That’s the way it was, those long drives with the judge and Terry. Talk, talk, talk: marriage, marriage, marriage. Not easy for me either, brother. Let me tell you about Kay. Let me tell you about Nadia. Fuck ’em all. Let’s get a beer.
And in all that, Terry felt, for the first time since his sister’s death, the first — shit, he didn’t know what to call it. Call it love, okay? Just call it love. And “love” wasn’t the right word at all. It was like the ice was melting in his heart.
* * *
Louise McPherson. Christ alive, that was her name. That was going to drive me crazy. Louise McPherson. Good ol’ Louise.
Nice lady, but didn’t know shit about marriage.
* * *
So there was this incident — made him think long and hard.
Sometimes, if Marguerite Laurent was shorthanded and the judge was out in Port-au-Prince, she’d ask Terry to take a turn on patrol. So he was riding shotgun on the way to Chambellan with Eric, from Quebec. Eric spent his free afternoons at a local orphanage, fixing the roof and carrying the kids around on his shoulders, acting like the grandfather none of these kids had. When he went home on leave, he organized a toy drive, his whole community pitching in to buy a couple hundred stuffed animals. That’s how all those little bears and otters and ocelots could be found on sale in the marché, right next to the mosquito nets distributed to the poor by the WHO.
Terry asked Eric, just to pass the miles, not really wanting an answer, what brought him to Haiti.
Eric tells him that all his marriage he’d been a first-class dog. He saw a pretty girl, he’d call his wife, tell her that a case came up. “I was a bone on legs,” he says in that Canadian way, as if he’s got a sinus infection from hell. He tells Terry he cheated on his wife in hotels, motels, bars, lounges, rented apartments, and the back of his car. “I hear you,” Terry says, thinking all of a sudden about Kay, about how he wants to do right by her.
So Eric knew every sleazy motel in Quebec. He’d had mistresses, girlfriends, lovers, ladies who gave him a romp if he gave them a call once a year. When they were younger, he and his madame had these big fights — knock-down, drag-out, change-the-locks, call-the-other-cops fights. Then she’d just resigned herself, got this sad look in her eyes. Made him want to get out of the house, that look. So it was just three years ago, Eric said, after thirty-three years of marriage on his terms, that he woke up one morning, his wife (he says whatever the name of his fat-ass Canadian wife is, but what Terry hears is Kay) in bed beside him, made himself a cup of coffee, went off to work. Later Eric left a message on the answering machine telling (Terry hears it again: Kay) that he was working a case late. He didn’t come home until it was almost dawn. He found (Kay) just where he’d left her, still lying in bed, just like she was when he got up the day before. The doctors said it was an aneurism. (Kay’s) body was already going stiff.
When the paramedics took Eric’s wife away, they had some trouble getting her through the door into the hall. They had to bend her this way and that. There was some talk of having to get her out through the window. Somebody, not realizing that Eric was in earshot, made a joke about a saw.
Then, when she was gone, Eric hit the button on the answering machine. There was his voice saying “Honey, working a double shift tonight. Back late.” The worst part of it all was that he couldn’t look at his kids now. They were just the spitting image of his wife. It was as if she were looking at him, hating him, wondering how he could have been off loving up some other woman while (Kay) was lying un-mourned, unwept, unnoticed in her deathbed. When the kids looked at him, their eyes said, You bastard. So now he was in Haiti, working with the orphans just so he didn’t have to be back in Quebec looking into his kids’ eyes.
Eric finishes his story and looks at Terry. Appropriately somber-eyed.
And what happens is, they’re still driving, and this big old hawk came swinging up over the cliff, hunting down some cute mouse for breakfast. Terry never could forget that hawk, how it came swooping down out of nowhere until it was about this close to the windshield, then swung out over the mountainside. Terry thought that bird was going to come right through the fucking window.
He says to Eric, like nothing happened, “I hear what you’re saying, brother. I really do.”
* * *
After that Terry stayed away from Nadia, best he could. Man can have two desires in his head. Man can discipline himself. Man can say no. Man can stay away. That was when he started thinking seriously about the road. That was when he started pushing the judge on the road. It’s more like a game than anything else. Man’s never gonna build a road. Pushing the judge, just a way of marking the miles out, you know? Banter. Talking smack. Bullshitting.
Only the judge was listening. Every time he tells the judge, “You got a destiny,” son of a bitch hears destiny-destiny-destiny, like footsteps echoing down a marble corridor. He wants to listen, though, Terry’s happy to talk. Because he believes in destiny, because he believes we’re meant for greatness. That’s when he starts believing in that road himself. He starts seeing it. He stops thinking about Nadia so much and starts thinking tarmac. He’s thinking how he’ll tell his nephews, I built a road. He thinks he’s out of the woods with Nadia. Judge says, “Come on in for a drink.” Terry says, “Nadia home?” Judge says, “Most likely.” Terry says, “Maybe tomorrow, brother. Got Kay on Skype tonight.”
Four months. Kay visiting. Making love to his wife. Driving out with the judge. Talking politics. Thinking about the future, even after Haiti. Building. Planning. Lot of serious talks. Long swims. Road. Feeling like everything is getting solid again.
And then — just like that — just like that goddamn hawk coming down on the car, Eric throwing on the brakes, the patrol fishtailing and throwing up a cloud of dust — just like that—
* * *
Start with this. Terry had this thing he did, walking around cemeteries. Some people don’t know the dead can talk. That’s their secret. But someone’s got to be listening.
In any case, it’s something he’s done since he was a kid — spending an hour or two every now and again prowling around the cemetery, looking at gravestones, looking at the flowers, thinking about the ancestors. One of the few truly effective antistress things he knew, taking a walk in the cemetery. Quiet place, put every damn thing in your life in perspective. Spend an hour visiting the dearly departed, come away with your brain rearranged.
Cemetery in Jérémie was a spooky, beautiful place. Not some neatly tended country club of a cemetery, the kind you find back home: The Garden of the Eternal Snooze. Our Lady of Rot and Repose. In Jérémie, the bodies were all parked aboveground, in concrete tombs. The better class of Jérémie family owned a tomb to give their loved ones perennial shelter, but for the most part, the people in Jérémie could only afford to rent a vault for a year or two. When the rental period was concluded, no ceremony at all, the tomb’s owner jacked open the grave and tossed the current occupant out into the cemetery’s high grass and weeds and vines. If there’s still some flesh on the cadaver, they’ll toss on some kerosene and let it burn. That’s that. The cemetery was riddled with these evicted skeletons and skulls. Sometimes a dog trotted off, chewing on a femur. Those days, when the shit started building up between his temples, Terry found it very calming going over there to that cemetery, watching the bodies coming in, the skeletons going out.