Something new occurs to her, a sliver of ice snaking down her center. “Is it possible she’s been kidnapped? This city — things happen all the time.” Avis stands and takes her keys and purse from the entry table. “We can go back out into the neighborhood to start. Did you contact both Gables and Miami-Dade police? You can’t wait for them anyway — she’s just another name on the roster to them.”
The man shakes his head — that heavy movement again. I contacted all the hospitals — even shelters. “I’ve been looking all day, driving and walking. She doesn’t have any money that I know of, and she doesn’t know her way around. I drive her everywhere.” The slow shake, the hands.
Avis feels hard, old energy welling under her skin. “It’s too soon to panic — it hasn’t been twenty-four hours? Perhaps she’s just…” She moves briskly to the French doors, envisions a route Solange might’ve taken: Fluvia to Salzedo to Ponce de Leon. Perhaps a bus: a return to the beach. The imaginary escape routes fill her imagination, golden, bisecting lines. There are too many possibilities — the lines cross and recross, moving in opposite directions. Avis hears herself, the words she imagines for this process—escape route. Behind her, the man speaks as if Avis were still sitting across from him, saying desolately, “I think Solange doesn’t want to be found.”
AVIS TAKES HIM to the backyard and shows him the place in the shrubs where she used to spy, and then pass through, to visit with Solange. Now the wind is starting to pick up, so they pull the lawn furniture close to the house for shelter, and sip the cold coffee. The energy has shifted, crumbling away from Avis, creating a quiet passage, like a shared trickle of grief. He tells her his name is Matthew, he’s from Vancouver, B.C. “Here is the true chapel,” Matthew says wistfully, staring at the fronds.
“I suppose — it’s a nice way to think of it.”
“Not that different from Haiti. In some respects.” His face is mild and quizzical. “I was a minister there — in Cap-Haïtien — for six years. A missionary — technically.” Avis hears confession in his voice, sliding beneath the words. He keeps turning the china cup around in his fingers and she fears for it. “Somehow, over time, I lost interest in conversion. I started to feel that even in a religious community, faith is a choice made in private. Or should be.” He breaks off, eyes lifted toward the fronds between their yards. “I’ve changed quite a lot, I guess.”
“Was she in your church?” Avis tips the cup, watching the black slice of liquid.
“No.” He rubs his temples. “Not at all. She lived nearby. She was famous for her remedies. We were in a rough patch, very poor, near Fort St. Michel. Lots of beautiful old colonial buildings around, but our area — mostly slums — shacks without floors. The poverty was mind-blowing. No indoor plumbing — not even in the hospital — sewage in the street. Kids washing in the gutters. TB was everywhere. And lots of the people preferred the old ways of treatment.” His gaze moves from the cup to the feathery palms, the individual leaflets moving like fingers in the air.
Avis touches his arm and senses something dart through him, just beneath the skin, as if contact is unbearable. “Solange was different back then,” he says, his voice breaking into a tremor. He clears his throat and waits, then starts again. “Well, for one, she was married. To someone else, I mean. They had a beautiful little boy,” he says softly. “They were such a nice family — I used to see them. The three of them were always together. But in Haiti? In those days, there were militia — like street gangs. They took all the young men and boys — especially in the bad neighborhoods. The police were out of control. Either you had to go kill for someone or they would kill you. Not to forget about American contributions — backing dictators is such an efficient way to shred the fabric of a culture. The Haitians have never been forgiven for demanding freedom.” He carefully places the cup on the patio stone, as if that’s just where it belongs. The porcelain a grace note against the brushed stone. “During my time, rebels targeted the churches because they thought we had hidden wealth and that we hoarded food. Obviously, ridiculous. There’s always some theater of the absurd with these savage civil wars. It was something the boy soldiers told each other. In so many places, whiteness…” He holds out the back of his hand, tipping it up slightly so Avis can see the freckles and blue tracery of veins, “looks like wealth. But we didn’t have anything — no matter how white we were. I had to turn all sorts of people away — friends, neighbors. What option did I have? We couldn’t take everyone in — we could barely save ourselves. There was always shooting in the streets. Snipers and gangs, sometimes tanks came roaring up the lanes. Things just got worse and worse. I try not to remember too much. In Haiti, murder was very common — a pedestrian tragedy.”
Avis bends forward, carefully shredding a blade of grass into her lap.
He smiles. “You’d think I’d have been better prepared. I’ve lived in four different developing countries — I try not to look at the politics of the place. It’s always the same story at the root — colonialism sews its destructive seeds, and the more crowded the world gets, the more we destroy each other. People can’t afford much compassion.” He pushes forward in his chair, then stands and walks to the line of bamboo. “The thing about Haiti — with that sky and beach and mountains — from a distance, you think you made it to paradise.” He holds his hands over his face a moment.
“We turned people away every day — the church wasn’t any safer than any other place. Those soldiers — the boys — they had no respect for holy places. They’d lost the very idea of respect. Just like animals. Worse than. The things they did.” He lowers his eyes. “But one day Solange showed up.”
“Did you know her?” Avis clutches her elbows, now hunched over her coffee. “I mean — if she didn’t go to your church.”
“Everyone knew Solange. The doctors there were overrun, and missionaries — if they’re any good — they wear many hats. We kept supplies of rudimentary medicines locked away — aspirins, penicillin, insulin, mainly. Some of my parishioners… I think they spent more time napping than praying in our chapel.” He smiles thinly. “In any case — many, many people there — they just want bush medicine. They trust it. And Solange was brilliant — I saw it myself, with my own two eyes. I saw people recover from malaria, all sorts of fevers and skin conditions — that she treated. Those bush teas and poultices.” He holds on to one of the segmented canes, his expression lost and abstracted as if he hasn’t slept in days.
SHE COLLECTS A TRAY from the kitchen: arranges almond and mango cream puffs, brown sugar lace cookies, and miniature napoleons of vanilla and guava: fleeting breaths of pâte à choux and buttercream that dissolve in single bites. She places the tray on the low table between the folding chairs and pours fresh cups of coffee, aware of a kind of transaction taking place. He gazes at the plate of pastries, murmurs, “I couldn’t — I haven’t had any appetite…” But he picks one up, admiring the gem-cut layers of the napoleons. He places it in his mouth and Avis watches his lips tremble, his eyes close, the corners damp. He opens his eyes, staring at the plate, some desire settling into his posture. “I’ve never told this before — not to anyone — none of this story.” He touches a cream puff and studies it as he speaks. “But there’s no point to clinging to old secrets.” He glances at Avis. “If there’s anything left of my faith, it’s my belief in confession.”