“That is right,” he replied.
“So, what, your son will be called ‘Mackensonson’?” Bea chimed in. “And his son will be ‘Mackensonsonson’?”
They had all started laughing. Senzey did not feel like laughing. But she smiled to be polite. Lizbeth seemed like a good woman, a kind woman. She reminded her so much of Luke that she could barely look at her. Senzey admired her determination. She understood that Lizbeth’s offers to help were real, that they came from a good place in her heart. And she also understood how badly the woman wanted to get the baby, to hold him in her arms. Senzey felt that way herself.
But she was sure of one thing—she would not allow herself to become a burden to Luke’s mother, a woman she had only known for one day. No matter what, she could not rely on another to do what she should be doing herself. She had already done that once, when she handed her baby to the couple from the orphanage. She would not do it again.
If only her father were here. He would know what to say, what to do. She thought about the last time she had seen him, when she kissed him goodbye that morning nine years ago as he left for the school where he taught. He had told her to be good, then laughed like he always did. He knew Senzey was not the daughter he needed to worry about.
That afternoon, she had left their home to shop for dinner when the ground started to rumble. Suddenly she was on her knees, grasping to hold on to the earth, which seemed to be falling away at her touch. People were yelling, crying for help. She began to crawl back toward the road to her house, but became lost in the thickening white cloud, and confused by the unfamiliar piles of concrete where a house or a shop should have stood. Senzey felt as though she was moving in circles. For a few minutes the ground would remain still, then it would rattle and shake again. People ran through the streets, covered in blood and dust, some missing hands or feet. Others lay still, their bodies crushed and broken.
It was hours later when she fell into the arms of her sister Darline, who confirmed what Senzey had already feared. Their house had crashed down, with their mother and the younger children still inside. They were all gone.
That night, and the night after, the two sisters slept in the street. Senzey remembered how oddly dark and silent it had been, the sky lit by candles and cooking fires, the hushed conversations and prayers, the gentle sobbing that never seemed to end.
Word finally got to them that their father had been found, crushed to death. They were told he had been trying to rescue some women trapped under the fallen walls of a nursing school. But there was no time to mourn the loss of their family. Senzey and Darline could only think about surviving.
On the third day after the earthquake, they went with some others from their neighborhood to an open field where people were camping together, sleeping under shelters made of sticks and blankets and pieces of clothing. Soon the rain came, drenching everything. Not long after, some blans arrived with tarps. Sometimes they came with food and water.
At first it was okay, everyone cooking and sharing what little they had, taking care of each other. But the camp grew quickly, oozing out like a stain across the pebbly land. Things began to change. People started stealing from each other, fighting with each other. The police would come and beat up everyone in their path. After a while the owner of the land wanted to take it back. People were given deadlines to leave, but nobody had money to go anywhere else. Senzey and her sister ended up staying there for three years.
Then they went to live in a small house in Cité Soleil that they shared with a guy who was Darline’s boyfriend, along with his mother, his two brothers and their girlfriends, plus two cousins. There was not even enough room for all of them to sleep at the same time. Senzey tried to bring money to the household, sometimes selling charcoal, sometimes making packages of water to sell. She felt lucky when she finally got a job cleaning rooms at the Hotel le Président. It was far from her plan of becoming a teacher—to make her father proud—or her dream to be an artist, or maybe even both. But that did not seem to matter anymore.
Senzey scooped up a wasp that was struggling on the surface of the water, using a leaf to lift it out of harm’s way and depositing it onto the warm concrete with a shake. She wondered what her father would think about her situation now. Would he think she had been foolish to let herself become pregnant with Luke’s son? Would he understand that she had loved him? Would he be disappointed in her for abandoning Lukson, for leaving him behind instead of finding some way, any way, to take care of him herself?
Suddenly Senzey felt ashamed. What must Lizbeth and her friends think of her? There was no way they would understand her reasons, reasons that would look only like excuses to someone who did not live the life she had lived here, on this island on the edge of the world.
Senzey listened to the sounds of the evening traffic coming from the other side of the thick wall that separated the hotel from the street, grinding like gears on a machine that could not be stopped. The sun was low in the sky, its last rays peeking across the horizon. She watched until it disappeared, and then shivered, despite the warm, thick air that remained. She stood and pulled down the hem of her dress, wrapped her arms around herself, and squeezed. Tomorrow she would see her baby.
27
The familiar brew of mosquito repellant and cigarette smoke, the clatter of dishes and sweet fusion of languages made Bea feel right at home, back in her wicker chair on the veranda of the old hotel.
Stanley had greeted her like royalty when she and Charlie sat down for breakfast, delivering her coffee and mango juice without her even asking. She’d wanted to ask after Robert, but didn’t dare run the risk of any more of Charlie’s teasing. So she’d kept her mouth shut, listening for the sound of the Frenchman’s sexy accent as they watched the sun start its climb into the sky.
Now Charlie was gone, off to find the orphanage with Lizbeth and Senzey. Personally, Bea was worn out from it all, exhausted from the trip to Jacmel, and wanting some time to rest. She’d just put down her crocheting and allowed her eyes to slip closed for a morning nap when she felt two strong hands come to rest on her shoulders.
“Bonjour, Madame Bea. How is everything with you this fine morning?”
She sat up and smoothed the front of her blouse. “Good morning, Robert. It’s so nice to see you again.”
“May I?” He pulled out a chair and sat. “And your visit to the beach, I trust it went well?”
Bea caught Robert up with the goings-on in Jacmel, and told him of the mission the other three ladies had set out on that morning. “I’m just praying they find that baby safe and sound,” she told him. “And praying that Charlie will get back to finding her mother. And that’s a lot of praying for someone who doesn’t really believe much in prayers.”
“Well then, I will add my prayers to yours.” Bea could sense Robert leaning forward in his chair. “I have a surprise for you today, Madame Bea.”
“And what might that be, Monsieur Robert?” she asked, a little smile playing at her lips.
“It is Mambo Michèle. I have spoken of you to her. And she would like to know you, as you would like to know her.”
“That’s marvelous, Robert!” Bea reached for his hand to give it a squeeze. “Can we meet her today? I have so many questions.”
“She is coming this morning. We will wait for her here.”
Now Bea was far too excited to nap. She sat by as patiently as she could while Robert worked, the click-clacking of his computer like the ticking of a clock. As had happened the first time, she felt the mambo’s presence before anyone spoke. It felt like a cool breeze was blowing across the veranda, when Bea knew that, in reality, the air had remained thick and still.
Robert and the mambo exchanged greetings in French. Bea could hear their two smacks, one kiss on each cheek, as the French are fond of doing. Then the woman sat. Bea could feel the energy coming from the mambo, like a bolt of lightning jumping from tower to tower. And, for once in her life, Bea found herself at a loss for words.
“I have told Mambo Michèle about your abilities,” Robert prompted. “About how you communicated with my wife. She is most interested to hear about that.”
Bea’s sudden shyness caught her off guard. It was as though the mere presence of the mambo had her cowering like a scared rabbit. She imagined the woman large and majestic. “Me?” she said, her voice a tinny squeak. “Oh, it’s not anything that special.”
“Do not be so humble, Madame Bea,” Robert urged. “What you do is very unique.”
“No, really. A lot of folks could do it, if they wanted to. It’s not like I’m a sorceress or priestess or anything.”
“But you have been trained for this, am I correct?” The woman’s voice came out deep and thick, like a heavy sauce poured from a pitcher.
“You speak English?” Bea asked.
“A little. I have family, in Miami. I go there sometimes.”
“Nice place, Miami.” What a stupid thing to say, Bea thought. What was it about this woman that threw her off base like this?
“And your training?” the woman repeated.
Bea shook her head. “No training.”
Bea could have sworn she heard a little cluck from the mambo. She cleared her throat and continued. “Actually, I was born this way. I’ve known ever since I was a girl that there was something different about me.”
“Different? In what way?” Robert asked.
“You don’t really want to hear all this.”
“But I do,” Robert insisted.
Bea wished she had remembered to put on some lipstick that morning. “Well, for one thing,” she answered, “I’d see shadows around corners. And sometimes I had dreams that were so vivid and complicated that I’d be shocked to wake up and find they weren’t real. Believe me, I used to be so scared of the dark that I’d sleep fully clothed with all the lights on. Always.”
Robert’s laugh began to put her at ease.
“And after?” the mambo asked.
“So, later, I’d find myself picking up on people’s feelings, their emotions, and would hear myself giving advice right and left. But I chalked that up to being a hairdresser. It’s sort of a prerequisite of the trade. Then, the older I got, the more I began to think it was something bigger than that. After an aunt died, and started visiting me in my shop, I realized I had a gift.”
“A hairdresser? You are a beautician?”
“Yes, I am,” Bea answered, wondering if there wasn’t a bit of judgment in the woman’s words. A Virgo, no doubt about it. She patted the table around her, searching for her fan. “And you,” she asked the mambo, “how did you come upon your gift?”
“I was trained to be a mambo.” The woman placed the fan in Bea’s hand. “And your religion,” she asked, “how does it work?”
Bea laughed. “It’s no religion. Quite the contrary, in fact. Lots of religious folks think what I do is heresy. Some say people like me are tricked by demons.”
From her silence, the woman seemed to be thinking about it.
“Tell me,” the mambo finally said. “Is there a purpose for what you do?”
The question got Bea’s hackles up again. “Purpose?” she snapped. “Of course it has a purpose. Why else would I do it?”
Robert quickly stepped in. “What Madame Bea does is to help those who are grieving a loss, to bring them some peace. In English it is called closure. Clôture. Her work can give answers to the questions left unanswered, the things left unsaid. It is like giving people the possibility for a second chance.”
“That’s beautifully put, Robert. Thank you.”
“So that is all that you do? Talk with the dead?” the mambo asked.
“That’s not enough?” How on earth did she end up in a smackdown with a mambo?
Robert laughed a little.
“And what about you?” Bea asked the woman. “What’s your deal?”
“Deal?”
“How do you do your Vodou?”
The mambo didn’t answer right away. Bea waited.
“You have to understand, Madame Bea, that the Haitians are very protective of their religion.” Robert placed a glass of cold water in her hand.
“So they don’t even talk about it? I see.” Bea slumped back in her chair, disappointed, batting at the air half-heartedly with her fan.
“I do not ‘do Vodou’. I serve the loa, the spirits,” Mambo Michèle suddenly offered.
Bea sat up. “You’re saying you don’t believe in Vodou?”
“Vodou is a part of life, not something you believe in.”
Bea leaned in toward the mambo. “So then, what do you do? Spells? Magic potions?”
“Yes—wanga, magic, is something people ask for.”
“It can be done for love, money, health, work, protection, revenge—all sorts of reasons for many different problems,” Robert added.
“Revenge?”
“It is a very practical system,” he explained.
“Interesting.”
Mambo Michèle continued with her reply. “Most people, they ask for a leson.”
“Divinations, readings,” Robert interpreted.
“Aha! So she talks to dead people too.”
“It is the loa she contacts. The loa help resolve the issues, and prevent problems in the future. They are the ones who give the mambo the information to pass along.”
“It all sounds very complicated.”
“It is.”
“But, think about it. It’s really not all that different from what I do, right? We both listen to people’s problems, and we both go to the spirits for guidance.”
“Yes, that is true.”
“And then we pass along all we’ve seen and heard, to help solve those problems. We’re both healers, in a sense.”
“Guérisseuses,” Robert translated for Mambo Michèle, who seemed to contemplate the notion for a few minutes. Bea sat and listened to the birds cawing in the trees around them.
Then the mambo responded. “I would like for you to do something for me.”
“Me?” What on earth could a woman with her powers need from Bea?
“I want to talk to somebody. To see how it works.”
“Oh, I don’t know—”
“It is my mother. She died many years ago, when I was a girl.”
At first Bea panicked at the thought. She’d never tried to channel a person who probably didn’t speak English. But then again, what the hell did she have to lose? The woman already seemed doubtful of her abilities. It would either work, or it wouldn’t.
What Bea discovered, once she’d closed her eyes and opened her mind, was that the mambo’s mother was quite eager to connect with her daughter. And the messages came not in the words of any language, but rather in pictures and symbols and scenes, like a movie. She described what she saw to Mambo Michèle as best she could. The woman appeared in all white, in a full-length, lacy, tiered dress. She was beautiful, her dark skin glowing beneath a scarf wound tightly around her head. And she had the most wonderful thoughts to send along to her daughter.
As Bea finished, she could hear the familiar sound of a person in tears. It happened quite frequently after a reading. But, as was often the case, the tears were not coming from a place of distress or sadness. Mambo Michèle’s mother had spoken only of her pride in her daughter, her delight that Michèle had chosen to carry on with the work her mother had done herself.
“Robert,” Bea whispered, while they gave the mambo a moment to collect herself. “Do you think I might be able to get Mambo Michèle to give me a bit of help?”
“Go ahead,” he urged. “Ask her.”
The mambo sniffled daintily. “What is it you are looking for, Madame Bea?”
“Just a little advice. It seems as though my own powers might be slightly limited, compared to yours. I’d love to put some of that magic you have to work for my granddaughter, and for my friend.”
“It would be an honor.”
Bea felt a rush of gratitude, like the wa
rmth from a cup of tea on a cold night. She leaned in toward the mambo, who she now pictured as looking exactly like the mother who had come through in her vision. “Thank you. That is truly kind of you.” She pulled her chair up closer to the table. “Now,” she began, “let me tell you what I’m looking for. First—”
Mambo Michèle interrupted before she could finish, calling out to Stanley for her tools—a candle and a glass of water.
Bea sat back in her wicker chair, her feet coming to rest on a cushioned stool, her face tipped into the breeze from the whirring fan above, and waited for the magic to happen.
28
The cluster of blonds caught Charlie’s eye the minute she descended onto the veranda the next morning. Women on a church mission, no doubt about it, with their neat, low ponytails and flowery summer dresses, still crisp in the thickening air. Had they traveled to Haiti with their teenage children, dropping in for a couple of days to pound a few crooked nails into some sub-standard shack that could have been better constructed by the Haitians themselves? Or were they here delivering boatloads of clothing and shoes, used items that the locals sometimes called Kennedys, a charitable effort that only had the effect of taking the food right out of local merchants’ mouths. Why buy something, when you can get it for free?
It was exactly what she and Robert had been talking about, over shots of rum, late into the night the evening before. The difference between do-gooders and doing good, he proposed, is knowing that you don’t have all the answers. Better for people to give cash, or come down to Haiti themselves and spend their money, than to send things or do things that may not be needed or wanted. A little can go a long way in a country where most people survive on less than two dollars a day.
Of course, Charlie was once a part of that whole do-gooder world herself. She now cringed at the memories of her stepfather forcing his dogma on people that had been following their own traditions for generations. And now, her parents pretending to be saviors when all they were doing was exploiting others for their own benefit. How low could they go? she wondered.
Charlie felt a tiny hammer pounding at her head from the inside out. If only these people would leave already, she thought, hearing the voices of the women grow louder as their numbers increased. How many blonds does it take to do good, anyway? She had to laugh at her cranky self, more than a little hungover from the rum she and Robert had consumed after an exhausted Bea, a discouraged Lizbeth, and a silent Senzey had turned in for the night. They had not found the baby yesterday. At first they had not even been able to find the orphanage on the street Senzey had been told it was on, but instead had driven around in circles through a maze of traffic, Senzey peering through the car window for the building she’d been shown in pictures. She had been shown a whole album, she told them, with photos of blans bottle-feeding and cooing over tiny bundles of warmth, drawing pictures and playing ball with smiling toddlers. Your child will be loved, she was promised.
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