“Military,” I deduce next, inspecting his haircut. “Possibly army, but I’m thinking with those looks, former Marine.”
“No such thing as a former Marine,” he says, answering my question. “Post high school?” he quizzes me.
“Excelled at partying. I spend a lot of time in church basements now.”
“But you work in a bar.”
“Being around booze isn’t such a big deal for me. And bartending is my only life skill.”
“You don’t have a home. Or a husband, or kids. You just travel all around doing . . . this.”
“Inserting myself into other people’s problems?”
“Exactly.”
“Definitely growing on you. And your deal? Wife, kid, white picket fence?”
“My job is a demanding enough spouse, and my nieces and nephews keep me busy.”
“You’re the favorite uncle, aren’t you? Swoop in, hop them up on video games, sugar them up with soda, then ride off into the sunset.”
“Guilty as charged.” He arches a brow. My turn. Everyone has someone, don’t they?
“Ghosts of Christmas past,” I tell him lightly, all I’m going to say on the subject. “Okay, bonus round: In this day and age of racial tension, gender fluidity, and political polarization, how do you most define yourself?”
This earns me serious contemplation. After a moment: “Black male. Not African American because, according to my mother, there’s more in the mix, including Portuguese, though I don’t know any more about that culture than Africa. Definitely, I’m a Boston cop. Not southern, not West Coast, purely New England. After that . . . good son, amazing uncle. And you? White, female, heterosexual . . . ?”
“Fishing, are you?” My turn to tease, then become serious. “Demographically speaking, I am white, female, heterosexual, agnostic, progressive, Californian. But first and foremost, I’m an addict. Which has taught me enough of my own weaknesses to be more understanding of others.”
“And this is why strangers magically talk to you?”
“Maybe I’m just that good a listener.”
We’ve arrived at the Badeaus’ apartment. Lotham pauses before climbing up the front steps. He has a piece of white lint on his indigo tie. I have to repress the urge to reach out and flick it off. He defines himself as a Black male Boston cop, but to me he is a port in the storm, whether he wants to be or not.
I would like to step into the silence that surrounds him. Lay my head against his shoulder. Discover if his stillness could seep into my own wild, restless being.
I find myself leaning closer.
“Why do you do this?” he asks me softly, dark gaze pinning my own.
“I have no idea.”
“What is it you’re looking for?”
“The truth.”
“Even if it’s ugly?”
“It’s always ugly.”
“Try not to hurt the family too much,” he murmurs.
And I have to smile, because I understand completely. Missing persons cases . . .
I turn and climb the front steps. After another moment, he follows.
* * *
—
Guerline is at the stove when Emmanuel escorts us in, throwing a flour-dusted drumstick into the pan of sizzling oil. The spattering drumstick is quickly followed by four more.
The moment we appear, however, she pulls herself away from the stove and produces a pot of coffee. She doesn’t ask, but pours out two mugs, handing one to each of us. Having just consumed my body weight in caffeine, I’m tempted to wave off, but the look on her face stops me.
Stoic but welcoming. She is going through her steps, just as earlier today, I did mine.
As if reading my mind, Lotham murmurs beside me: “Take it. It’s a Haitian thing. Drink up.”
I take the mug, thanking her profusely. Given she hadn’t offered me coffee the first time I appeared, I appreciate that I’ve now risen in her esteem, while already wondering how long that will last.
The living area is too small for four, especially when one of them is supersized. Lotham takes the hint. He downs his mug, then disappears back to the second-floor landing, where I can soon hear him yapping away on the phone.
Emmanuel remains with me, his hands fidgeting in front of him.
“What would you like to see?” he asks at last.
Guerline moves away from me in the tiny space to throw more chicken into the skillet. More hissing and crackling.
“Walk me through the living arrangements.”
Emmanuel shows me the doorway leading to the single bedroom, which belongs to his aunt. Across from it is a cramped bathroom with a single vanity, toilet, and tub-shower combo. There is a mirrored medicine cabinet above the sink, a cheap shelving unit over the toilet. Shared space is cluttered space, which leaves me with much to sort out.
For now, I follow Emmanuel back to the family room. He gestures to the couch. “For LiLi,” he explains. Then to the floor. “For me.” A nightstand next to the sofa. “For my sister.” Followed by a dresser wedged next to the TV stand, then the lowest shelf of the entertainment unit, which is lined with books. “Also for my sister.”
That leaves two pieces of furniture, which must be Emmanuel’s.
It’s not a large search area. But it’s a lot to process, given the riot of personal possessions, family photos, and miscellaneous knickknacks. It’s like peering into a dense forest, then slowly trying to pick out a single leaf.
I take a seat on the sofa, then stand up again. “Where did your sister sit?” I ask Emmanuel. “Everyone has their spot.”
He gestures to the end, closest to the wall, where an oversized ceramic lamp tops the nightstand, excellent lighting for a serious reader.
“How did she sit?” I ask Emmanuel next. “Straight up, sideways, curled up? Can you show me?”
Emmanuel moves to the couch. He appears to consider the matter, then settles himself into the cushions, striking a pose. Sideways, curled up. Again, closer to the lighting.
Emmanuel bounces up. I nod in his direction as I take over Angelique’s position on the sofa. Then, for a long while, I don’t do anything at all. I just sit there and try to see what Angelique would see. Not rows of clutter, but pieces of memory. A fifteen-year-old girl, her family split between this country and the island she used to call home.
Emmanuel drifts into the kitchen, taking a seat at the kitchen table, where his heavily stickered laptop is up and running. Doing homework or updating his sister’s digital memorial or monitoring her virtual high school? I wonder what his friends think. If he has anyone he can talk to.