Avis doesn’t respond, hearing a wisp of her mother’s laughter.
Matthew shifts the plate of pastries carefully on the table, not quite pushing it away. Finally he says, “Believe it or not, Solange offered herself. To me. She came and told me that — in exchange for her son’s safekeeping at the chapel, she would spend the night with me. As many nights as I wanted. That’s how she put it. She was desperate by that point. I’d heard stories about women bargaining this way, with their bodies — I was so mortified and sad for her and it was strange because you also think of such odd things at times like that. I remember noticing how well-spoken she was, how fine her English was. Well-educated.”
He smiles, very slightly, at his coffee. “Obviously I said no. But Solange—” He shakes his head, smiling more openly now. “She really was something. Magnetic. She is who she is. Completely. I said both her son and husband could come work in my vegetable garden and sweep out the church. I thought perhaps if we took them out of the streets during the day the army would let them alone. Extend at least some symbolic protection of the church over her family.”
Avis holds a sip of the warm coffee in her mouth for a moment, testing its bitterness before she swallows. “Did it work?”
Now his smile is automatic, vacated. “He disappeared. We heard later the husband was killed in the street fighting. That’s what we heard. The rebels were trying to oust the president — poor Artistide. They were wild savages these guys — bloodthirsty, murderous. Underwritten by the Americans. They didn’t care who they shot at.”
Avis’s throat feels dry; she studies the white star at the center of the coffee. “Her son — what happened?”
His eyebrow lifts. “He came to me. A very dear boy. One of these children who’d held on to their sweetness. Oh, a troublemaker too. He broke things and made a mess. Didn’t matter. I became very fond of him… But he was only with us a few weeks. I should have let him spend the nights at the church. I didn’t think.” He hits his palm slowly, over and over, against the corner of one temple. A fragile, measured ritual. “No one could believe how terrible it would get.” Now he looks directly at Avis. Avis drops her gaze: her hands go still on her cup. “He disappeared too,” he says. She thinks about Solange talking about her son, saying, I left him.
Matthew re-clasps his hands. “Antoine. She never talks about him. They must’ve killed them — the husband and the boy. Did I already say that? She came back to the church again maybe two or three days after the boy disappeared. She was in shock. We didn’t talk about her husband or the boy at all, though. They were two among hundreds. I think we talked about the garden. I wasn’t entirely sure why she had come. Now I think she just wanted to be someplace quiet. She started to bring her herbs and transplanted clippings into my garden. She made her bush teas and dispensed them there, at the church. The fathers would’ve been horrified.” He smiles. “And she offered herself to me again, for some reason, even though her — incentive — to do so…” He lifts his hands.
Avis feels a queasiness — soul-sickness — begin to steal over her. Her palms feel damp. She picks up one of the lace cookies, examines the filigree of chocolate, replaces it, clears her throat. She will remove the tray and thank him for coming, before he can say any more. But he raises his head as if he can will her to listen. “I didn’t want her to stay — I swear — I argued with her! I told her to go home — every night I told her. It got to be too dangerous for her to go home. The rebels took over our street and there was shooting every night, tanks rolling over houses, tearing everything up. It was beyond deafening — a maelstrom. We were under siege. You can’t imagine the feeling that you can’t leave your house — that even your home is dangerous.”
Avis feels a feverish shame creep over her skin, knowing she has to listen. She nods slowly, releasing the tea tray. She makes herself ask, “So… she stayed?”
He sits back on the folding chair. There is his off-kilter smile again. “When the fighters occupied the street, she slept in the chapel for a week. I stayed in my room on the other side of the wall. We listened to the tanks thundering, keeping everyone awake, till we were just so exhausted we all just learned to sleep through it. The gardener left and then the housekeeper ran away. Solange put on the woman’s clothes and decided that would be her job. We nailed the doors to the chapel shut, but Solange begged me to leave the little stained-glass windows uncovered. And, you know, through that siege? Not one window damaged.” He stares at the pastries. “Little miracles, right? Something to live for?” He seems to be mocking himself, but his smile fades. “After a couple of weeks of sleeping in the chapel, she came to my room. Like when she’d first arrived. I’d turned her away the first time, but you know…” He displays his palms. Something about the man seems innocent to the point of bafflement. “I felt truly helpless. We gave each other some comfort. I like to think we did. Of course I loved her — whether I wanted to or not. Sometimes I wondered if she’d put one of her hexes on me. I’d never been in love before and it was such a specific pain, so sharp, like someone had to be jabbing needles in a little doll.”
“Then you decided to come back to the States?” Avis interrupts: she doesn’t want to hear about how good or comforting Solange was.
The man rubs the inner creases of his eyes, his face pouched and swollen with shadows. He picks up the lace cookie Avis had touched and eats it, then two more. “Years ago, I had a church in South Florida and a couple of my parishioners were from a wealthy old family here. I traveled to the church offices at Port au Prince and called them to beg for help. I didn’t care what happened to me but I was so afraid for Solange. I had to get her out of there.” His voice diminishes. “The family rented the house for us. That’s our backyard, right through the trees.” He points.
“I know.”
He nods and holds the smooth chair arms. “She likes to work outside. I can never get her to come in. Even when it’s like this — like a jungle. This heat. I want to move us up north — I’ve been trying to get reassigned. Someplace like Vermont. I don’t know if she’d like it,” he adds hopelessly. “Now of course, I don’t even know—” He breaks off.
Avis leans forward on the chair, wooden slats digging into the back of her legs. “She didn’t leave a note? No warning at all?”
He reaches into his blazer pocket and withdraws a white legal-size envelope. He flicks it with the tops of his fingers. “This is from INS. It came the other day in the mail. Someone tipped them off. We were traveling so quietly. We moved a couple of times after her visa ran out, but I thought we’d be okay here for a while. I needed more time to get things in order — we’d applied for sanctuary status, but that was rejected. Maybe I kept her too isolated. My parish here doesn’t even know that we’re married.”
Avis watches the way his fingers run along the outer corners of the letter. Already it looks grubby.
“I promised Solange we’d be okay. I said I’d go talk to them, that we’d just move again if we had to. I’d thought she seemed fine at the time.” He holds his hand out, fingers extended. “Calm. She made dinner. I had my arm around her shoulders when we fell asleep last night. I woke at four a.m.” His face slips.
Avis lowers her eyes, breathing shakily, slowly.
“She’s always been so talented at hiding what she feels. Never seen anything like it. I’d never dreamed she would run away. She has no family in this country. No friends. She’s totally dependent on me. I had to take her shopping. She wouldn’t wear the new clothes I brought her — just the rags from the housekeeper. It was like she was biding her time. Just waiting.” He lifts his eyes to Avis. “I’m so afraid she’ll try to go back.”