Abaco was giving me the look that all dog owners know, the one that says, “You’ve been neglecting me, you don’t love me anymore.” The great thing about dogs is that they have such blessed short memories. I reached for the leash, and all was forgotten and forgiven. She leapt and spun in midair, full of pure doggy joy.
I’d just snapped her leash onto her collar when the phone rang.
“Hey, Seychelle, it’s Joe here. I just thought I’d call to see how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s good to hear. It was nice seeing you at the beach this morning.”
This guy was more than twenty years older than me. While I found the attention flattering, and I did consider him attractive, I felt the need to change the subject—fast.
“Joe, I just got home from the hospital and my dog is desperate to go out.”
“You were visiting your little friend? How is she?”
“Physically, she’s fine. The doctors say that in spite of how skinny the kid is, she’s in good health. She’s bounced right back from the exposure.”
“You know, if there’s any way I can help, I’d like to.” “Well, that’s really kind of you, but—”
“I’m serious. At my age, you want to be helping the next generation. It’s the least I can do for Red’s daughter.”
I liked hearing that. It had been a while since I had thought of myself as a daughter. Maybe I was misreading Joe. Maybe he just needed to feel like a father as much as I yearned to be a daughter again.
“You know I’m retired,” he continued, “and sometimes I get kind of bored. I don’t have enough to do. I know people, I’ve got access to information, and maybe I can help you find her dad. I’m just offering.”
I thanked him and promised I would call him if I needed assistance. In fact, I doubted I would ever make that call. Maybe it was a result of having grown up, from age eleven on, in an all-male household, but I had a very difficult time asking for help.
Abaco and I were about halfway down my block, going very slowly as the dog sniffed every single bush and tuft of grass, when B.J.’s black El Camino pulled up alongside.
“I was hoping you’d be home,” he said. “I brought dinner.” He pointed to several white paper bags resting on the seat next to him.
“Great.” I tried to sound enthusiastic. It’s not that I wasn’t happy to see him, but after living with him for a couple of months, I knew what his version of dinner might be. Granted, after two days of burgers, it would probably do me good, but why did B.J.’s version of good have to taste so yucky? “The cottage is open. I’ll just let Abaco sniff a while longer, and I’ll see you back there.”
When I returned and let Abaco off the leash in the backyard, she ran straight back to the dock where B.J. sat with legs dangling over the water. She licked his ears, and he scratched hers. She soon began groaning in pleasure as his magic fingers did their work. I smiled as I sat next to them. I could relate.
B.J. handed me an icy Corona. He was drinking from a plastic bottle of Florida spring water. “The food’s all ready, I just wanted to sit out here for a bit. Enjoy the river. How’s the little Earth Angel doing?”
“Not good. I mean, she’s recovering from the exposure at sea faster than expected, but something happened at the hospital today.” I hesitated, reluctant to tell the story again, but B.J. just waited quietly until I was ready to start.
We watched a small outboard chugging its way up the river as I talked. An older black man and a boy were in the inflatable dinghy, but with a mere four horsepower, the craft was barely able to make any headway against the current.
“I followed this one guy, a tall Haitian who was dressed and acting like an orderly. He seemed normal enough at the time. I even spoke to him, but I didn’t realize until later that he was probably the one who did it.”
“Did what, exactly?”
“Well, I don’t really know for sure. That’s where it gets weird. None of us saw it, and he was with her for only a few seconds. They couldn’t find any evidence that he had fed her anything or given her an injection, but now she acts like she’s drugged or in a trance. There’s a Haitian nurse who works there at Broward General. She as much as said that she thinks this guy put a curse on her. The kid won’t talk. She just stares straight ahead. She acts like a zombie.” I watched his face to gauge his reaction.
“Hmm. Zombies. Everybody in America hears ‘Haiti’ and thinks Voodoo and zombies.”
“I said like a zombie. I don’t think he really turned her into a zombie. I don’t believe in that stuff.”
“You don’t?” B.J.’s eyebrows arched high.
“Hell, no.”
“You might be surprised at what goes on down there. Don’t be so quick to write it off as silly superstition. There’s a great deal about this world that we still don’t understand, that our science can’t explain.”
“Come on, B.J., zombies?”
“Haiti is so close to the United States, and yet we know almost nothing about it. Did you know, you can do graduate work in world religions in this country and never study Voodoo? Yet they’re right there,” he said, extending his arm out in front of him, his flat palm indicating how close. “Like six million of them, and nearly all of them are Voodoo practitioners. There’s a saying: ‘Haiti is ninety percent Catholic and a hundred percent Voodoo.’ ”
I knew one of B.J.’s degrees was in comparative religions, but I didn’t know his expertise extended to Voodoo. “How much do you know about it?”
“Not that much. I’ve read some. I know that it is a real religion, even if to most Westerners it sounds like a bunch of superstitious mumbo jumbo. But if you think about it, Christianity would sound that way if you were hearing about it for the first time.”
“Okay, but we don’t go poking little pins in dolls.”
He rolled his eyes at me. “Sey, Voodoo is a monotheistic religion, which means its followers believe in one supreme being. Not so different, right?”
“Okay.” I smiled. It was really fun sometimes to poke at him when he got all serious. “But what about the zombies and the dolls?”
He ignored my question. “Voodoo originated in West Africa, and in the last three centuries, a lot of Catholicism has been blended into the mix. Voodooists believe in over two hundred different spirits, and many of them are now intertwined with Catholic saints. For example, an altar to their mother spirit—I forget her name—might include photos or statues of the Virgin Mary. They call upon these spirits much as Catholics call upon their saints.”
“Geez, B.J., should I be taking notes?”
He squinted. “You’re making fun of me.”
“No. It’s just that you’re very cute when you lecture.”
He smiled. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get carried away. Sometimes I can’t help it.”
“I know.”
“I’ve just always felt that Haiti and her culture have gotten a bad rap. Like you said, you thought this child was acting like a zombie. That’s how most Americans see Haiti: black magic, Voodoo dolls, witchcraft, zombies. It’s not your fault. You’ve been fed that image. When a Voodooist enters into a trance—or is ‘possessed’—it is an absolutely amazing thing to see. I’ve only seen it on video, myself. These people are in altered states brought about by their spiritual beliefs. You said this girl Solange has had a curse put on her. Whether you believe in such things or not doesn’t really matter. We may not share her beliefs, but she is in an altered state, and she needs a hougan or a mambo to help her get out of it”