Toby peeled himself out of the couch, and as he ambled towards the front door, heard a car door slam and then a car skid away.
Nerves tingled in Toby’s gut.
Relax. Probably nothing at all to do with me...
When he opened the door, he saw a small parcel on the porch, sitting halfway between the door and the steps.
Toby stepped out, reached down and picked it up. Before he closed the door, he looked up and down the street, but Pineview was like a ghost town.
Back inside, he looked over the box. The parcel had no address or name written on it; it was just a plain box, taped shut.
Toby considered throwing it straight into the trash, but curiosity got the better of him. He took the parcel into the kitchen and placing it on top of the table, sliced the tape with a pair of scissors and then tugged open the box.
The smell hit him immediately; a putrid meaty smell. With some hesitation, he opened the box fully and gazed inside.
His gut surged and before he puked up the hotdogs he’d eaten for lunch, he closed the box, not wanting to look at the severed chicken’s head for a second longer.
“Sick fucks,” Toby muttered, wiping his eyes. It was a good thing his mom wasn’t home; she would have driven straight over to the police, no arguments.
He had a mind to go over to Dwayne’s house and throw the damn box at his front door—but he didn’t have the balls to do such a thing.
Besides, he didn’t have proof it was Dwayne and his gang. Just like he didn’t have proof they were the ones responsible for the graffiti on his and Mr. Joseph’s house. Most of the kids in Belford knew of the stupid rumor that circulated a month ago, so it could’ve been any one of them.
But Toby knew better. He would’ve bet his left nut that this was Dwayne’s doing.
Staring at the box with its horrid present inside, Toby thought about what to do with it. He wanted to throw it in the trash—that’s where it belonged—but he worried his parents would discover it, and then he’d have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.
I should take it around to Mr. Joseph’s. He knows about disposing of these things.
Tentatively picking up the box, Toby carried it over to Mr. Joseph’s house.
This time when he knocked, the door opened.
“Monsieur Fairchild.” Mr. Joseph frowned down at the parcel Toby was holding at arm’s length. “What’s that?”
“Mind if I come in?”
The frown remained as Mr. Joseph stepped aside and let Toby in.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Mr. Joseph opened the box. His face turned grave, he shook his head.
“Someone dropped it off at my house ten minutes ago. I heard a car drive away, fast. Don’t suppose you saw anything?”
Mr. Joseph shook his head. “I haven’t been inside much today, sorry.”
“You’ve been in your shed?”
Mr. Joseph looked surprised. “How did you know?”
“I came over earlier, but you didn’t answer. When I went around to the back, I heard you in the shed.”
“Oh, I see.”
“What were you sing...?”
“Any idea who might’ve left the box?” Mr. Joseph said, cutting off Toby.
Toby nodded. “Dwayne, or at least, one of his gang. I’m sure it was them.”
Mr. Joseph’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed. “That doesn’t surprise me. Little bastards,” he said, voice like thick black venom. “I have a mind to...” He stopped, gazed at Toby.
Toby saw hate in his face—for the first time Toby could remember, he saw genuine loathing.
“Is everything okay?”
Mr. Joseph blinked, the darkness lifted, and he shook his head. “Sorry?”
“I said, is everything okay?”
“I’m fine,” Mr. Joseph said. “So, what shall we do about this?” He nodded to the box.
“I was hoping you could get rid of it. I don’t want my parents finding it in the trash.”
“You don’t want to take it to the police?”
Toby was surprised by Mr. Joseph’s suggestion. “I didn’t think you trusted the police?”
“I have reason not to trust anyone in authority, but this, well, maybe you should report this.”
“Why? It’s just a stupid prank. And telling the police would only worry my mom, and she’s worried enough—too much, if you ask me.”
“Yes, I was meaning to ask you about that. Did your mom tell you I came around to see you yesterday?”
Toby nodded.
“Good. The way things were left, I wasn’t sure she would. So... she’s okay with you coming over here?”
Toby swallowed, looked to the table when he answered. “Yeah, she trusts me to make the right decision. She said something about listening to the child for a change.” Toby hoped Mr. Joseph wasn’t good at picking up on lies.
“Well, I must say I’m surprised. I didn’t think anything I said to your mom got through. I thought all she would see was a strange old man who was the cause of her son’s pain. I’m glad to hear she took on board your thoughts and feelings on the matter.”
“Yeah, well, anyway, I don’t want to go to the cops. Are you able to just throw it in your bin?”
“If you’re sure...”
“I am.”
“Okay.”
Toby waited at the table while Mr. Joseph took the box outside. When he came back, he said, “You know, I was hoping I would see you again.”
Toby frowned. “Why?”
Mr. Joseph shuffled over to the fridge, opened the door and pulled out a bottle of Coke. “Because otherwise this would’ve gone to waste.”
Toby smiled.
Mr. Joseph filled a glass with the cola drink, then brought the glass over. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” Toby took a big gulp. “I’m just glad you didn’t buy diet; or else you would never have seen me again.”
Mr. Joseph chuckled—the first hint of sun Toby had seen in his otherwise cloudy disposition. “You know, I’ve never tasted Coca-Cola before,” he said.
Toby almost spat the drink over the table. “What?”
“Never had a mind to. But I’ve always been curious. Mind if I steal some of yours?”
“Go ahead.”
Mr. Joseph got himself a glass, poured in a small amount, and then sunk it back. He coughed, made a face. “That stuff’s like acid,” he gasped. “It’s worse than rum.”
“I guess it takes some getting used to.”
Mr. Joseph nodded. “I guess so.” He placed the Coke back in the fridge, then rinsed out his glass. “I think I’ll leave the Coke for you.”
“Fine by me.”
Mr. Joseph sat back down.
“You should’ve seen the look Mrs. Stein gave when I bought the Coke. She couldn’t understand why I would buy such an item.” Mr. Joseph smiled thinly and shook his head.
“Thanks,” Toby said.
“What for?”
“For getting rid of the chicken. And for this.” He held up the glass of Coke. “And for yesterday.” Toby looked to the table.
“I saw the confrontation through the store’s window. I hope those boys didn’t hurt you too badly.”
“No,” Toby said.
“I just wish people would leave you alone.”
Toby looked back up. “I was curious. What was all that about this morning in the shed?” he asked
Mr. Joseph’s face turned sour again, his demeanor darkened.
“Sorry,” Toby fumbled. “That was rude of me to ask.”
“No, no, it’s okay, you’re curious. It’s perfectly understandable. I was, well, I was speaking to the loa.”
Toby’s eyes widened. He swallowed the Coke, then said, “A spirit? You were talking to a vodou spirit?”
“Yes. Guédé Nimbo, to be precise.”
“What did you say to it? What did it say to you?”
“Nothing important,” Mr. Joseph said. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
&
nbsp; Toby could tell Mr. Joseph was holding back—what was it he wasn’t telling him? What had the loa told him?
Though Toby desperately wanted to know, he didn’t want to press it. He figured, if it was something truly important, Mr. Joseph would tell him in his own time.
Or so Toby hoped.
“So, got much on for the rest of the afternoon?” Mr. Joseph asked.
Toby huffed. “With the whole town laughing at me? Sure, I’m Mr. Popularity.” Toby finished off his drink.
“Surely it’s not that bad?”
“It’s bad enough that Gloria’s parents have all but banned us from seeing each other. She’s only allowed to see me once a week—they reckon we were seeing too much of each other, but Gloria thinks it’s really because of this situation with you and me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, adults suck. No offense.”
“None taken. Well, if you’re free, how about indulging this adult for a few hours? There’s still plenty more story to tell.”
Toby nodded. “I’d like that. It’ll help me forget about everything for a while.”
“Good. Okay, so where were we...”
“I don’t know how long I was the master’s personal slave—it might have been a few weeks, or maybe a few months. I expect it was probably somewhere in between. It wasn’t exciting work, but it was a lot easier than being out in the cane field, hacking away at the sugar cane all day. But I was at his beck and call. Night or day, it didn’t matter—whatever the master wanted, I obeyed. Whether it was cassava bread in the middle of the night, or a cup of coffee in the morning; whenever that bell jingled, or his deep voice boomed, “Slave!” I would stop whatever it was I was doing—usually menial chores such as cleaning or washing dishes—and go to him.
I wasn’t treated too badly; the master and his son weren’t mean to me, but they weren’t friendly, either. I was like a ghost, my presence felt, but it was like they couldn’t see me. They hardly looked at me when they spoke. But I didn’t care; in my state, I didn’t think about anything; I just was. I did my job as instructed.
When I heard or saw things in the house, I didn’t think anything about it; I didn’t care that the master had two, sometimes three girls in his bedroom, or where the stacks of money that appeared seemingly out of nowhere came from—I just viewed these with detachment and disinterest. When I heard the cries coming from outside, somewhere in the cane field, I didn’t think about how awful it was; I just heard them and went about my business.
It was the same with the dramas inside the house.
Not long after I was transferred to the main house, I started hearing the arguments. Day and night, Marc and his father fought. Often about money, or the Americans—Marc was afraid they had too many slaves on the plantation, and feared the marines would soon discover their peculiar brand of workers. Silva waved his son’s fears away, saying they had nothing to worry about; they were far enough away from any towns and no gendarme ever patrolled this far up. But mostly, the fighting had to do with the business.
Over the course of my time in the house, I heard a lot of things said. I missed out on some of the details, and didn’t properly comprehend a lot of what was said until after I had been awakened, but this was the crux of all the fighting: Silva didn’t think Marc was strong enough to take over the plantation when he was gone. Marc, of course, disagreed, but the old man was unmoving in his position—another man was set to take over as boss of the sugar plantation.
That other man was Raoul. I got to see a lot more of him in the time I spent as the master’s slave. He was at the house every day, spending just as much time inside as he did out in the field, abusing the workers. Whereas Marc had a gentle way about him, always asking me to do this or that with a kind voice, Raoul was brash and violent. He would often knock me over, laughing his cruel laugh, smoking his rotten cigar. He would order me to do something, and when I didn’t obey—which was all the time, as I only obeyed my master and Marc—he would hit me, sometimes with his fists, usually with his stick. He got told off by the master for doing so, but I could tell, even in my trance-like state, that the master was easier on Raoul than he was on Marc, who hardly did anything wrong.
The master treated Raoul more like a son than he did Marc. Often I would find Marc staring out the window, looking out over the cane field, a sad look on his face, a glint of water in his eyes.
“Old man,” he would say (never, “zombi,” or “slave”), “I’ve worked my whole life on this plantation, helping my papa. And what’s it all for?” Then he would shake his head, sigh, and get back to counting the money, or speaking to business associates.
Raoul, on the other hand, strode about the house like he owned it, which, I guess, when the time came, he would; drinking and smoking, spending a lot of time in the master’s bedroom whenever the young girls were over and the master was away.
The day of the uprising, Marc and Raoul had a particularly heated argument. I’m not sure what prompted this exchange; all I could gather from the shouting was it had something to do with papers and ownership of the plantation. They shouted, even traded blows—I was outside working in the garden for most of the day, so I heard it and, later, saw the outcome.
Silva had to break them apart, and, as an added insult, he blamed Marc for the outburst, telling him to behave like an adult, not like a little kid, and besides, he should be respectful to his future boss.
Well, that was it for Marc. He stormed away, muttering under his breath. Raoul came out of the house shortly thereafter and as he went past, he looked at me and smiled, blood running down his nose, staining his white teeth. “When I’m boss, you’re history, zombi. I’m gonna get me a nice young Mulatto girl to be my slave.” The master came by soon after and told me to get back to work. I noticed he had extra lines on his face and he walked with heavy steps.
Later that evening, I had just poured the master a third glass of dark rum, when Marc came back. He entered the house with a sullen face.
“About time,” the master huffed, sitting in his chair, smoking a thick cigar, drinking his rum. “You’re responsible for the day-to-day running of the slaves, and it’s past their meal time.”
“I know, I’m sorry papa, I shouldn’t have gotten so mad at Raoul. But I’m back now.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” the master said. “But at least you showed some fire, which is good. About time you displayed some guts.”
To me, Marc said, “Go to the kitchen and wait for me.” As the master slurped his rum, I turned and headed out of the large living room and into the kitchen.
There I waited.
When Marc came in, instead of ordering me to start boiling the plantains, he said, “I’ll serve the workers tonight. You go into your room and wait.” I did as I was told. After some time had passed, Marc opened the door and placed a bowl down on the floor.
“Old man, I hope you will forgive me for what I’m doing.”
He spoke in a whisper.
“But I have no choice. This plantation should’ve been mine.”
I looked up at my second master, noting the sadness in his eyes, the madness in his face. Here was a man resigned to his fate. He sighed, and the last thing he said to me was, “I’m sorry.” Then he turned and leaving the door to the closet open, walked away.
At the time I didn’t know why he felt the need to apologize, to tell me he was sorry. Now, thinking back, I think he felt bad for a few reasons. He knew what was to come, what his actions would result in. Not only the death and the violence, but what his injured pride and pain would mean for all of us zombis. Everyone in Haiti knows that if there’s anything worse in this world than being a zombi, it’s being aware that one is a zombi.
I also think—or at least, I like to think—that he was sorry for my state, and how he and his father had used us as slaves. Whatever the reason Marc said “I’m sorry,” I’ll never know for sure—I never got to ask him.
But all those thoughts were in t
he future. At that moment, I was still an unthinking zombi. And I was hungry.
So I grabbed the bowl and held it in my arms like I did every evening. Only this time something was different. I could smell the stuff in my bowl, and it wasn’t the usual cold mushy plantains. This had a sweeter smell—sweeter at least to my dull senses. I was wary at first, but wariness quickly gave way to hunger. I plunged my hand into the bowl, grabbed a handful of the food and stuffed it into my mouth. The food even felt different in my mouth—crispier. I chewed the bits of food, enjoying the taste.
And then it happened.
I hadn’t even finished the first mouthful when I felt a change. It was sudden, like a bullet firing out of a gun. One moment I was sitting there, content in my nothingness; the next, I was suddenly aware of myself and my surroundings.
It was the strangest feeling. Suddenly I had thoughts in my head, a million thoughts all vying for an answer. I knew where I was, what I had been through, and how I got there—there was nothing wrong with my memory—and I was angry. The floodgate of feeling and emotion was opened, and it was almost too much to bear all at once.
It seemed when I tasted the salt on the crackers, the part of me that was trapped was unleashed. The salt on those crumbled crackers was like the blood of life, and it shocked me awake—which, under the circumstances, wasn’t a good thing.
I spat out the crackers and started crying, even though no tears came. I cried for a few minutes, strong, unabashed weeping.
And then I heard the sounds from outside, and I stopped.
I heard the master’s voice; hurried, loud, but scared, shouting, “Marc, what have you done!” All other emotion left me then and what remained was anger.
Pure, red-hot anger.
I threw down the bowl, got to my feet and walked out of the closet. I still walked stiffly, slowly, but there was a purpose to the walk that wasn’t present before.
For I knew nothing at that moment except the man I knew as master—Silva, in another life—was the man I wanted to kill. I had to seek revenge for turning me into an abomination, for I felt him responsible for my state.
I staggered through the kitchen and into the main room, where the master was standing by the front window.
The Awakening Page 37