Hours went by before Senzey finally did spy a house that she said looked something like the one she’d been shown. Charlie veered off the street and onto the sidewalk to get a closer look. It was the one, Senzey insisted, but why did it look so quiet, like no one was there? Indeed, the windows were dark, the front door blocked by trash that had clearly piled up over some time. When they noticed the padlock, Senzey had cried out as if she were in pain. “They’re gone,” she wailed. “My baby is gone.”
It had been a long day, and an even longer evening. Senzey had been using Charlie’s phone to repeatedly dial the number she had for the couple that had convinced her to leave her baby with the orphanage, not wanting to believe that the number was no longer in use, as the message kept telling her. Lizbeth kept grumbling about damn baby-finders, despite Charlie’s gentle kicks under the table. She tried to be encouraging, suggesting they all get some rest and regroup in the morning, when their minds would be clearer. But Lizbeth and Senzey must have stayed awake late in their shared room, as they had not yet appeared for breakfast. As for Charlie, her mind was not clear at all. Only Bea, who was up to something down below in the hotel garden, seemed to have any semblance of a plan, however crazy that plan might be.
The knock on the door of their hotel room had come early that morning, Charlie unlocking it sleepily to find a tall Haitian woman draped in ruffled white cotton, her head wrapped in a bright red turban, clunky beads strung around her neck like garlands on a Christmas tree, and a baby doll—the old-fashioned kind with a hard plastic face and eyes that opened and shut—in her hand. In the other hand was a dagger. Charlie rubbed her eyes and waited for the woman to identify herself.
“Madame Bea,” the woman said instead, the words a command rather than a question.
Charlie turned to her grandmother, who, to her surprise, was already up and dressed, her head covered by a wide-brimmed straw hat, her arms ringed in Lizbeth’s neon mosquito bracelets.
“Mambo Michèle,” Bea said. “This is my granddaughter, Charlie. Charlie, meet Mambo Michèle.”
Charlie stood by in her tank top and pajama bottoms and watched as the woman took her grandmother’s elbow, and the two sauntered off together like a couple of old friends.
Now she peered through the white wooden railings, down toward the spot where Bea and the mambo seemed to be setting a table for something. What the hell were those two up to, anyway? Did she even want to know? Across from her, the church women were signing for their breakfast and gathering their purses. Charlie was grateful for the coming silence, for the chance to concentrate on developing a plan of action for Lizbeth and Senzey, hopefully before they woke up. But where to start? Charlie’s only hope was that the orphanage had moved, and not simply disappeared. But even if that were true, how would she find it? It’s not as though these places listed their addresses online, or had big neon signs out in front or anything.
She sipped her coffee and watched as the group of women joined hands for a prayer, like football players in a huddle before the big game. Then they got to work, taking trips up and down the hotel’s staircase, marching back and forth from their rooms to a trio of vans waiting below, their arms heavy with bundles and bags and, Charlie noticed, plastic-wrapped mattresses small enough to fit in a crib. When she saw a carton of disposable diapers go by, she jumped up from her chair.
“Morning. How y’all doing?” she asked, borrowing a bit of Lizbeth’s Texas accent to help pave the way.
“Hey there,” one of the women answered, her eyes hidden behind a pair of giant sunglasses. “We’re doing just fine. And you?”
“Super,” Charlie answered back, her stomach still turning somersaults from the night before.
“Are you here with a group? The Belles of Mercy? Someone said they’re in town.”
Charlie shook her head. “Nope. No group.”
The woman smiled and nodded, and started to turn away.
“Where y’all going?” Charlie asked.
“We’re getting ready to visit some orphanages, to help out a bit.”
“Seriously?” Charlie flashed her famous smile. “That’s awesome.” She could not believe her good luck.
The woman nodded, and continued toward the vans.
“Mind if I ask you a favor?” Charlie said, thinking as fast as she could through the haze left by the rum.
“What’s that?”
“Could I maybe come along?”
The woman stopped, taking in Charlie’s ripped cutoffs and baggy tee.
“I’ve been wanting to find something to do down here, some way to help. You know, with all this poverty and all? It’s such a darn shame.”
The woman hesitated, looking around as though she were seeking permission from the others.
“Charity’s the name.” Charlie stuck out her hand for a shake.
“Charity,” the woman repeated. “My name’s Kathleen. Well, Charity”—she shrugged—“I suppose we could always use another pair of hands.”
Charlie ran down to where Bea and the mambo were spreading a bright red and blue cloth across a rickety table, as if readying for a picnic. There was no time to explain, or to ask them what was going on. She simply told Bea she’d be back later, and to please pass on the message to Senzey and Lizbeth to just sit tight.
Her first stop with the women was an eye-opener, but would turn out to be far from the most alarming of the half dozen so-called orphanages they visited that day. From the outside it looked not unlike the other buildings on the block, a squat structure standing behind a treeless front yard that had been concreted over, and seemed clean enough, despite the need for a paint job.
The other women marched into the place with broad smiles plastered across their faces, eager to spread some love to the boys and girls. They were met with an onslaught of skinny, raggedy children leaping through the air and into their arms, as if they’d known the women their entire lives. Charlie was stopped dead in her tracks by a pair of boys, no older than six, who’d each flung their arms tightly around one of her legs, a hunger in their eyes that went way beyond their obvious need for food.
She followed Kathleen’s lead as she and the other women tried to comfort the children with caresses and soft words in a language they couldn’t understand. She joined in as they blew bubbles and sang songs and chanted rhymes while a woman who seemed to be in charge, helped by a young boy, unloaded goods from the van. Charlie watched as the two of them carted it all down a dark hallway, past the children’s eager eyes and grabby hands. Their donations weren’t even a drop in a bucket in this place, she realized, as she took in the room’s crumbling floors and bare cabinets, the children’s hollow cheeks and dirty limbs. That is, she thought, remembering what Mackenson had told them, if those donations even make it to the kids. These children were obviously used to visits from strangers, from blans with love to spare. So where was the evidence of the toys and clothes and food that Charlie was certain had been gathered and carted down here before, by others?
They seemed to get the same reaction everywhere they went. Children desperate for attention, clawing for a hint of affection, who had to be pried from the necks and hands of the visiting women when it was time for them to move on to the next place. Charlie found herself a bit in awe of Kathleen and her crew, with their can-do attitudes and endless patience. They were so incredibly kind, their hearts certainly in the right place. But she had to wonder if a disruption of the sort they were causing—no doubt one of a series that went on regularly in places like this—might be doing more harm than good. People loving and leaving, over and over—what does that do to a child who’s already been abandoned?
But it was the sheer neglect that Charlie came to witness that shook her to her core. Most of the facilities she saw that day weren’t fit for barnyard animals. Metal cots stacked one upon the other in crowded bunkrooms, the rusty frames supporting thin, rotting foam mattresses, if any mattress at all. Crumbling concrete walls, scattered broken chairs, bins, and shelves empty
of books or toys or crayons, devoid of anything at all that spoke of a child’s presence. But the children were there, an army of underfed, unloved, discounted souls, in worn and dirty clothing, with spots and rashes splashed across their tiny bodies, thick, yellow snot running down their grubby faces. What kind of abuse did these poor babies suffer when no one was around to see or hear? And how many of them were like poor little Lukson, given up by parents who were still out there somewhere, holding on to dreams for a better life than their own for their children?
Lukson. She’d hoped upon hope that by some miracle she’d find him that day, but realized very quickly that would not be the case. She’d heard babies’ cries coming from back rooms, seen a couple of kids that might be near his age being passed around during their visits, but there was no way she’d be able to identify him, let alone talk anyone into letting a blan walk away with one of their wards. The best she could do was stick to her plan and take note of every location they stopped in. Tomorrow she’d come back with Senzey, and Lizbeth.
She prayed Lukson hadn’t been stuck in one of these god-awful places, warehoused like a piece of discarded merchandise. But if he was, she would find him, and would, somehow, shout out his heartbreaking story for the whole world to hear.
29
Lizbeth was beginning to think they were all crazy. Crazy as bullbats, as they said back home. Maybe it was all the heat down here making everyone believe in things they shouldn’t, she thought as she stood in the hotel’s front garden under the blazing midday sun, perspiration trickling down her skin like hot rain. Finding this baby—how was that ever gonna happen? That locked-up, empty house didn’t leave them any clues as to where he might be. What were they supposed to do, go door-to-door, putting their lives at risk poking around every dark corner of the damn city looking to find him?
And Charlie, Lizbeth thought—where was Charlie in all this? Trotting off to who knows where, minding everybody’s business but her own. Lord knows Charlie’s grandmother had been right, back before they all got tangled up in this heap of a mess. That girl should just stick to her own knitting.
But now Bea was the one who seemed to have gone truly off her rocker. Being a medium was one thing. Lizbeth might sort of understand how that worked. But this? This just did not sit right.
Lizbeth felt as though she was going to faint as she waited, surrounded by those god-awful penis statues staring at her. Beside her, Senzey appeared cool as a cucumber, not a drop of sweat to be seen on her smooth dark skin. She’d been quiet all morning, and seemed to be paying not much mind to whatever Bea and this Vodou priestess lady she seemed to have got herself mixed up with had up their sleeves. Lizbeth just wanted it to be over.
She would never let on to Senzey, but, truth be told, she was again tempted to just go back home. Back to Texas, back to her tidy, air-conditioned little house with the memories of Luke and her husband to keep her company. This whole thing was just too painful, one minute thinking it was all gonna work out fine, the next feeling like there was no hope at all. But that padlocked door the day before had been a sign, she was sure, telling her it was finally time to call it quits. No doubt about it. Bea wasn’t the only woman in the world who had the gift of intuition. No sirree.
“Please, sit.”
She turned to see Robert, who had kindly brought her a chair. “Why, thank you so much.” She plopped her damp body down onto the seat. What a gentleman he was. Robert was followed by Stanley, who, bless his heart, was toting a wooden tray with five tall glasses of water.
“Do you have any idea what those two are up to?” she asked Robert. “I couldn’t get a lick of information outta Bea.”
“They are preparing to make an offering,” he whispered. “To Èrzulie Dantòr.”
Lizbeth watched as Bea and the large Haitian woman fussed over a hodgepodge of items sitting atop their table: candles and fine silver chains and loose cigarettes, a cup of black coffee and a bottle of crème de cacao, a baby doll flat on its back, its blue eyes vacant and unblinking, and an arsenal of very sharp knives. “Excuse me? A what? To who?”
“They are asking a favor of Èrzulie Dantòr. She is the loa called the Black Madonna, known to be the protector of women and children. And to ask her a favor, they must offer her something in return, to show respect.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“What you see on this altar are her favorite things.”
“Knives and baby dolls?”
“She is a devoted mother, and a fierce protector.”
Lizbeth pursed her lips and shook her head. She pictured her husband, Darryl, rolling in his grave. Dear God, what had she got herself into? This was not at all what she had signed up for.
“Look.” Robert pointed to a framed picture on the table, propped up against a glass. “You will never see Dantòr without a child in her arms.”
Lizbeth leaned in for a better look. “Or a knife, I guess,” she said, eyeing the long dagger grasped firmly in the woman’s hand. “What’s with her face?” Under her jeweled crown, Èrzulie Dantòr had been painted with two parallel scars raked across each cheek.
“It is said those are from a fight, with her sister Èrzulie Fréda. Some believe it was her sister who ripped out her tongue.”
“She has no tongue?”
Robert shook his head. “Other people say she used to be a slave, that her tongue was cut out when she tried to warn other slaves of danger. Dantòr does not speak. She can only make a clicking sound.”
One day she’s talking with the dead, the next praying for help from a violent spirit without a tongue—the folks back home would never believe it. Not that she’d ever mention it to them, anyhow.
“Ah,” Robert said. “I see we are almost ready.”
Stanley had returned, this time with a steaming pot that he placed in the center of the altar. Lizbeth turned to Robert for more explanation.
“Her favorite food,” he whispered. “Sacrifices are often part of an offering. This was a pig. Now it is pork griot,” he added.
Lizbeth cringed.
Robert went quiet as the mambo stepped back from the altar, her hulking presence commanding the attention of those around her. One by one, she held a match to the six white candles on the table and they ignited, their yellow flames unwavering in the motionless air. The mambo became still, her eyes closed, as if concentrating very hard on something. Then she began to talk. To Lizbeth, the tone of her voice sounded like she was carrying on a casual conversation with a friend. Despite it all being in a language neither one of them knew, Bea stood there nodding, as if she actually understood exactly what the mambo was saying. And Senzey, she stayed as stiff as one of those statues, her hands clasped together, her eyes riveted on the picture of the Black Madonna.
Then the mambo turned, hiked up her long skirt in her hands, and headed toward the stairs that led up to the veranda, leaving the altar, the candles still burning behind her.
“What? That’s it?” Lizbeth asked. “All that fuss, and it’s done?”
Robert laughed. “That is it. It doesn’t take long to make a simple offering.” He took her arm. “Now we eat. Pork griot for everyone.” Together they followed Bea and the mambo up the stairs for lunch, Senzey trailing behind.
Lizbeth wrinkled her nose as shiny cubes of meat were ladled onto her plate. “So what, we just sit back and wait for it all to work itself out? That baby’s gonna pop up right out of the blue?”
“Have a little faith, Lizbeth.” Bea spread a napkin carefully across her lap. “And it’s not just help with the baby we asked Èrzulie Dantòr for. We also sought assistance with Charlie and her mother. My daughter.”
“Well, God bless her. If Mambo Michèle can make all that happen, I’ll eat my hat.”
“And what about eating your lunch?” Robert laughed. “It does not appeal to you?”
Lizbeth picked at the meat. “Spicy food doesn’t always agree with me,” she said, just a bit of a lie.
“If it is
the sacrifice I mentioned that you are worried about, there is no need. The pork for today’s offering came from the hotel freezer, I am sure.”
Lizbeth breathed a sigh of relief.
“People often misunderstand the notion of animal sacrifice in the Vodou religion,” he explained. “But in places where there are no supermarkets, no refrigeration, where do you think one finds the meat they need for their offerings? The same way they find meat for their own tables. But you should not worry, Lizbeth. The slaughter is done by a person trained as a butcher. And nothing goes to waste. Sometimes an offering to a spirit can feed a whole community.”
Lizbeth’s stomach growled with anticipation. Missing breakfast always made her a little nuts. Robert turned his attention to the mambo, and they began speaking together in French.
“Try it,” Bea urged, spooning the thick sauce into her mouth. “It’s quite tasty.”
And it was. Tangy and just a tad spicy, the soft cubes of pork practically melted in her mouth, and in no time they were all eaten.
“Was that so frightening?” Robert asked with a wink at her empty plate.
“This part was fine,” Lizbeth said, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “It’s that other malarkey, with the candles and the knives and all, that’s got me all bothered. I’ll be heading straight for hell, getting mixed up in mumbo-jumbo like that.”
Island on the Edge of the World Page 17