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CHAPTER EIGHT

The Light of God Bible School was built in 1958, right after “Papa Doc” Duvalier decided he was the President for Life of this dump. Haiti means “land of mountains.” That’s all Haiti is. A bunch of hills and steep mountains separated by a few level areas called lowlands. Take a map, wad it up, pull it apart a little and you got what I mean. The mission sat east of Port-au-Prince in one of the smallest lowlands. Paul said it was called The Cul-de-Sac. I tried to explain that back home a cul-de-sac was a dead end street where it was safe to play baseball. He might have understood me, but I couldn’t tell, because all these people did was smile, whether they understood you or not.

            The schools were closed for the summer. But the bible school was open all year around. Paul and Jean-Luc lived at the mission with about thirty other men. Most had come from the shanty towns in Port-au-Prince, but Jean-Luc had been raised in Cap-Haïtien. Jean-Luc told me Christopher Columbus wrecked his ship on a reef off the coast of his home town in 1492. I said that must have been right after he discovered America. He laughed. Turned out that old Chris discovered Haiti, called it La Isla Española, which, coming from someone world-famous, sounded unimaginative, and never stepped foot in America.

            I asked Dad why we were taught in school that he discovered America. Dad was working on some papers in his room in the back of the Stubblefields’ house when I asked him, so I guess that’s why he got a little mad and told me that it was like horseshoes.  Closest one to the stake can still win.

            Mrs. Stubblefield was a nice lady. She put us three boys in a big room they used sometimes for guests. Mark and Lukey slept together in a big four-poster bed. I slept on a cot under the window facing the back of the mission, with a view of the green mountains. There was no glass in the window. Bright blue shutters swung open from the inside. The whole house was shuttered. Some of the larger windows had screens built into them, but I could tell they’d been put in long after the house had been built.

            The floor was made of concrete with woven rugs thrown down. On the wall was a picture of Jesus with a big, red, heart-shaped glow surrounding his face. Two crossed machetes were strapped to the wall opposite the four-poster bed. Lukey wanted to play with them, but Mrs. Stubblefield said they were dangerous, said she better not see him touch them.

            The Stubblefield house was a bunch of rooms filled with stuff any museum would kill to get its hands on. Lots of native drums, voodoo masks, carved mahogany heads, even paintings. There were four paintings on the walls that Mrs. Stubblefield said were done by one of their students, a young man named Jasmin Bazile. They were good. Wasn’t anything in them I recognized, but the bold shapes and designs and bright colors had a very weird look to them. Couldn’t put my finger on why, but Mrs. Stubblefield said it was his way of praising God by painting nature, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Unless those green swirls were mountains and those reddish-brown diamonds were trees. Mark studied them for a long time. He wanted to be an artist.

            After breakfast in the morning, students worked in the gardens, swept the walks and cleaned the dormitories. Then early in the afternoon they attended classes. Before dinner they took walks outside the compound, rested or played American games: volleyball, croquet, basketball and, of course, baseball. After dinner when it cooled down, services were held in the chapel. Anyone from the village could attend. It was during this time that I got to meet the farmers and their families who lived in the surrounding scrap-wood huts, even though just down the hill were some of the finest villas in all of Haiti. Most of the families were Catholic, Dad said. But they also believed in voodoo. It was actually Vodoun. Food was served after the services. They didn’t believe in God the same way we did, but they needed food the same way. I thought it was kind of like fishing, using food for bait. I told Dad. He stopped filming the Haitians long enough to rub my head, which was now shaved because it was so hot, and told me I was right. According to Dad, Jesus said, “Go be fishers of men.” Still, seeing these people wearing clothes with holes in them—some of the kids wore none at all—waiting in line for bread, mangoes, avocados and red snapper—which tasted great—I had a hard time holding their stomachs hostage to change their beliefs. I wrote that down in a little yellow tablet I brought from home. Those first words were the beginning of my journal.  When I read it back, I said to myself: pretty grown-up thinking. Maybe I was a literary genius. Maybe I had some hidden talent and all I needed was to go to a place I hated to bring it all out.

            I wrote about everything I saw and experienced that first week. The yellow tablet was full by the sixth day. And I hadn’t done anything really but wander around the compound, talking to the English-speaking students, helping in the garden, going to church, playing volleyball and listening to the radio. I couldn’t understand most of it. Spoken in Creole, a mixture of French and African. But their music was rhythmic. Haitians sing in harmonies like a choir, but their drums made me feel like I should keep a look out for zombies.

            Some nights, back up in the mountains behind the mission, the voodoo drums played off in the distance. The first time I heard them, a chill ran through me. They brought images of witch doctors, cannibals, Africa, Tarzan movies.

            During the day, though, there wasn’t much to do. And by the end of the first week, I was bored. I wanted to watch TV. I wanted to surf, ride my bike, walk to the store for an RC cola and a Snicker’s bar. 

            And I couldn’t get Debbie off my mind. So I wrote her a letter on Mrs. Stubblefield’s lavender writing paper:

Dear Debbie,

On the seventh day God rested. Here in Haiti rest is the last thing on my mind. I’m ready for action. I miss you so much I can hardly stand it. I want you to know that I trust you.  I know you won’t see other guys (right?), even though you said you might have to. If you do, it’ll hurt my feelings, but I’ll understand, but please don’t, okay? I really like you. We didn’t have enough time to figure out if we loved each other, but now that I can’t see you every day like I did in school, all I can think about is you. And I’m going crazy. There’s nothing to do here. Some things are interesting, but we haven’t even seen the country yet. Dad keeps promising to take us into the city. It’s called Port-au-Prince, and you think East L.A. is bad, well this place makes it look like Beverly Hills. I haven’t seen the shanty towns. Mr. Stubblefield, the missionary we’re staying with, drove us outside the city and we’re staying near a town called Pétionville. My brothers are driving me crazy because they don’t have anything to do, and Dad won’t let us run around outside the mission. He’s getting tired of us, though, I can tell. He’s ready to give in. When he does, maybe things will get more fun around here. And maybe not. There’s no movies or anything like that. I have a friend named Paul. He’s eighteen, but he doesn’t mind talking to me. He’s told me a lot about this place and says he’ll take me on a tour as soon as my Dad lets him. He doesn’t drive. In fact, there are hardly any cars here. Everybody walks. Well, I don’t want to tell you everything. I’m going to write you every day and tell you something new. I hope they have a post office around here somewhere or I’ve wasted my time writing. That’s pretty dumb. If you get this, there obviously was a post office. See what humidity is doing to my brain? Anyway, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. In fact, don’t do anything at all until I get back. With other guys I mean. Always, Matt.

            When I finished the letter to Debbie, I felt a little guilty. I hadn’t written to Mom. So I got out another sheet of Mrs. Stubblefield’s lavender paper.

Dear Mom,

We miss you a lot. Hope the weather’s cooler than here. I’m going to church every day and helping Dad take care of Mark and Lukey. Mr. and Mrs. Stubblefield are nice. The food is okay. We miss you a lot. Love, Matt.

            What else could I say? Mom was laying by the pool, sipping something cold, reading those thick best-sellers and getting waited on hand and foot. Person having the most fun should do the writing. Mom should be writing me.

            That afternoon we got a letter from Mom, which answered one of my questions: there was a post office. She’d mailed it two days before we’d even left home. It was addressed to all of us. In the short version it read, Hope you’re having fun, see you soon, write me, love you. There was something private to Dad that he wouldn’t read to us. Must have been something lovey-dovey. Or plain crazy.

* * *

            Because we slept in the same room, I had to let Lukey and Mark in on my plan.

            “Tonight, I’m going into Pétionville.”

            “That’s not fair,” Lukey whined. He sat on the lower branch of a fruit tree at the side of the house.

            Mark, sitting on an iron seat under the fruit tree, asked: “Dad said so?”

            “No, Dad didn’t say so. Why do you think I’m telling you? You guys’ll tell Dad.”

            “Got that right,” Mark said.

            “Look, someone’s got to scout it out. I’m the oldest. I’ll go out tonight, scope it out, see if there’s anything worth doing out there—which I kinda doubt—and then tomorrow, we’ll sneak out during the day and—”

            “How come,” Lukey interrupted, “you get to go at night and we gotta go in the daytime?”

            “I’m only going tonight because...I just thought of this. If I’d thought of it this morning, I would’ve snuck out today.”

            Lukey looked down at Mark.

            Mark said: “Why don’t we all go out tonight.”

            “Yeah!”

            I could see this wasn’t going to happen the way I wanted it to. If something went wrong, I’d be in trouble more then they would. But if I left them behind, Mark would tattle.

            “If we all go,” I explained, “and something happens—”

            “Like what?”

            “Like we get kidnapped or something.”

            Mark snorted and waved his hand at me. “That’s dumb. Who’d want to kidnap us?”

            I had the right answer. “Witch doctors. You know, they use live people for sacrifices.”

            “Do not,” Mark sang. “We’re all going or no one goes.”

            “Why do you have to be like that?”

            “You mean, not let you boss us around? You mean, not believing your lies? You

mean—”

            “Shut up,” I said.

            “You shut up,” he said back, standing up. “Just because you’re older doesn’t mean you can tell us what to do.”

            “It should,” I said. My shirt stuck to my chest, it was so hot. I was tired of arguing. I gave in. “Okay. We all go. But if you get hurt or anything, it’s your own damn fault.”

            “I’m going to tell you’re swearing,” Lukey said, his legs swinging. I grabbed his legs and pretended I was going to pull on them. He hugged the tree trunk. “Don’t!  I’m going to fall!”

            I pulled off his shoes, threw them as far as I could into the grassy courtyard, then stalked away, angry that I had to put up with them. No respect for me. One of these days, they’d wish they did. One of these days.

            I walked aimlessly towards the other end of the compound, depressed, mad as hell, wishing I were at the beach with Debbie, hanging out with Tommy. Getting my butt kicked by Victor Villanova sounded better than this.

            I caught Dad as he was driving out through the front gate in Mr. Stubblefield’s pick-up with two seminarians, headed for town. He said as soon as he got some of his work done, he’d take us to Port-au-Prince to sight-see. I couldn’t wait. I’d go crazy. The Raven was itching to fly.

            I found myself at the farthest dorm from the house at the other end of the compound. It was a small, two-story, white building with tiny verandas on the second floor. I went in. It smelled clean, like freshly washed sheets. There were two rows of beds. Looked like an army barracks. It seemed empty. Everybody would be in class for another hour. At the end of the hall were the restrooms and showers. To the right of the door, as I walked in, were the stairs to the second floor. Something creaked. The floor upstairs. I slipped off my sandals and tip-toed up. About four steps from the top, my eyes came above the floor of the second story. I stopped and looked through the thin posts of the railing. I could see all the way down the left row of beds, looking at floor-level. The floor creaked again. A grunt. Way down at the other end. I took two steps up so I could see over the beds. More grunting.

            The shock of seeing the glistening black girl, completely naked, her breasts bouncing, her hands grabbing her own bare bottom, was enough to make me gasp. I slapped a hand over my mouth. I didn’t know what she was doing. She was rocking and bouncing like she was riding a horse. Her long, braided hair fell almost to the bed as she flung her head back.

            And then I saw that someone was under her. I stretched my neck up higher. It was a naked man—a white man—lying on his back, arms over his head, gripping the steel posts of the headboard. His face was turned away. The girl arched her back, slid her hands off her butt and planted each of her hands on his thighs and did some crazy motions with her hips. The girl made wild animal sounds, and spoke in Creole. The white man turned his face towards her. I looked closely at the deep-lined face, covered in sweat. Mr. Stubblefield!  My foot slipped off the step, thumping to the one below it. His eyes grew big, his hands came off the headboard, and he grabbed the girl by her arms.

            “Shush!” he warned, looking all around. I ducked down below the floor. He whispered something to the girl in Creole. I heard the bed creak. They were getting up!  I crept down the stairs, turned the corner and ran as fast as my feet would take me across the courtyard.

            I was out of breath when I got to the house, charged through the living room and ran square into Mrs. Stubblefield carrying an armful of folded sheets that smelled like the dorm I’d just come from. “Whoa, whoa!” she laughed. “Where’re you in such a hurry?”

            I bent over, hands on knees, trying to get my breath. “No where, ma’am. My room.” I couldn’t look at her.

            “Slow down. It isn’t going anywhere, boy.” She stepped aside, chuckling. I went in, closed the door and flopped onto my cot. A light, warm breeze blew through the window over me. It smelled like citrus trees and salty air.

            I lay there for several minutes, hoping Mark and Luke wouldn’t find me. My thoughts whirled around at what I’d just seen. I couldn’t get the images out of my mind. The black, shiny girl doing those things to Mr. Stubblefield. If there was anything more exciting and stimulating anywhere, I didn’t know what it could be. I thought the man was always on top of the woman. How did she do it? It seemed to work pretty darn good. And at the same time, he had a good look at everything she had. I didn’t know if I could take having a beautiful native girl do something like that to me—at least with my eyes open.

            There was a tap on my door. “Who is it?”

            Mrs. Stubblefield poked her head in. “Just me, dear. Where are your brothers?”

            “They were out front a few minutes ago.”

            “Could you look for them, please? Your father’ll be back from town in a few minutes. We’ll have an early dinner.”

            “Yes, ma’am.” Poor Mrs. Stubblefield. If only she knew. How could a man in his position—and what a position—do that to her? I rose up, put my feet to the floor and stepped on something sharp. I crossed my leg over my knee, turned my foot up and pulled a sticker out of my arch. They were everywhere. That’s why Mrs. Stubblefield wouldn’t let us walk around the compound without shoes or sandals on. That thought lingered a moment. Sandals. I wasn’t wearing my sandals!  Where were they? I glanced around the bed. Oh, no, I didn’t....I had to get them before he saw them. But if she noticed me without them on she’d ask me where they were. I rushed to the narrow closet in the corner of the room, got down on my knees, poked my head into the dark and fumbled around for some shoes.

            “Looking for these?” a deep voice said behind me. I pulled my head out of the closet, looked up. Mr. Stubblefield stood there, my sandals hanging by the straps from his middle finger.

            “Uh...yeah, where’d you...?” I didn’t finish.

            He glanced at the door. In a whisper he asked: “What’re you doing in the dorm? That’s off-limits to you kids.”

            “Oh...it is? I didn’t know. I was looking for my brothers.”

            “Did you find them there?”

            “Uh-uh.” I added: “Ah, but I didn’t check upstairs.”

            A sickly smirk broke his lips. “Why would they be upstairs?”

            I shrugged. “Scopin’ things out. Nothin’ else to do.”

            “Perhaps we should find some work for you boys. Keep you out of places you shouldn’t be going.”

            “Maybe if you talked to Dad about taking us to the beach, into town, somewhere, we wouldn’t get bored and we wouldn’t be wanderin’ around looking for something to do.”

            He dropped the sandals. They slapped the floor. “Why’d you take them off?”

            I hesitated. No answer. What could I say?

            “What did you see, boy?” His voice didn’t sound like his own anymore.

            I shrugged, putting on the dumbest look I could come up with. “There was nothin’ there.”

            “I know you were snoopin’ around,” he said threateningly. “You keep out of there. And you mind your own business. Talking about things that don’t concern you can be very painful—for you. You understand me?”

            “Yes, sir, but—”

            “But nothing. You saw nothing and you heard nothing.”

            “Yes, sir.” My eyes gave me away. He knew I knew. I couldn’t hide it. Why did I have to? I took his threat seriously. He wasn’t what he appeared to be. He’d been here too long. The place was evil, like Dad said. The evil got him. I thought about that as he left me there on the cement floor of that room. What I had seen of making love was like nothing I’d expected. Black and white sex. A young girl, an old man. Girl on top. Nasty, wild animal noises.

            A chill shot through me. The breeze blew around the room and smelled like garbage. What I had seen was how the Devil had sex. 

                                                             ***

        I hope you enjoyed the first eight chapters of Worlds Apart.  If you go to my Web site at www.tomeubanks.com, you can read another passage from later in the book.  On the Home Page, is a link to www.iUniverse.com to buy the book.  Amazon.com also has the book at discount prices.  Thanks for your support!