Remember...
Standing at Mr. Joseph’s front door, Toby knocked. After a minute ticked by without an answer, Toby headed around to the back of the house.
He wondered if perhaps the old man was working at Barb’s, but in the backyard, he saw the door to Mr. Joseph’s shed was open.
A flash of nerves tingled through Toby’s gut.
Relax. It’s just a shed. Nothing to be afraid of.
But still, Toby wondered, after all these years, what was actually inside Mr. Joseph’s shed?
He walked around piles of old bricks, dirt, empty bottles, pieces of corrugated iron and old cans of paint, finally stopping at the shed. Mr. Joseph ceased sweeping, looked up and said, “Bonjou, Monsieur Fairchild.” The old man was wearing a black shirt and dark-colored shorts, which showed off his rich chocolate skin and long, thin legs.
“Welcome to my hounfor,” Mr. Joseph said. “I was just doing some cleaning. Gets a bit dusty. Come in, I’ll show you.” Mr. Joseph set aside the straw broom and motioned for Toby to venture inside.
With some hesitation, Toby stepped over the slightly raised threshold and entered the shed.
He was first struck by the bright colors and the overall strangeness of the interior. Most striking was a tall wooden pole in the middle of the shed, painted in bright red and blue spiral bands. The walls were also splashed with color—one wall was painted blue, one red and the other orange. All had strange drawings on them. There was a wooden cross over to one side, painted black, and sitting atop one arm was empty rum bottles, small drums and a pair of dark sunglasses. On the other side of the cross rested a shovel, a hoe and a pickaxe.
After the initial awe of the shed, Toby felt a sudden sense of déjà vu—like he’d dreamt about this place. But that was ridiculous. He’d never been inside Mr. Joseph’s shed before. Nobody had.
“Wow,” Toby said, turning to Mr. Joseph. “This is amazing.”
“Mèsi. This is my temple, my religious sanctuary, if you like. Well, a modified version of one, but it serves me well enough. Vodou isn’t some scary black magic, like most people think it is. It’s a religion, like any other, except it deals more directly with the spirits, sees them as guides who can help us, not just something to pray to. It’s a very organic religion, which merges African tribal rituals, with some Christian myths and rites. You see these pictures on the wall?”
Toby looked again at the various crude paintings. On the blue wall was a red drawing, an X with a round face in the top V, and a small v on the bottom, with the letter G inside. Looming over this painting was a cross. On the red wall was a more elaborate painting of a person with no legs, looking slightly angry, with both hands facing downwards, fists balled, and what appeared to be a branch with leaves sprouting from his head. And on the orange wall was what looked like a cake with a cross on top. Two coffins sat to either side of this coffin-cake.
“They are what are known as vèvè, ritual drawings of whatever loa a particular vodou hounfor is dedicated to. Usually they’re drawn on the ground using flour or maize, as part of the ritual to invoke a loa during a vodou ceremony. Back home, I used to honor Azaka, loa of agriculture. These vèvè are of Guédé, the spirits of the dead, masters of the cemetery, and guardian of the children. I honor specifically Guédé Nimbo, a loa close to my heart.”
“Why is that?”
“Nimbo is a special protector of the children.” Mr. Joseph closed his eyes and started singing, gently, and in a surprisingly harmonious and pleasant voice, “Guédé, take the money, I will give you money, money, I will give you money to guard the children. I will give you money to guard the children.” He opened his eyes. “Song of Nimbo.” Then he turned to the pole in the middle of the shed. “This is a poteau-mitan—a center-post. Well, a rough replication of one. Usually it’s found in the peristyle—that’s where most of the vodou ceremonies take place. The poteau-mitan is where the people dance around to honor the loa, and sometimes get mounted.”
“Mounted?”
“It’s when a person is taken over by a loa, so the loa can speak, give advice or grant favors.”
Toby stared wide-eyed at Mr. Joseph. “You mean a person can be taken over by a god?”
Mr. Joseph nodded. “But vodou gods are not the same as Christian gods. The loa are more akin to spirits, and there are many, many loa, some good, some not so good. All are different, and require different rituals in order to invoke them.” Mr. Joseph shook his head. “But it’s much too complex and involved to get into.” He turned to the wooden cross. “This altar is where I pay my respect to Guédé Nimbo. You place items favored by whichever loa you worship at your altar. But like I said, this is only a make-shift hounfor, the ones back in Haiti are much more elaborate. It’s silly, really. I don’t know why I bother. I guess it just... makes me feel closer to my country.”
“So you make a ho... houn...”
“Hounfor.”
“Right, one of those at every place you’ve lived?”
“In one way or another. If I live in a house, I will either construct a hounfor in one of the rooms, or in a shed or garage, if it has one. The times I’ve lived in apartments, I’ve just allocated one corner for my altar.”
“So you’ve moved around a lot?”
“Come, let’s go inside. I need a drink. We can talk more then.” Mr. Joseph stepped out of the shed.
Toby aimed to follow, but he remained in the make-shift vodou temple, wondering why it seemed familiar.
“Is everything okay?” Mr. Joseph asked.
“This may sound strange, but I can’t help feeling that I’ve dreamt about this place.”
Mr. Joseph laughed, softly. “You don’t say?”
“Silly, I know.” With a shrug, Toby stepped out of the shed. Once outside, he watched the old man chain then padlock the shed door. Then he followed Mr. Joseph into the kitchen.
“Water?” Mr. Joseph asked.
“Please.”
Mr. Joseph filled a glass and placed it down in front of Toby, seated at the table. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything else to offer,” he said.
“That’s okay. Mom says I should drink more water anyway.”
“I wasn’t sure you would be back,” Mr. Joseph said as he went about making some tea. Once the kettle was on the stove, he wandered back over and sat down. “I thought maybe you had changed your mind. Maybe gone to the police about Jean-Philippe —or me.”
“No,” Toby said.
Mr. Joseph nodded. “You looked tired,” he said. “Still having trouble sleeping?”
“Yeah.”
“Your injuries?”
“That’s partly the reason, but they’re not so bad anymore. I went to see Doctor Hampton yesterday. He said I was healing fine and should be ready for high school come September.”
“Are you ready for high school?”
Toby shrugged. “Is anyone ever ready for high school?”
“I wouldn’t know. I never even went to elementary school.”
“You didn’t?”
“Most kids in Haiti don’t, especially those from the country. So is that what’s keeping you awake?”
“Hmm?”
“You said you were having trouble sleeping. And since your wounds don’t seem to be much of a problem, I thought maybe it was the idea of starting high school.”
“That, plus other things.”
“Care to talk about it?”
Toby shrugged. “Well, remember how I said my memory of the night of the attack is a little fuzzy? It’s more than a little fuzzy. The attack itself, until I awoke in the hospital, is a blank. I have brief flashes from that night, but they’re just that—flashes that don’t mean anything. Basically I have no recollection. But I can’t help but feel that if I could remember the attack, I would be able to tell the police who it was that attacked me and Frankie.”
“I see,” Mr. Joseph said. “And you feel...guilty for not being able to remember?”
“I guess. A little. Als
o I’ve been having these weird dreams, it’s almost as if they’re trying to tell me something, trying to get me to remember that night.” Toby huffed. “Sounds silly.”
“No, it doesn’t.” When the kettle started whistling, Mr. Joseph hopped up, shuffled over to the stove and soon came back to the table with a teapot and cup. He waited a few minutes before pouring the tea.
Toby wrinkled his nose. “What is that? It’s green.”
“It’s peppermint. I like herbal teas. Green teas. They sit well in my stomach.”
Toby took a sip of water. “What about food? Can you eat?”
“Sure. Though I don’t eat a lot, usually one meal per day, and only the most basic of foods, such as fruit, oatmeal or corn.”
“Sounds tasty,” Toby said, making a face.
“It keeps me going. I can’t stomach rich foods.” Mr. Joseph sipped his tea, careful not to spill a drop. “So, you were asking about all the places I have lived. Well, I couldn’t name them all, but some of the places I’ve lived are: Miami, New York, Atlanta, and lots of smaller towns in between. I was living in Cleveland before I moved here.”
“Why did you move here? I mean, it’s such a small town and all.”
“Well, we’ll get up to that part later. How about I continue telling you about my life in Haiti? Unless you have somewhere else to be, I don’t want to hold you up.”
“I’m meeting Gloria later, but that’s not for a few hours.”
“Well okay then.”
“So Marcel was gone. We were all happy about that. But there was an underlying nervousness about the situation, too. We just hoped his friends wouldn’t return.
Three days after the marines had taken Marcel away, they came for him.
We were inside the main hut, eating breakfast, when they stepped into the house. Looking filthier, angrier than when we had last seen them, over two weeks ago.
“We’re here for Marcel,” the small caco demanded. “Where is he?”
“Go outside and play,” Felicia whispered to Rachel.
Rachel did as she was told.
I stood up from the table and walked towards them.
I took a deep breath. I was shaking. “He’s not here,” I told them.
“Where is he? He was not supposed to go outside for any reason.”
I tried to remain calm, but it was hard to do when two mean, dirty looking men with guns were glaring at you. “He’s gone. The marines took him away.”
The small man’s eyes widened in manic rage. “What!” he roared.
They both pointed their guns at me. Mangela and Felicia gasped behind me.
“He was captured?” the taller man said. It was the first time I had heard him speak. He had a deep, hoarse voice.
I nodded.
The smaller man struck my cheek hard with the butt of his old rifle. It hurt like hell and I collapsed to the ground. I was dazed for a moment, and when I opened my eyes, I was staring down two barrels.
“You’re dead,” the small man said, snarling.
“Don’t shoot him,” Mangela cried.
“Yes, it wasn’t his fault,” Felicia cried. “It was...”
“Felicia,” I warned, cutting her off.
The larger man shifted his gun to the table. “Shut up the both of you!”
“You’re a traitor to your people,” the smaller man said to me. “I spit on you.” He did just that. Got me right in the face. It stunk, but I was too afraid to wipe it off.
“But you don’t understand,” I said, my voice shaking. “I can explain.” I needed to go to the toilet and I was sweating profusely.
“You pitiful fool. Hurry up before I blow your brains out.”
And he wasn’t kidding. I could see his finger resting on the trigger. “I saw the marines approaching from the window one day. Marcel was in the altar room, resting. I told my wife to go and tell Marcel to stay out of sight, then I went out to see them. They asked me a bunch of questions, like if I had seen any cacos in the area. I told them I hadn’t. They didn’t believe me. They asked if they could search my house. I told them no, that I was telling the truth, so there was no reason to search my house. But they barged in anyway and found Marcel. I couldn’t do anything about it.”
I prayed they believed my story. I didn’t want to think about what would happen to the girls if they killed me.
“If you’re telling the truth then you are a pitiful man. Weak. The Americans must’ve seen through you.”
I lowered my head. “I know. I am sorry. But I did all I could to help my brother.”
Though I suspected they believed my story, I was still expecting them to shoot me. When some time passed without a gun going off, I looked up. Both men had their guns lowered. I wanted to cry I was so happy.
“Don’t worry, old man,” the smaller man said with an evil smirk. “We’re not going to shoot you.”
I nodded. Behind me Mangela was crying softly.
“After all, it wasn’t your fault those filthy Americans stormed your house.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
The smaller man whispered something to the other caco. They both laughed.
“Goodbye,” the smaller man said.
Then they left. Just like that. I stood up.
Mangela came over and put her arms around me. “I was so scared. I thought they were going to kill you for sure. Thank God it’s over.”
I kissed her.
Mangela smiled. She still had tears in her eyes.
“Thank you, papa,” Felicia said. “I’ll go and check on Rachel.” She hurried outside.
Mangela and I hugged each other for a long time. Perhaps I knew it then, but everything wasn’t going to be okay. It wasn’t over. Far from it.
A few days later I decided to finish clearing away all the junk that was piled around our house. I had already dug a large hole in the ground, and was throwing in old mats and bottles. Mangela and Rachel were in the field, picking plantains, Felicia was doing some washing down at the river.
Just before lunch Mangela and Rachel came over with two baskets filled with plantains.
“How are you going?” Mangela asked.
“Getting there. Should be finished by lunch.”
“Well don’t strain yourself too hard, darling.”
I threw a broken chair into the pit then turned to my wife and granddaughter. “Did you pick all those by yourself?” I said to Rachel, nodding at her basket.
“Yep,” she said, grinning.
“Wow. What a good girl.” I took her basket, placed it on the ground, then picked her up in my arms and swung her around. She always loved it when I did that, and she screamed with delight. When I began to feel dizzy, I stopped and put her down.
“Do it again,” she said.
“Maybe later.” I kissed her on the cheek. “Go on. You’d better get going. You have to make lunch for your papa.”
I watched as Mangela and Rachel headed inside the hut.
Then I went back to work.
Close to an hour later I was hot and thirsty and ready to go inside for something to eat and drink. I had my shirt off and was letting the sun beat its fiery rays against my body. I bent down to retrieve my shirt from a box I had lain it on. When I straightened, I caught movement in the distance, over in the hills. I looked and saw two men sitting atop two mules. I wouldn’t have thought much of the sight but for two things. One, they seemed to have stopped on the ridge overlooking my habitation, and appeared to be looking right at me; and two, though my eyesight may not have been the greatest, I could’ve sworn one of the men was the smaller caco. The other looked to be an old man, with a thick beaded necklace looped around his neck. I saw the smaller man point, and a shiver of icy chills passed through my body. Then the mules were turned around and the two men disappeared into the mountains.
I stood gazing up at the hill for a long time, wondering if it was in fact the caco, and if so, who was the old man with him. I knew only houngans wore thick beads aroun
d their neck, but why would the caco bring a vodou priest to my habitation?
Maybe it wasn’t just any houngan, I thought to myself. Maybe it was one who serves with both hands.
The thought scared me.
No, it wasn’t the caco, I reassured myself. They were too far away; I was clearly mistaken.
Or so I hoped.
My daughter’s voice broke my daze.
“Papa, are you okay?”
I turned around to see Felicia strolling towards me, wrapped bundle of washing in a basket atop her head.
“You were staring up at the mountains like you were in a trance or something.”
“Oh, well, I guess you just caught me having one of my moments—I’m going senile, you know.”
“Oh papa, you are not.”
Mangela popped her head out. “I thought I heard voices. Good, Felicia, just in time. Lunch is ready.”
“Okay mama, I’ll be in shortly.”
Mangela turned to me, and her smile dropped a little. “Jacques, is anything the matter?”
I shook my head, rubbed my clammy hands on my overalls. “No, everything is fine. Just hungry.”
“Well, that’s no surprise.” She ducked back into the hut.
I glanced again up at the hills, felt a shiver wash over me once more, and then headed inside.
That night, back sleeping in the main room of the hut, I had a dream. I dreamt of a strange old man wearing colorful dress, a red hat and scarf tied around his neck, and heavy beads looped around his thin neck. His eyes were closed, he was chanting and shaking an asson—a sacred rattle—but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. Whatever it was, it filled me with terror.
Then he started dancing, shaking the rattle even more vigorously, and from his pocket he drew out some kind of white powder and began tossing it on the ground, over a vèvè for Guédé.
I noticed black candles all around the hut, but their scent was of blood, not melting wax, and then I heard someone laughing; it was a cruel laugh, and then a voice filled my head. “You will pay, old man. Shooting you would’ve been too quick.”
The Awakening Page 28