There is a Land (A Libète Limyè Mystery) (26 page)

Janel immediately began toward the conflict, leaving Libète alone. Libète felt a keen vulnerability, even though all eyes were drawn away from her.

— Stop this at once! Janel roared. How dare you break the peace!

— Quiet, woman! Cinéus roared, his eyes tethered to Jeune’s. She interposed herself between the two and gave the brute a withering stare. They had a whole conversation with their looks. His lip twitched and jaw clenched. He backed off an inch, and then stormed off.

Libète’s mouth dropped.
What power she has!

Wilnor, surprised and unsure, relaxed the dog’s leash. It was a mistake. The dog leaped on Jeune and the man crumpled to the ground. He tried to shield his face against the guttural barks and snarls. Wilnor immediately reclaimed the dog, slapped him across the snout, and tugged the beast away. A bird’s call encroached on the utter quiet.

But all was not well with Jeune. Though teeth had not sunk into his flesh, the old man still laid on the ground, clenching at his chest. Breath escaped him.

His son was back, and he was the first one to Jeune’s side. His voiceless worry shook Libète. The two guards watched in stunned silence. Others ran to Jeune. Janel laid her hands on his ankles as desperate prayers leaped from her lips.

— They put some spell on him! one shouted.

— Those
sanmanmans
are killing him!

It was a heart attack, Libète knew. She had seen it before, at the hospital. The constricting chest. Shortness of breath. A possible failure of the heart. And she knew the elements of cardiopulmonary resuscitation. She could recite them: chest compressions, a hundred in a minute, breath passed through the mouth. She had practiced them. She thought of running to Jeune, her muscles almost reflexively springing her to action.

The thought seized her:
At what cost?

Sophia would not know CPR.

Sophia would not leap into the crowd.

Sophia would not be able to save this man.

As Libète stood equivocating, the old man’s heart failed.

Libète awakens in a terror.

Her dream was steeped in dread. People spun about, grim masks hiding their faces, and she seemed to recall San Figi there among the macabre masquerade. The other faces were those of foul creatures. Didi in tree form may have been there among the group, hovering at the edges of the grand chamber; it was impossible to know.

Hours pass before she can slip back into the black escape of sleep. Her waking hours have been worse than the momentary terrors of her dreams. In those gaps are where her fears are given conscious life. She wonders if others close to her will bleed and die. She fears for herself, wondering if after death her memory would fade from even those closest to her. She had been so reckless before! So fearless! But now the fight in her has faded, and Libète desires
rest
.

She wakes again fully at the sound of glass breaking. She shoots up in bed.

An intruder?

She’s up, creeping toward her door. The sound had come from Laurent’s room. She slips into a pair of pants and steps down, down the dark hallway, toward a feeble light.

She remembers the last time she’d come upon him in the night–and his drunken anger.

Jak pokes his head out of his room, squinting. Is everything okay?

— Let’s check, she whispers. He joins her and they stand at the threshold to Laurent’s room side by side. She leans toward Jak’s ear. You go first. He likes you.

Jak swallows, and knocks. Mèt Martinette? Is all well? Jak pries the door open, steps inside. He is surprised–and then sad. Libète pushes the door open to see for herself.

She sighs.

Laurent was on his hands and knees. He wore a tank top undershirt, and his feet were bare. His hands bled as he marshalled broken glass into a pile on the floor. Papers were strewn about.

— Oh, Laurent, Libète said.

He looked up at the kids. His mouth was parted and cheeks puffing. His eyes were clouded by a rummy glaucoma.

—
Lage m
, he slurred. Kreyòl rather than his usual French.
Leave me alone
.

— Your hands, Mèt Martinette! Jak said. The blood dripped on the floor, on him, everywhere. The pages of his manuscript were dotted red.

— Help me, Jak, she said under her breath. She went to take one of Laurent’s arms. He recoiled from her touch, but she persisted. Jak took his other arm and they lifted him.

— Do you think
only
of yourself? He said this to Libète.

She thought of scorning him, but she couldn’t. She felt only pity.

— Don’t
help
me. Don’t help
me
.

— Be at peace, Jak said. They led him to his bed, sat him down.

— Jak, can you get a towel for his hand?

He answered by going into the bathroom. She sighed and looked at the man. He couldn’t meet her eyes.

— I asked–I didn’t ask for you.

She went to collect his papers. They were sopped brown from the rum. Her face scrunched as she held them up and looked for a place to hang them so they might dry. Jak reentered with a hand towel he placed into Laurent’s palm.

— Hold that tight, Mèt Martinette. The title Jak used before his name, meant in all sincerity, only seemed to anger Laurent. He thrashed his arm away.

— You kids did–

But he stopped, as if he’d forgotten why he opened his mouth. His head slumped against the wall. His eyes watered. His lips tightened.

Libète shook her head back and forth. With thumb and index finger she picked up the larger pieces of the broken glass, depositing them in a wastebasket. Madanm Manno can take care of the rest, she said. She set the basket on his cluttered desk. A cell phone laid flipped open amid the papers.

— I thought you said he was staying off all phones.

— That’s what I thought, Jak replied. Maybe he got another?

There was a text message open. She read it aloud for Jak’s benefit:
My love to all of you in case–

Her hand shot to her mouth.

— What? What’s it say, Libète?

—
In case this is farewell.

— Who’s it fro–

Jak knew as soon as he asked.

— Bondye. He started to breathe in staccato. Are there . . . are there . . . other messages . . . from Steffi?

Libète pressed through. Nothing. Looks like there aren’t, or maybe everything else has been deleted. He tried to send something but it just says it couldn’t be delivered. No credit.

— When was her note sent?

— An hour ago.

Libète dropped the phone. Laurent made a subtle, plaintive sound, like a moan. He seemed to be dallying between the conscious and unconscious.

— I need . . . need to go, Libète said. Go pray–no, not pray. Think.

Jak nodded soberly. I can keep watch over him, he said, pulling a chair up to the bedside. Just to make sure he’s all right.

It was only on leaving the room that Libète saw the picture erect on the desk, the one Laurent had slammed down all those weeks before.

It was a portrait of Stephanie.

— She texted again.

Libète stirred. It seemed sleep only came when she tried to stay awake.

Jak was close to her face, seated on the bed next to her and nudging her. She’s safe, he said. For now.

Libète took a deep, long breath. Exhaling felt like expelling a heavy spirit. Thank God.

— The prayers. It seems they worked, he said with a meager smile.

Libète rubbed her eyes. And the drunk?

— He’s doing okay, I think. Sleeping it off. His hand stopped bleeding.

She rolled over in the bed and hugged her pillow.

— Jak, I can’t handle this much longer. This place. I can’t–

— I know, he said. I know.

A failure of the heart.

A failure of
my
heart
.

Her mind is made up. She banishes hesitation–there can be none. Only action.

She threads through the crowd, pushing her way toward Old Jeune. The mute kneels to his left, breathing quiet fear as he coaxes his father back. Libète goes to his other side. Jeune’s eyes are emptied as death slips across them. She pulls his shirt apart with a furious rip and listens for a heartbeat.

— What’s this girl doing? she hears muttered. Who’s she think she is? Libète puts the voices from her mind. There is no space for them, not with what she has to do.

Her fingertips kiss on his chest. She begins the compressions, quick and continuous, pushing, pushing, pushing.

There is the music

She kneads the life back into him, until it is time. Hands to his head, she pulls his chin up, puts his head back.

It swells, the orchestra’s sound; glorious

She pinches his nose, breathes in, and blows into his mouth the holiest of kisses, the kind that can restore life. She fears. Failed hearts, truly stopped, need more than futile pushes and borrowed air to hold death back. They need a shock to start again. A shock.

Violins cry in pain, cellos weep

More compressions. His empty eyes stare at her while his mouth, pursed and curious, frames the question, Will I live? With each push, she forces down her fear, fear of what will happen to this one–this created, living
man
–who minutes ago stood but then tripped the line between here and there, life and death.

The percussion sounds as brass blares

He does not respond. He will not respond. This is not enough. Her actions can only preserve, not save. More gifted breath. There seems no change. No change! She checks his pulse; nothing. He’s already slipped, already gone.

From where does this music come? What place within her does this improvisation erupt? It is nothing she has heard before. There is no hook to past memory. The staccato rhythm gives way to plaintive dirge, free of form yet so utterly true.

There is truth in the melody

Compressions. More breaths. The people are murmuring, and she casts out any recognition of them, letting the rhythms drown out their noise. It is her. It is him. It is the music.

A crescendo

She breathes. She breathes.

He breathes.

He breathes!
Like a crack, the air seeps into his lungs without her aid. She still coaxes the heart on, but lightens her touch. You can do it, she says so low that only Jeune’s son, Junior, can hear. His tears slip and soak into Jeune’s shirt.

She slumps back on her knees, dazed.

The music slips and falls and fades.

— Back up! Janel finally shouts. Give them space! The son picks up his father’s hat to shield the ailing man’s face from the Sun. Libète sees Junior weeps in great, tremendous sobs as he grasps his father’s hand.

Joy erupts in shouts, and praise, and weeping, so that you could not contain it if you tried! Mèsi Bondye! is cried, Mèsi Bondye! Alleluia!

Libète is lifted from the ground and met by congratulating hugs and slaps on the back. Someone lays a woven basket at Libète’s feet and things are placed inside, a yam, a mango, two ears of corn, gifts for the girl who has wrought a miracle. She sees Magdala and Félix, radiating joy she is unable to reflect. Libète offers humble thanks to each who gives out of kindness, but her smile is false. She knows what this miracle really means.