, not at all. That makes perfect sense. That’s how Henry’s mind works. He can be so impulsive!” exclaimed Jessica.
“There’s at least a dozen hounfours set up in this campground. It’s where many go to worship, like a temple or church. So many were leveled during the earthquake. Houngans and mambos set up circus-like tents over this camp, all designed to seat at least a hundred people. These temporary tents are springing up to serve the community until the old hounfours can be rebuilt. They’re easy to find. This gives us something to go on instead of randomly walking around the camp,” advised Officer Moliere. He was a young man, no more than twenty, but his dark eyes made him look older, wiser, and more cynical. He finished his bagel and spoke French to the Haitians waiting in the Red Cross line. They pointed east. “Okay, there’s one a few hundred meters away. Let’s try to find it. Remember, we are looking for big tents with flags.”
The policeman led them through the swarms of people. Tom couldn’t help but notice a shoe and doll nailed to a tree. “Officer Moliere, back there, what was that?”
“The poppet? That with the shoe sends a message to the other worlds. We’re close. Look ahead, that’s it. See the two flags staked out in front of the entrance flaps. We should have started here first. Whether your son wanted to see a Voodoo service or not, these hounfours are the nucleus of the community. The houngan, mamba, or maybe even bokor act like their spokesman. They usually know everything going on,” said Moliere.
“Already know about houngans and mambas. Their priests, right? But what about a bokor?” asked Jessica.
“Very much like a priest, but they have a specialty of black arts, how do you say, magic? They conjure spells, that sort of thing. Let’s go inside. It’s alright; there are no services this early in the morning.”
They walked into the empty tent. The officer motioned for them to sit down and wait. Jessica and Tom looked around, and then looked at each other. Their facial expressions gave away their opinions of the hounfour. The inside was sparse. Crosses hung from the metal poles. Card tables were set up next to a makeshift altar. The tables were littered with trivial items such as statues, baby dolls, food, worthless trinkets, and dried up flowers. The altar was clear with exception to a glass of water and candles. The smell was both familiar and putrid, making both Tom and Jessica scrunch their noses in discomfort.
Minutes later, an old man draped in white linen entered the tent. “What’s this about?” he asked Officer Moliere.
The officer quickly brought the houngan up to speed by showing him a picture of Henry. “Can I leave you a stack to pass out to your parish?”
“Of course. I will pray to Legba that your son is returned. Missionaries, right? Thank you for coming here to help rebuild this poor country,” the houngan said, partially bowing to Tom.
After leaving the tent and being away from hearing distance, they bombarded Officer Moliere with questions. The young man smiled at their ignorance. “That smell was animal’s blood. Live animals are used for sacrifice. And the stuff on the tables? Offerings to the loas or spirits. Bondye is to Voodoo like God is to Christianity. The altar is simple and made for Legba. He’s Bondye’s gatekeeper. Like your St. Peter, perhaps? There is a lot of overlap between Voodoo and Catholicism. The houngan showed you gratitude and respect when he bowed. Next time you might want to bow back. We all want to find your son. Mainly for selfish reasons. This country can’t afford the bad publicity. It will scare off you fine folks, and you won’t come and help. You probably don’t think a lot of policemen are working on your son’s case, but there’s about seven of us working on it through rotating twelve hour shifts. That’s fourteen men total. Thirteen more than a citizen would get. These hounfours will nail it down for us. Don’t worry. We’re going to find him.” The officer’s radio chirped garbled speech from too many people talking at once. “Officer Moliere. One at a time, please. Uh huh. Copy that.”
“Listen, we appreciate everything your government is doing for us. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful back there…” Tom apologized.
“I know. Just our ways. My shift has been over for some time. Officer DuBois will relieve me in a few minutes. He’s looking for us right now. While he’s looking, he’s passing out more pictures of your son. I’ll be back to work by 10 p.m. Some of your other rescue squads went back to your own campsite for a few hours of sleep. I suggest you do the same. If not, Officer DuBois will take you to the houngans. As the shift changes, the other six policeman will continue searching the hounfours in the Port-au-Prince area. Your volunteer squads need to let us know where they search. Have them call us on the radio for updates. Now here’s Officer DuBois.”
Officer DuBois escorted them to several more hounfours throughout the camp. They feared their efforts were turning into a wild goose chase. Now, past dinnertime, both Tom and Jessica needed to rest. They went back to their own camp, checked on Natalie, and fell into a deep R.E.M. What seemed like minutes of sleep were actually hours until Tom abruptly had water poured onto his face.
“It’s me, Keith. Sorry Tom, but you wouldn’t wake up. You’ve gotta go to the police station in Port-au-Prince. I’ll take you,” he whispered.
“Is it Henry?” asked Tom, now wide awake. Jessica lay next to him and began to stir. “Why are you whispering? Shouldn’t you be pouring water on her face too?”
“They think it’s Henry. You need to go down there.”
“What do you mean think? Henry knows his name. What aren’t you telling me? Is he dead? Am I identifying my son’s body?”
“No, he’s alive! But he’s not talking. Catatonic was the word the police woman used. And he’s been injured.”
Tom sprang out of bed, leaving Jessica asleep. He wanted to bring Henry back to her, alleviate his guilt for losing the boy in the first place. Plus, he worried about her reaction to his injuries. At 2:00 a.m. Tom and Keith sped off in the campsite’s communal Jeep to the Port-au-Prince police station. A half an hour later they found the address.
The building was one of the few still usable after the earthquake. Several windows blown out and part of the parking lot caved in, but Keith still found a decent space to park.
Once inside Officer DuBoi
s was called to the reception area to greet them. “Hi, Mr. Novak.” Tom nodded. “We think it’s him. He won’t speak right now. He has some unexplained bruises, lacerations, a swollen ankle…but otherwise he’s physically fine. Come with me. I want you to look at the boy through the glass and confirm it’s him.”
Tom and Keith followed the policeman down a long corridor. Walls were cracked, floor boards were buckled, and the scent of mildew filled the air. Tom suspected the place was just as seedy before the earthquake. Once the cop pointed to the room, Tom peered through the glass insert of the door. It was definitely Henry.
“That’s my son,” Tom choked out. He saw his purple cheekbone and blackened eye. His arms were scratched and bloodied, and his ankle had an ice pack taped to it. Henry sat at a small table with a vacuous expression, unaware of his surroundings. Tom sobbed. What the hell happened?
“Officer, where did you find him?” Keith asked.
“A few blocks away from here. One of our officers saw him staggering down a main street,” said Officer DuBois.
“Away from or toward the camp?” Keith again asked.
Tom wanted to ask the same questions but had trouble articulating.
“Don’t know. He was found here in the city. He seemed oblivious to where he was going. He won’t talk. He’s big. And white. He stood out.”
“Shouldn’t he be in a hospital?” Tom sputtered out.
“Our main hospital, as you know, was destroyed during the quake. We have some medical clinics scattered throughout the area. You and your people built some of them. They are so busy right now. Your son’s injuries are not serious enough to treat,” answered Officer DuBois.
“So we can take him back to our camp? And then go home?” Tom confirmed.
“As you wish, Mr. Novak,” said Officer DuBois.
The young policeman left the hallway allowing Tom and Keith alone time with Henry. Both men entered the room, and Henry didn’t flinch. He continued staring at the institutionalized green wall full of cracks and peeling chunks of concrete.