elusive Perch.
The two women left the doctor behind and took a taxi from the hotel, driving along a dirt road into the interior of the island.
“Let us out at the sapodilla tree around the next bend,” Hattie instructed the perspiring, heavyset, middle-aged driver, who had subjected the women to very close scrutiny from the moment he had picked them up in front of the hotel, constantly observing them in his rearview mirror. He had seen Hattie Sinclair before. The first time she had been forty-six pounds lighter and near death. Now she had come in the company of a white woman, and from the looks of her, she may have brought her too late.
As instructed, the driver parked in the shade of the sapodilla tree and waited as the two women continued on foot around the bend to the bottom of the hill on top of which sat the secluded home of Matthew Perch. The walk was no more than two hundred yards, but the blazing sun, the humidity, and the stress of the trip were telling noticeably on Elsen. There was no human activity anywhere in sight, just the singing of birds and the humming of insects.
Hattie Sinclair had sent word to Matthew Perch through her family, saying she had to see him as quickly as possible, but she had no idea if he had gotten her message. She had made no mention of the other person she was bringing with her, and she worried about how Perch would react to the frail white woman standing beside her. She hoped he wouldn’t just walk off into the woods without speaking, though she feared that was exactly what would happen.
Slowly Hattie led Elsen Mozelle up the hill. She could remember just about every tree, every stone, every twig. At the summit, they stopped in front of the adobe hut with its thatched palm leaf roof.
They stood there breathing hard, but before they could catch their breath, the door opened and Matthew Perch stepped out. He was a tall black man of about sixty, with stern, serious eyes in a lean, granite-like face. He had full lips, set jaw, and a short, salt-and-pepper beard that matched his eyebrows. His trousers were faded and worn, patched with different fabrics. His jacket had seen more wear than his trousers or the rumpled denim shirt. The women were startled speechless by the man’s sudden appearance.
Hattie Sinclair had never gotten used to Perch’s imposing presence. Now she couldn’t find her tongue. Perch stared back unblinkingly until Hattie blurted out, “I’m sorry, Matthew, I had to come. She’s notlike the others, I swear to you. She’s just like I was—very, very sick. All she wants is to live, like I did. You know I’ll always be grateful to you, and I’m sorry to disturb your peace again. But this lady broke my heart, Matthew. Forgive me, Matthew. Please don’t be angry.”
Perch continued to stare silently at the two women who waited for a response. None came. Hattie was apprehensive. Perch was an explosive, complex man. During the course of her treatment, he could take her head off one minute and comfort her the next with a reassuring touch of his hand.
Finally, Hattie filled the void. “This lady is …” she began.
“I know who she is,” interrupted Perch.
Elsen felt a jolt travel through her body. She was too afraid to ask Perch what he might mean.
After a long pause, Perch spoke again. “Where is the man?” he asked.
“My—my husband?” asked Elsen.
“Three of you came,” said Matthew.
“He’s at the hotel,” said Elsen.
Matthew turned to Hattie. “Why did you not bring him?”
Elsen spoke instead. “We didn’t want to risk upsetting you with too many people. Also, my husband is a doctor. He cannot help me, and none of the doctors that he knows can help me. He thinks that maybe you can. He will not interfere, I promise.”
Matthew looked intently at Elsen Mozelle, shifting his gaze from her eyes to her lips, her ears, her hair, and finally to her hands.
“Go away,” he said to them. Then he turned and started toward the door of his
The two women left the doctor behind and took a taxi from the hotel, driving along a dirt road into the interior of the island.
“Let us out at the sapodilla tree around the next bend,” Hattie instructed the perspiring, heavyset, middle-aged driver, who had subjected the women to very close scrutiny from the moment he had picked them up in front of the hotel, constantly observing them in his rearview mirror. He had seen Hattie Sinclair before. The first time she had been forty-six pounds lighter and near death. Now she had come in the company of a white woman, and from the looks of her, she may have brought her too late.
As instructed, the driver parked in the shade of the sapodilla tree and waited as the two women continued on foot around the bend to the bottom of the hill on top of which sat the secluded home of Matthew Perch. The walk was no more than two hundred yards, but the blazing sun, the humidity, and the stress of the trip were telling noticeably on Elsen. There was no human activity anywhere in sight, just the singing of birds and the humming of insects.
Hattie Sinclair had sent word to Matthew Perch through her family, saying she had to see him as quickly as possible, but she had no idea if he had gotten her message. She had made no mention of the other person she was bringing with her, and she worried about how Perch would react to the frail white woman standing beside her. She hoped he wouldn’t just walk off into the woods without speaking, though she feared that was exactly what would happen.
Slowly Hattie led Elsen Mozelle up the hill. She could remember just about every tree, every stone, every twig. At the summit, they stopped in front of the adobe hut with its thatched palm leaf roof.
They stood there breathing hard, but before they could catch their breath, the door opened and Matthew Perch stepped out. He was a tall black man of about sixty, with stern, serious eyes in a lean, granite-like face. He had full lips, set jaw, and a short, salt-and-pepper beard that matched his eyebrows. His trousers were faded and worn, patched with different fabrics. His jacket had seen more wear than his trousers or the rumpled denim shirt. The women were startled speechless by the man’s sudden appearance.
Hattie Sinclair had never gotten used to Perch’s imposing presence. Now she couldn’t find her tongue. Perch stared back unblinkingly until Hattie blurted out, “I’m sorry, Matthew, I had to come. She’s notlike the others, I swear to you. She’s just like I was—very, very sick. All she wants is to live, like I did. You know I’ll always be grateful to you, and I’m sorry to disturb your peace again. But this lady broke my heart, Matthew. Forgive me, Matthew. Please don’t be angry.”
Perch continued to stare silently at the two women who waited for a response. None came. Hattie was apprehensive. Perch was an explosive, complex man. During the course of her treatment, he could take her head off one minute and comfort her the next with a reassuring touch of his hand.
Finally, Hattie filled the void. “This lady is …” she began.
“I know who she is,” interrupted Perch.
Elsen felt a jolt travel through her body. She was too afraid to ask Perch what he might mean.
After a long pause, Perch spoke again. “Where is the man?” he asked.
“My—my husband?” asked Elsen.
“Three of you came,” said Matthew.
“He’s at the hotel,” said Elsen.
Matthew turned to Hattie. “Why did you not bring him?”
Elsen spoke instead. “We didn’t want to risk upsetting you with too many people. Also, my husband is a doctor. He cannot help me, and none of the doctors that he knows can help me. He thinks that maybe you can. He will not interfere, I promise.”
Matthew looked intently at Elsen Mozelle, shifting his gaze from her eyes to her lips, her ears, her hair, and finally to her hands.
“Go away,” he said to them. Then he turned and started toward the door of his
Similar Books
