“So, tell me more about you and Red. Was it like a business relationship, or were you two friends?”
“I wouldn’t say friends,” he said, then he paused to watch a high-speed ocean racer roar by just outside the beach swim area. He turned back to face me. “He ever tell you the story about towing a Colombian’s sportfisherman up from the Hallandale condo?”
“Can’t say as I remember that one, no.”
Joe chuckled to himself. “We had this kid with us, he was new to the agency, and Red and I had him search the boat while we towed it up the waterway on our way to the River Bend Boatyard. Red and I were on Gorda, kicking back and drinking a couple of cold ones, and we were somewhere between the Sheridan and the Dania bridges, when all of a sudden this kid lets out a holler, comes running out of the cabin, and dives overboard. We had a hell of a time getting that tow turned around, then fishing the kid out of the water. Red was cursing up a storm the whole time. Come to find out, the kid had been searching the lockers in the master stateroom, and he’d opened one only to find a twelve-foot red-tailed boa constrictor. Snake was so hungry, he’d tried to coil around that fellow’s arm. That sucker’s body was yea big around”—he held his hands almost twelve inches apart— “and he could’ve eaten a good-size poodle.” He drained his glass of ice water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, your dad was a helluva guy. I didn’t know him all that well, but we shared a few of my life’s finer moments.” He looked out at the highway, focusing those green eyes of his on the cars disappearing down A1 A.
I was getting used to it, but I still felt slightly uncomfortable whenever people talked about Red. There always came this point when they felt the need to share a moment of silence for the dead man. Like he was looking down on them, and he’d appreciate this somehow. I knew better. Red would have thought it was horseshit and, as his daughter, my spiritual leanings weren’t far from his. I figured you lived your life and then you were dead—end of story.
“You know, Seychelle, Red used to talk about you all the time. He was crazy about his little girl—everyone could see that.” His big hands wrapped around the tiny white espresso cup and clicked it against the saucer in a staccato rhythm. “I have to admit, I was jealous of your dad.”
“You? Jealous of Red? Why?”
“Well, I’ve got a daughter, too. I think I told you.” He pursed his lips and stared into the bottom of his empty cup as though he might find the words in the brown sludge there. “Her mom and I split up years ago, when she was very young. You know, I was on the fast track with the agency, trying to make my mark, and I admit it, I was a lousy father. What would you expect with how I grew up? We were all boys and then I have a girl. Didn’t know what to do with her. Anyway, by the time I was ready to try, it was too late. I’d missed too many birthdays, failed to show up too many times.”
“You’re being kinda harsh on yourself, Joe.”
“No, just honest. We haven’t spoken in over five years now. She’s slammed the door in my face.” Now the bitterness was apparent in his voice. “ ’Course, it didn’t help that my ex had always been telling her that I was a bastard. Thing is, she’s married now. Got a boy. My grandson. He’s mine, and I’ve never seen him.”
“I don’t get stories like that. I mean, you’re still family.”
“You don’t even know it’s happening when it starts, and by the time you realize it, it’s too late. Nothing like the relationship you had with your dad.”
“Yeah. He was a good dad. Heck, a great dad. Sometimes I still wake up in the middle of the night and think I’ve got to tell Red something. Then I remember he’s gone.”
“Sometimes, it seems as though my daughter is gone, too. Gone from my life, anyway.”
“But she isn’t dead. You still have a chance to fix things with her.”
He leaned back again, so far back that he tilted the chair onto two legs. He bounced his right leg and tapped his fingers on the table. “You’re right. And I’m working on it. I intend to see my grandson.”
I could tell that just talking about his daughter and grandson was making this otherwise confident man a mess of jangled nerves. “You know, Joe, you’re all right. I’ll bet if your daughter got to know you, she’d like you. Your grandson, too.”
He stopped his twitching, leaned forward across the table, and covered my hand with his. “Thanks, Seychelle. That really means a lot coming from you.”
Once again I felt I was getting mixed signals from this man. Was he flirting or being fatherly?
“By the way,” he said, “that was quite a day you had yesterday.” He let go of my hand and rested his elbows on the table. “Finding that little girl like that. What’s her story anyway?” Joe nodded his head toward the pile of newsprint beside my now empty mug. “There’s not much there in the papers about her. Is she able to talk?”
“A little, not much. She speaks some English. Some of it doesn’t make much sense. Seems she’s really afraid of authority figures. She won’t say a word to them.”
“That’s not unusual. I spent some time down in Haiti. Their history has given them good reason to fear the government. But you say she’s talking to you?”
“Well, a little. She told me her dad’s an American.”
“Really? They’re going to let her stay, then?”
Questions, questions. I’d forgotten that Joe was a former cop. “I’ve got to find him first. The Border Patrol guy who came to the hospital last night doesn’t believe this American father exists. He says all Haitians claim to have American relatives.”
“He’s right.”
“But I believe her.”
“So how do you propose to find this guy?”
“I guess I’ll start with the kid. She said a few words to me when I first pulled her aboard Gorda. Last night when I visited her in the hospital, she wasn’t talking to anyone.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help out, don’t hesitate to ask. It would be my pleasure to spend more time with you, and I’d like to know how things turn out for her. Sounds like that poor kid has seen things we can’t even imagine.”
VIII
The dark clouds were breaking up, and it was almost ten o’clock by the time I hooked the Whaler back up to the davits at the Larsens’ dock and cranked her back out of the water. The sun was quickly turning last night’s rain to steam. Henri and the three other members of his lawn service crew were working with weed whackers, gas blowers, and hedge clippers. When he saw me, Henri hurried over and waited while I cranked up the dinghy.
“Hi, Henri,” I said as I bent down and scratched Abaco’s ears. “What’s up?”
He looked distressed. Henri was a tall, handsome Haitian in his mid-forties. He was a successful entrepreneur with a thriving lawn service, a good husband, and the father of five beautiful kids. Distress didn’t look right on his face.
“A man came. He said he wanted to see you. I told him you were not here, but he insisted and left his things in front of your house.”
“What?” I stood and started down the brick path to my cottage. I could see the stuff piled in front of my place: a backpack with dozens of patches sewn on it, an army surplus duffel bag, an old footlocker, and a torpedo-shaped blue Dacron bag.
“This man,” Henri continued, “he did not look very clean even though he was very polite. I thought perhaps he was a homeless man. But he claimed he was your brother.”
I whooped and grabbed Henri by the arm. “This is great!” It was the windsurfer bag that had left no doubt: My brother Pit had come for a visit. “Henri, it was my brother, and don’t you worry what he looks like. He’s a great guy.” Sensing my excitement, Abaco came loping over and started to bark. I knelt down and ruffled her ears. “Pit’s come to visit, girl.” Abaco sensed the excitement in my voice and began turning circles. I stood and turned back to Henri. “Did Pit say where he was going? When he would be back?”
“He left a note.” Henri smiled tentatively. “So it is good your
brother comes?”
“Oh yes, very good.”
“Then I am happy I did not let Jean-Phillipe chase him off with his machete.”
“Yeah, Henri.” I laughed. “That is good.”
I shoved Pit’s things into a corner of my little living room. Surely he didn’t travel all over the world on the World Cup Windsurfing circuit with all this baggage. The last thing I dragged in was an old footlocker, which I recognized as one that used to belong to Red. When we were kids, we used to get into old clothes and U.S. Navy uniforms he stored in the locker. I remembered it being in the garage when we had cleaned out the house after Red’s death. I didn’t realize that Pit had saved it.
I finally sat down on the couch and read Pit’s note.
Seychelle,
In town for 3 days. Thought I could bunk at Tina's but she threw me out—along with my gear that Id left at her place. Hope I can borrow your couch for a couple of nights. Gone down to Hobie Beach.
See ya. Pit
My brother Pit was the laid-back middle child, the free spirit. Possessions, timetables, careers—they all made little sense to him. Hobie Beach was the windsurfers’ hangout down on Miami’s Biscayne Bay. Pit was a professional windsurfing teacher and competitor, and while you’d think he’d get sick of it sometimes and want to do something else, it didn’t surprise me that windsurfing was the first thing he wanted to do on his first trip home in years.
After a quick shower, I threw on some old jeans and a T-shirt and dialed Jeannie’s number.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Hey, you. I was just getting ready to go over to visit our little friend.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. There’s someplace I need to go first, but I’d feel better knowing there will be somebody there with her for the next few hours. Somebody to run interference with cops and reporters, give the kid a chance to rest. At least till I get there.”
“You know me,” Jeannie said. “I’m damn good at interference.”
Ignoring Abaco’s forlorn looks, I locked up my cottage and headed out the gate. Henri and his crew had wrapped up their work and headed out, leaving behind trash cans that smelled sweetly of fresh-cut grass. I propped the business card for Racine Toussaint up on the Jeep’s dash and pulled a map of Broward County out of the glove box. The address was off Hammondville Road in Pompano Beach. I’d read about that part of the county, but I’d never been up there. Back in the fifties, the area was all agriculture, and the mostly black farmworkers had lived in lousy conditions in farmworker housing on Hammondville Road. There was still a good deal of poverty in what was now called Collier City and Western Pompano, and some people would say I was being unwise to go up there alone.
There was a saying about South Florida: To get to the South from here, you had to go north. There was a small kernel of truth in that, but in areas like Hammondville Road in Pompano, I suspected aspects of the old Deep South were still right here. In spite of the glitz and glamour of Broward County’s waterfront and modern facade, racial tensions and segregated neighborhoods were still the norm in much of the county.
Traffic was sparse on 1-95 and Lightnin’ held her fifty-five-mile-per-hour average in the slow lane. The old Jeep wasn’t an expressway vehicle, and given the roaring engine and flapping canvas, I was relieved when I pulled off the interstate at Atlantic Boulevard. In much of South Florida, affluent neighborhoods abut squalid government-assisted housing, so I wasn’t surprised to see the new, gleaming, well-lit gas station and mini-mart, the kind that has disembodied voices that speak to you each time you pull up to the pump, while just beyond the fresh black asphalt were dirt yards around small cinder-block homes and businesses of the old district.
The Haitian Baptist Church, a clean and new-looking structure, indicated how this neighborhood had changed in the last twenty years. This was truly the New South. The huge influx of Haitians and other Caribbean immigrants was apparent in the signs in the stores, the smells of fish and plantain frying, the sound of Creole being spoken on the street.
I located Racine Toussaint’s house a few blocks north of Hammondville and fairly close to Old Dixie Highway. I was pleased to see the place looked so well tended and prosperous in comparison with many of the other houses in the area. The house stood alone on almost an acre of land and looked home-built of gray unfinished cinder block, the mortar between the blocks smoothed out neat and clean. Floral-print curtains fluttered between the bars that protected the front windows, and the wood door was painted a bright sea foam green.
When I turned off the Jeep, I could hear the breeze rustling the branches of the tall Australian pines scattered about the dirt lot that stretched between the house and the road. There were no children’s toys or old abandoned vehicle parts like those that decorated the vacant lots and the yards of many of the houses I’d passed on my way here. Behind the house, a giant strangler fig tree loomed large, the huge limbs framing the house with prop roots supporting the heft visible around both sides. The tree blocked out all sunlight and looked as though it would engulf the house if the inhabitants dropped their vigilance for only a few months. Aside from a couple of free-ranging chickens that darted behind the house when I drove up, there was no sign of life.
I knocked on the green door, wondering if my decision to come alone had been wise after all. Why would the card of the woman who lived at this address be on board the Miss Agnes? But then that is why I was there: to find out if Solange was on that boat. To find out something that would help her stay in the United States.
The place was too quiet. The sound of the traffic out on Dixie and Atlantic was the only noise. For a moment I thought I heard drums from inside the house, but then the amplified voices of angry rappers blasted from a bright orange Impala lowrider that cruised by, the gold rims glinting, the bass booming into the yard and seeming to fill the air with threat. Two muscular young black men in matching white undershirts, flashing gold in their grimaces, glared at me as they rolled by. I faced the street, keeping my eyes on them, refusing to turn my back. There was a slow-mo cinematic quality to the moment, like a high-noon face-off, the only element of speed being my pulse, which had kicked into overdrive.
The door swung inward behind me, and I spun around, my hands rising in the automatic self-defense posture I had learned from growing up with older brothers. The man standing in the doorway was no more than five feet four and impeccably dressed in dark slacks, a long-sleeved white shirt, and a dark bow tie.
“Bonjour,” he said, showing a wide mouth of crowded white teeth. His skin was the darkest black skin I had ever seen, but his hair, what little remained in tufts behind his ears, was bright white. “May I help you?”
I stuttered at first, my mind still not disentangled from the menacing Impala. “There was, out there...” I turned around and looked at the street, but there was no sign of the car. “I mean, uh.” I turned back to face him. He was smiling patiently. “Forget that. Let me start over. The reason I’m here is because I have this boat, a tugboat, and I found this little girl yesterday. You might have heard about it. See, I was looking around the Miss Agnes and I found this card.” I held out the salt-stiff piece of cardboard. He looked at the card and said “Oh” in a very high-pitched voice, as if he had been startled by something. It was a funny sound, and I let loose with a matching shrill laugh.
“Please,” he said, showing me his crooked teeth again, then he bowed his head and stepped back. “Come inside and we will talk.” There was music in the way he pronounced the English words. I had heard Creole accents that were harsh and difficult to understand, but this little man sounded more French.
The room I entered was furnished simply, a living room with a threadbare green couch and armchair, and on the far side a yellow Formica dinette set that looked as though it dated back to the I Love Lucy era. The walls were painted with vibrant colors, each one different—yellow, teal, and coral—and one wall was covered with paintings. Through a door, I could see the kitchen with an indust
rial-size galvanized sink and huge pots and pans resting on the drain board. He pointed to the couch and waited until I was seated before settling into the chair. The silence stretched out as we sat, each of us waiting for the other to begin. I turned the card over and over, my fingers holding it gingerly by the outer edges. Finally, he reached out and took it from me and then offered me his hand. His skin felt cool and dry.
“I am Maximillian Toussaint. Please call me Max.” He smiled and bowed his head low, revealing the shiny black dome fringed all the way around with delicate cottony filaments. From behind, I imagined his head looked like a dark mountain peak half shrouded in clouds. “Racine” —he held up the card—“is my wife. However, she is very busy today. She cannot see visitors.”
“My name is Seychelle Sullivan.”
“I am pleased to meet you. Would you like some coffee or a cold drink?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” I smiled and looked around the small room. On the wall behind him there were primitive paintings of country and city scenes, but each one was crowded with brightly costumed people and animals. There was something about the perspective in the paintings that made them seem very otherworldly. I noticed, too, that some of the people in the paintings wore strange costumes, and masks with horns, and they carried whips. In other paintings, wild animals, from zebras to giraffes and tigers and parrots, all frolicked in big, leafy jungle scenes. Against the wall behind Max’s chair was a sideboard covered with a strange assortment of colorful scarves or flags and what looked like large gourds decorated with paint and beads.
“Have you ever been to Haiti, Miss Seychelle?”
His question startled me. I realized that I had been staring past him.
“I’m sorry. No, I’ve never been.”
“It is a very poor place, this is true, but it is also home to some of the happiest people on earth.”
“Really? Why do you say that?”
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