Over the Waters (9 page)

V
alerie felt the heat rise to her face. She couldn't believe she'd come so close to pouring out her whole pathetic story to Dr. Jordan. The man was practically a stranger. Still, he'd asked and she wanted to be honest.

Fortunately, she'd managed to deflect the question to him. Watching him now while their little procession walked along the side of the road toward Brizjanti, she thought he seemed as conflicted as she.

"What brought me here? Hmm..." Max raked a hand through his thick hair, an expression on his face that almost looked like distress.

"I...I didn't mean to pry, Dr. Jordan."

"Please, call me Max. And you're not prying. I'm just trying to decide...where to begin. Or maybe
whether
to begin."

She laughed softly. "And you think
my
story made you curious? Please, I'd like to know."

"What brought me here?" he said again. "To be honest, I'm not sure I know the answer to that question."

"Oh?"

He sighed and turned to her, as though he'd just made some historic decision. "My son was a doctor. He worked at Madame Duval's. Joshua died--" he seemed to choke on the word "--a year ago. He was a very happy young man. I guess...I wanted to know why."

Pastor Phil and Betty had mentioned the death of a young missionary doctor who'd been at Madame Duval's home. They'd lamented his loss, especially since the orphanages often shared missionary medical personnel and he had also treated the girls at Hope House. So Max Jordan was that doctor's father. Amazing.

She studied him. The few strands of gray peppering his temples were the only thing that convinced her Max could be old enough to have a son who was a doctor.

"Frankly..." He stopped, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow before looking up at her again. "I'm struggling with the fairness of someone as good as Joshua dying, while his old man is left to figure things out."

She was taken aback by the cynicism that chilled his voice. "I...I've heard it's especially hard to accept when a child dies before his parents." It felt like such a trite thing to say. "And have you discovered why your son was so happy?"

He grimaced and stared off into the distance. "I'm still working on that one. Actually, I suppose I'm still trying to figure out the purpose in his death."

"Oh, my. I can't imagine how hard that must be. Do you...have other children?"

"No. Joshua was my only son, my only child."

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "I'm so sorry."

"It's funny...His mother seems to have dealt with it far better than I did. Strange, when for half of his life I only saw him for two weeks in the summer. His mother and I divorced when Josh was fourteen," he explained. "Janie has two young sons from her current marriage so I suppose that made it a bit easier for her to bear."

He apparently read the distress in her face because he shook his head and apologized. "I shouldn't have dumped all that on you."

Valerie didn't know what to say. Her heart went out to him, but she felt awkward and completely inadequate to know what to say to comfort him.

As if he'd read her mind, he said, "I'm not looking for words of consolation. Things are just the way they are. I'm only trying to answer your question." He gave her a lopsided, boyish grin. "Bet you're sorry you asked now, huh?"

With that grin, she felt a layer of the invisible wall between them crumble. "No, I'm not sorry," she said. "I'm glad you told me. What happened to me wasn't anything nearly as tragic as your loss--your losses," she amended, thinking of his failed marriage. "But I
am
finding healing here." Her gaze panned the dilapidated buildings and the evidence of poverty all around them. "It's amazing how my perspective has changed already...just seeing the struggles these people face every day of their lives."

They walked on for another mile or so comparing their impressions of Haitian culture, sharing their experiences at the orphanages during their first week in the country, and then reliving the close call they'd had at the market earlier.

Valerie looked at her watch. "I wonder how much farther it is."

"I think we're getting close," Max said, pointing to a low, flat-roofed structure in the distance. "I remember that building with the fancy cutwork in the cinder block."

"Oh, good. My feet are killing me."

"Mine, too." He was quiet for a few minutes, then spoke abruptly. "I know you're right--what you said earlier about your perspective being different here. But...I guess that still doesn't answer my question of why Josh found such happiness here. He was raised with every material thing he could possibly desire. Every opportunity was his for the asking. And yet it was here, surrounded by poverty that he seemed finally to find what he was looking for. I don't get it."

An edge of bitterness remained in his voice and Valerie suddenly realized its origin: Max Jordan didn't believe in God. What in the world could she say to this highly educated man--a man probably fifteen years her senior--that would have any meaning at all? How odd that she'd come to Haiti on a mission trip, and the first person she had an opportunity to share the Lord with happened to be an American. God surely had a sense of humor.

"What's so funny?"

She winced, realizing that a smile was tugging at the corners of her mouth. She leveled her gaze at him and sighed. What did she have to lose? "Can I ask you something?"

He looked leery, but he nodded.

"Do you believe in God?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Sure. I mean, I guess the term
God
is relative, but I definitely think a power higher than you or I exists."

"But your son was here as a medical missionary, right?"

"Yes. He..." Max cleared his throat. "Joshua had some sort of...religious experience. Frankly, he kind of went off the deep end. He made some irrational decisions in the process. He gave up a very promising residency to come here. After spending thousands of dollars to get through medical school, he wasn't making one dime here! In fact, he was hitting up people for funds to support him while he was--" He stopped abruptly and looked at her, then dropped his head. "Don't tell me...You paid your way here the same way?"

She grinned. "No, I already had the airline ticket--to the Bahamas actually, but it wasn't much to transfer it. And I used the money we'd saved for our honeymoon to cover the rest of my expenses. But you're right. Most mission work is accomplished through donations. So many times the people who have the desire and the calling to go can't afford it, but there are many others who can't go themselves, but they do have the money to send someone else. I think it's a pretty good system, actually."

Max shook his head, mouth drawn into a thin line. "I guess I just don't understand the mentality. I was taught that you don't accept charity unless there is absolutely no other choice."

"But I don't see it as charity--at least not toward the
missionary.
It only makes sense that--"

"I'm sorry." He waved her words away. "I didn't mean to open a big can of worms. And I shouldn't criticize the choice of people who come here on donated funds. There's certainly plenty of work to do here." He shrugged. "I don't know...Why don't we talk about something else?" He looked up at the sun, squinting against its intensity. "Lovely weather we're having, don't you think?"

She laughed at his lighthearted tone and wiped a film of perspiration off her forehead with the back of her hand. "If you want to know the truth, it's a tad warm for my taste."

"Can we not even agree on the weather?" He heaved a sigh of frustration, but his smile told her he was joking.

"Seriously, though," Valerie said, not wanting to slough off the subject. "I hope you understand what a gift your son was giving by coming to Haiti to work. It's terrible that he died. I admit I don't understand why God lets things like that happen, but your son's life was not wasted."

He stopped in his tracks and glared at her, every trace of his teasing manner instantly gone. "How can you possibly say that?"

She cringed inwardly. When would she ever learn? She seemed to have an absurd talent for saying exactly the wrong thing when it came to trying to offer comfort and sympathy. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it came out."

"I don't see how you can argue the point. When a man's life is cut short before he even turns thirty--especially someone like Josh who had such skills, such a gift to offer--it's a tragedy."

Another wave of heat laved her. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to imply that your son's death
wasn't
a tragedy. Of course it was! A terrible tragedy. All I meant was that, even as short as his life was, it wasn't wasted. I didn't know Joshua, but from what I've heard about him, I believe the good he did--even in the short time he was on this earth--will continue to have repercussions for a long time to come. Surely for eternity."

For a long minute he didn't respond. He walked on with his head down, jaw rigid. Finally he turned to her. "Well, pardon me if I would happily trade whatever those repercussions might be for another chance to make things right with my son."

Valerie wished the gigantic hole she'd just dug for herself would swallow her up and close behind her. Why hadn't she just kept her big mouth shut? Regret twisted her stomach. She swallowed down the urge to explain herself, the irrational desire to make amends with this man who'd been a stranger only a few hours ago.

They walked along in silence, the noon sun scorching their heads.

Eyes stinging, she finally turned to him. "Dr. Jordan...Max...I am so sorry. The things I said were completely insensitive. I've never lost a child. I have no idea what that must feel like. Can you forgive me?"

He gave a tight-lipped smile, but the sternness in his eyes diminished. "It's no big deal. You were only trying to help."

"Thank you. That's true, but it's no excuse. And it is a big deal, to me." She swallowed hard, fighting back tears. It would only make things worse if she started crying and made him feel that he had to comfort her. "What I said was out of line. I was very thoughtless."

"Okay. I'll give you that. Now, let's try this one more time." The grin he gave her appeared genuine. "Lovely weather we're having, don't you think?"

She could have hugged him. She looked at the fireball of a sun in the sky, ignored the bead of perspiration trickling down her temple and matched his smile. "Yes, it
is
lovely."

M
arie Duval unlocked the gate to the children's home and turned to the cluster of weary travelers. "Why don't you all stay for a bit?" she crooned in her honeyed Creole accent. "We'll have the girls fix us a bite to eat and you can rest your feet before you go home." She untied the wide ribbon from beneath her chin and stripped the huge straw hat from her head.

Valerie marveled at the way the woman's close-cropped ebony curls sprang to attention, as if they'd just been released from prison. Valerie put a hand to her own tangled mop of hair and tried to smooth the flyaway strands back into her ponytail. She must look awful after their long trek from the market in the heat and dust.

She checked her watch. Almost one o'clock. It had taken them two hours to walk back from the market. They were all hot and exhausted. And hungry, her stomach reminded with a low rumble.

Betty Greene put a hand on her husband's arm. "What do you think, Phil? Could we stay?"

He shrugged. "If you can get hold of Henri so they won't worry about us, I'm all for it." He winked and affected a stage whisper. "I overheard Marie and Samantha talking...something about baking coconut pies this morning."

"Phil! Mind your manners!" Betty punched her husband playfully.

A deep, melodious chuckle rolled from Madame Duval's throat. "Then you must stay or I'll never hear the end of it. Betty warned me about your sweet tooth."

Pastor Phil laughed along with her, but turned serious when he caught Valerie's eye. "Are you all right? This morning was more than you bargained for, I'm sure. Would you rather get back to Hope House?"

"No. No, I'm fine. I'd like to stay." But she gave an inward sigh when Madame Duval closed the gate behind them and Valerie heard the lock click in place. She wondered if the others felt as relieved as she did to be safely ensconced behind the fortress of concrete and jagged glass.

Pastor and Madame Phil followed Madame Duval to the main dwelling to call Hope House and let them know the plans.

Max Jordan started toward a water pump at the side of the largest building. "I'll man the pump if anyone wants to wash up."

Valerie and Samantha exchanged glances, then smiled and took off running. By the time they reached the pump, they were squealing like little girls. Max barely had the pump primed before they were vying for space beneath the spigot. But even the thin stream of lukewarm water felt delicious as it trickled over Valerie's dusty feet and hands.

Max worked the squeaky pump handle up and down and finally cool water sluiced over them. Valerie and Samantha lifted their skirts to their knees and held their legs under the stream. A galvanized washtub underneath the spigot caught the overflow so it could be used later to water the plants or mop the kitchen floor.

The young women filled their cupped hands with the clear water and splashed it over their faces and necks.

"Be careful not to drink any," Dr. Jordan warned.

"Oh, but it's so tempting," Valerie moaned. The canteens of water they'd carried with them to the market had been drained long before they arrived back in Brizjanti. Her mouth was parched.

"Don't worry," Samantha told her, "we have plenty of bottled water. I'll get you drinks as soon as we're finished here."

Dr. Jordan cleared his throat loudly. "Um, excuse me, ladies. I don't suppose there's a chance I could have a turn at that water anytime today?"

Before she had time to think about her actions, Valerie did what she would have done had it been Will Concannon on the other side of the pump. She filled her cupped hands from the washtub and slung the cold water at the doctor.

Samantha yelped with glee and followed suit, soaking the front of Max Jordan's denim shirt. Valerie reloaded the bowl of her hands and fired again.

A look of shock came over the doctor's face, and for a minute Valerie was afraid they'd made him angry. But he quickly recovered and got into the spirit of the game. He pumped the handle furiously, then reached around to clap a hand over the spigot. Water sprayed in all directions.

Valerie and Samantha backpedaled away from the pump, sputtering and spitting and screaming. Samantha shot Valerie a conspiratorial grin and she felt an instant kinship with the girl.

Max finally let go of the pump and put his hands on his knees, laughing and out of breath. It was the first time Valerie had heard him laugh. It was a contagious, tuneful sound, and she and Samantha laughed along with him.

Finally he straightened, arms akimbo. "Okay, are you two ready to call a truce?"

Valerie tipped her head and looked to Samantha. "What do you think?"

"I think we'll be very sorry if we
don't.
" Samantha grimaced comically.

"Okay then. I'll take the pump. You cover me," she told the young woman, "just in case he's not a man of his word."

"Hey! I resent that," Max said, but his voice was teasing. He rolled his short shirtsleeves as high as they'd go and put his hands under the spigot.

Valerie worked the squeaky pump while he washed up.

Now the burning sun felt good as it dried out her damp clothes. She heard laughter and looked up to see Pastor and Madame Phil coming toward them across the yard with half a dozen children trailing after them. "Looks like word got out there was a water fight," she said.

Max grinned impishly. "Well, then we don't want to disappoint them, do we?"

Seeing the boyish look on his face, Valerie had a hard time believing this man had had a son old enough to be a doctor.

Samantha ran over to the concrete slab near the clothesline and brought back two small laundry buckets. She dipped them into the steel tub under the faucet. "Here, quick! Fill these up."

While Valerie plunged them into the tub, she shouted a warning to Pastor Phil and Betty. "You two might want to stand back."

They heard Pastor Phil chuckle.

His wife called back in a prideful singsong voice, "You don't know who you're dealing with here. Phil Greene is known in Brizjanti as the undisputed king of water fights."

"Uh-oh..." Samantha gave Valerie a sidewise glance.

"What have we gotten ourselves into?"

"Yeah, and I was almost dry, too."

Pastor Phil whispered behind his hand to his wife. She handed him something and he took off at a jog toward them. He ran like a man half his age. As he got closer, Valerie realized he carried a large drinking cup in each hand.

Samantha saw it, too. "Uh-oh," she said again.

Before they knew what hit them, the pastor had breached the fortress they'd formed around the water pump. He dipped both cups into the washtub at once and fired twin streams of water at them like six-shooters. The cold water caught them full in the face. Valerie and Samantha gasped in unison. Behind them, Max Jordan burst into laughter.

They both turned to glare at him only to have Pastor Phil's "six-guns" hit them again from behind.

Max gave an exaggerated shrug. Pastor Phil laughed with him. The children caught up with them and pranced around the pump shouting
"Dlo! Dlo! Mouye!"

Pastor Phil nodded toward the children. "They want you to splash them." As if to demonstrate, he flung the last drips of water from the drinking cups at them.

Samantha giggled. "No problemo!" She scooped handfuls of water from the laundry buckets they'd filled again and flung them at the children. Happy pandemonium broke out as the kids ducked to get at the water.

One ornery little boy got braver and braver and finally got close enough to pick up the half-filled washtub. He launched its contents, soaking Max's shirt anew.

Max spat and turned to Valerie. "Man the pump! I can't let that little guy get away with this."

Laughing, she took his place at the helm. He filled the other small bucket and growling playfully, chased the boy across the grass. When he finally caught him, he ceremoniously dumped the whole thing over his head. Then in one smooth motion, he picked the boy up and flung him over his shoulder as if he were one of the sacks of onions they'd brought back from the market.

Max carried him to the pump and held him, squealing with glee, while Samantha splashed him for good measure.

Betty Greene had stood watching and laughing, out of range of their arsenal. Now she called out, her tone scolding. "Phil, you're wasting Marie's water!"

Valerie realized Betty's scolding was meant more for the Americans than for her husband. Water was precious in Haiti.

"We'd better dry off." Valerie was still breathing hard.

"Lunch is probably waiting for us by now," Betty said. "We should get inside."

Suddenly Valerie was famished. Apparently they all were, for Betty's words set off a mad race for the dining room.

Their silly antics took the edge off a day that had been filled with tension and fear, but later, as they sat around the table nursing huge forkfuls of fluffy coconut pie, their conversation turned to the close call they'd had at the market.

"Is this something you deal with on a regular basis, Pastor Greene?" Max asked.

Pastor Phil put a hand on the doctor's arm. "Please, Dr. Jordan...Call me Phil."

"I'll call you Phil if you'll call me Max. I'm still having trouble figuring out the system here." He turned to Betty Greene. "You're Madame Phil, right?"

She laughed. "Well, Betty to you, please. But, yes. Here the women go by their husband's
first
name."

Max turned to Marie Duval. "So Madame Duval, your husband's first name must have been Duval, is that right?"

The woman laughed her rich, deep laugh. "Ah, I'm sorry to confuse you, but my husband's name was Stephen Duval. I suppose because the children's home bore his surname, people began to call me after the home. So, I should be Madame Stephen, but somehow I became Madame Duval. It is confusing, I know. Of course you could make it simple and just call me Marie."

Max shook his head. "I may have to do that, just to keep it all straight in my mind."

Pastor Phil cleared his throat. "To answer your question, Max, what happened today was a closer call than we've ever had, but it wasn't unusual. We always know that at any time violence could break out. It has been the way of Haiti for as long as anyone can remember. The slaves who led this country's rebellion literally sold its soul to the devil almost two hundred years ago."

"I don't understand," Max said, his brows knit.

"I don't know how much you know about the country's voodoo religion, but it is a very real religion. Those rebels sacrificed a pig--drank its blood in a voodoo ceremony."

Max winced and all the women made little sounds of disgust.

"By doing so," Pastor Phil continued, "they pledged that Haiti would serve the devil for two hundred years in exchange for their independence from France. It took more than a decade, but they finally overthrew the colony and gained their independence."

Valerie felt she was listening to a chilling fairy tale, but she heard the voodoo drums in the distance all too clearly each night as she lay in her bed in the dormitory.

"I don't know where you stand on the supernatural, Dr. Jordan," Pastor Phil said, "but I truly believe that all the woes this country has suffered are a direct result of that pact with the devil. We are the undisputed poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, we are continually torn by violence, the land itself has been raped and eroded, the AIDS epidemic is rampant here. You've seen it for yourself. It's the devil's work."

Max worried his bottom lip between his teeth and shook his head. Valerie couldn't tell if it was his way of politely disagreeing with the pastor, or if he was simply dismayed by this history lesson.

Pastor Phil sighed. "It's not a pleasant subject. I apologize if I've soured the enjoyment of Marie's delicious pie. And Betty and I are hopeful for the future of these people we hold so dear."

Marie Duval shook her head emphatically and murmured her agreement.

"Do you realize," Pastor Phil said, "that the year 2004 marked the end of that bargain with Satan? Of course that contract with the devil has never for a moment kept Christ from offering any individual complete and total freedom. But corporately, it has certainly had a vicious hold on us."

They all listened, intrigued as Phil Greene shared the history he had witnessed firsthand for many of his seventy-eight years, and the hope he and Betty held out for the tiny nation they had adopted as their own.

The sun was well into its afternoon descent when Pastor Phil finally rose from his chair. He patted his wife's shoulders. "We'd best get back to the kids," he told her. "Marie, we thank you for your kindness. I don't believe I've ever had a slice of pie quite so good."

Madame Duval accepted the compliment with a smile and a prim dip of her head.

Valerie pushed back her chair and stretched.

Max Jordan did likewise. "I'll walk back with you."

It was less than five minutes to Hope House. When they arrived at the gate Pastor Phil started through the entrance, but faltered, reaching out to hang on to the crossbars.

"Phil?" His wife linked her arm through his, planted her feet wide and waited for him to steady himself. "Are you all right?"

He cleared his throat. "I'm fine...just tired. It's been a long day."

"Yes, and you've been acting like a child! Off to bed with you then. Goodnight you two."

Max and Valerie bade the couple goodnight and Valerie turned to thank Max for walking them home. She started through the gate, too, but Max touched her arm and motioned for her to stay behind.

He watched the elderly couple walk up the lane, obviously waiting for them to get out of earshot. Valerie's curiosity soared.

Finally, he met her gaze and gave her a smile that was almost shy. "I just wanted to tell you...I'm sorry if I was rude to you today. I--"

"Oh, no. Please. I'm the one who should be apologizing."

"I also wanted to tell you that...Well, I think maybe...today at the pump, playing with the kids, I got a glimpse of what my son saw in the life he had here."