had to rely on missionaries for art supplies. He would go without food so that he could buy paints. And the political situation there, well . . .”
When Brian and Albert left the gallery, Brian was buoyed by the images he’d seen—the deep slashes through the paint, the skin rippling with sinew, and sudden, unearthly glimpses of bone. He felt vividly how his young son would love this sort of thing—the outlaw gallery and humble neighborhood.
It had grown darker. Brian looked around at the still street: a streetlamp burned out at the corner, the shrunken houses and ragged patches of grass, gray in the low light. On the way to the car, he heard voices—people gathered in a front yard, a burst of laughter, the quiet slap and tick of dominoes. There was a scrabbling movement along the gutter: rats? At the end of the block, something fetid and black pooled in the center of the street. A gray scarf of smoke rose from a bonfire—children tossing in sticks and bits of trash: the air was thick and watery, as if the convergence of shared history had a visible weight. It occurred to Brian that the people on this street were from the same island the artist had come from. He stared at the reflections sparkling in the passenger window and didn’t speak for the rest of the ride back.
BRIAN PUSHES AWAY from the desk. The phone is silent for once, emails blink on the screen. He regards the crowded sky high above the horizon, filled with thunderheads and a silken light the same shade of gray as the lining of his grandfather’s coat. The forecasters are merrily predicting an “active season.” His thoughts leap to the house, the weight in the halls, the unlit rooms he’ll come home to if—as he expects—Avis returns without having seen Felice. He checks his watch: 12:37. He closes his eyes with a brief fervent wish that his wife isn’t waiting alone at some café table.
His window faces south and east. If only he had strong enough binoculars he might be able to locate his family. The city spreads its cantons over endless miles. Little Haiti must be somewhere behind him: one of those places where you should never run out of gas. And Haiti itself is somewhere before him, beyond the barrier island of Miami Beach, a slender nation tucked within the horizon, Edenic and rife with turmoil and poverty. There but for the grace of God, his father liked to say. As if his own life had descended to him straight from heaven itself.
Now the gray light evinces the lowering of Stanley’s stern gaze, his disapproval: how he would scorn this latest condo project! Brian can almost hear his son’s voice, taking up his favorite topics—the preservation of neighborhood fabric, cultural history and community. Brian admires his son, but sometimes he reminds Brian, oddly, of his righteous old dad. He turns from window to desk—his two poles—with a sense of facing something. He picks up his handset, preferring its shape to the cold chip of the cell, and makes a call. “Tony—yeah—tell me again where we’re at with Little Haiti?”
Avis
A VIS LOOKS WITH BLANK EYES AT THE ONRUSHING freeway. The air smells of tar and cement, as if the city has turned into a smoking construction pit. She curls into herself, trying not to touch the sides of the car, trying not to speak or brush up against anything.
Miami seems as frightening to Avis now as it had when they’d first arrived—a lawless land where cabbies kidnapped young coeds on spring break, German tourists were shot in broad daylight, gangs of young black and brown men roved around in their thin white tanks, long baggy jeans, hands jammed in their pockets. There were “home invasions,” in which thieves would simply rampage into houses and murder the inhabitants at their dinner tables. She’d seen a fistfight break out at the local video store, twice watched police run across neighbors’ lawns with guns drawn, and—too many times to count—she’s had to slam on her brakes to avoid a
When Brian and Albert left the gallery, Brian was buoyed by the images he’d seen—the deep slashes through the paint, the skin rippling with sinew, and sudden, unearthly glimpses of bone. He felt vividly how his young son would love this sort of thing—the outlaw gallery and humble neighborhood.
It had grown darker. Brian looked around at the still street: a streetlamp burned out at the corner, the shrunken houses and ragged patches of grass, gray in the low light. On the way to the car, he heard voices—people gathered in a front yard, a burst of laughter, the quiet slap and tick of dominoes. There was a scrabbling movement along the gutter: rats? At the end of the block, something fetid and black pooled in the center of the street. A gray scarf of smoke rose from a bonfire—children tossing in sticks and bits of trash: the air was thick and watery, as if the convergence of shared history had a visible weight. It occurred to Brian that the people on this street were from the same island the artist had come from. He stared at the reflections sparkling in the passenger window and didn’t speak for the rest of the ride back.
BRIAN PUSHES AWAY from the desk. The phone is silent for once, emails blink on the screen. He regards the crowded sky high above the horizon, filled with thunderheads and a silken light the same shade of gray as the lining of his grandfather’s coat. The forecasters are merrily predicting an “active season.” His thoughts leap to the house, the weight in the halls, the unlit rooms he’ll come home to if—as he expects—Avis returns without having seen Felice. He checks his watch: 12:37. He closes his eyes with a brief fervent wish that his wife isn’t waiting alone at some café table.
His window faces south and east. If only he had strong enough binoculars he might be able to locate his family. The city spreads its cantons over endless miles. Little Haiti must be somewhere behind him: one of those places where you should never run out of gas. And Haiti itself is somewhere before him, beyond the barrier island of Miami Beach, a slender nation tucked within the horizon, Edenic and rife with turmoil and poverty. There but for the grace of God, his father liked to say. As if his own life had descended to him straight from heaven itself.
Now the gray light evinces the lowering of Stanley’s stern gaze, his disapproval: how he would scorn this latest condo project! Brian can almost hear his son’s voice, taking up his favorite topics—the preservation of neighborhood fabric, cultural history and community. Brian admires his son, but sometimes he reminds Brian, oddly, of his righteous old dad. He turns from window to desk—his two poles—with a sense of facing something. He picks up his handset, preferring its shape to the cold chip of the cell, and makes a call. “Tony—yeah—tell me again where we’re at with Little Haiti?”
Avis
A VIS LOOKS WITH BLANK EYES AT THE ONRUSHING freeway. The air smells of tar and cement, as if the city has turned into a smoking construction pit. She curls into herself, trying not to touch the sides of the car, trying not to speak or brush up against anything.
Miami seems as frightening to Avis now as it had when they’d first arrived—a lawless land where cabbies kidnapped young coeds on spring break, German tourists were shot in broad daylight, gangs of young black and brown men roved around in their thin white tanks, long baggy jeans, hands jammed in their pockets. There were “home invasions,” in which thieves would simply rampage into houses and murder the inhabitants at their dinner tables. She’d seen a fistfight break out at the local video store, twice watched police run across neighbors’ lawns with guns drawn, and—too many times to count—she’s had to slam on her brakes to avoid a
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