Continental Drift

Bob studies the man for a second, then says, “You guys are like priests, right? I mean, I tell you something, it’s confidential, isn’t it?”

“I am a servant of the Lord, Bob, yes, but a far cry from a Catholic priest, I’m afraid.” Allan laughs. Then seriously, “Whatever you tell me, brother, I’ll hold in strictest confidence. Unburden yourself, Bob.”

Bob takes a deep breath. “Well, I’m a fisherman, see, and I brought some Haitians over from the Bahamas … a while ago. They paid me for it. Anyhow, well, some of them didn’t quite make it, if you know what I mean….”

“No. What do you mean?”

Bob lowers his voice almost to a whisper. “Some of them drowned. Coming ashore.”

Allan looks into Bob’s dark eyes for a long moment. “Some of them drowned? Coming ashore?”

“Yes.”

“You brought them over in your boat? And some of them drowned?”

“Well … yeah.”

“Then you … you’re that man in the papers with the boat, up at Sunny Isles?”

“Yes. I am.”

Allan brings his large hands to his mouth, lifts them to his forehead, and cries, “Oh, my God! That’s awful!” He gapes at Bob and whispers, “Lord have mercy on your soul, Bob.” He studies Bob’s face for a moment, as if to determine his sanity, then says, “I … I don’t know what to tell you. Except that you should get down on your knees, you should give yourself over to Jesus, Bob. Save your soul, brother,” he pleads. “Now, before it’s too late.”

“Look, I don’t want to talk about that right now. I got enough problems without worrying about my soul too. I got a wife and three kids. What I want is for you just to take this money and make sure it goes to some people who need it. Some of these Haitians.” He pulls out the wad of bills and shows it to Allan. “It’s way over a thousand dollars. Maybe two. I haven’t even counted it. See? I don’t care how you do it, spend it on soup or clothes, or just dole it out, I don’t care.” He pushes the money at the man.

Allan recoils and slides farther back into the van. “Put it away! People’ll see it!” He looks over Bob’s shoulder and repeats, “Put it away!”

Bob turns. In the distance, thirty or forty feet behind him, the youths from the bar are talking to one another under a streetlight, smoking cigarettes and lounging against the brick wall of a windowless building facing the street. They ignore Bob and Allan and the van, acting as if they’re alone on the street and bored and don’t want to go home yet. The largest of the four, the man with the denim cap who spoke to Bob in the bar, has his back to Bob and chats easily with the others, making large gestures with his arms as he talks.

Bob turns to Allan and shoves the money at him. “Here, for Christ’s sake, take it. Please, take it. I don’t know what I should do with it anymore.”

“Just pray, Bob. I can’t take the money. And I can’t help you, only Jesus can help you. You must pray, and then Jesus will tell you what to do. Bob, I’ll pray with you, if you want. Come on,” Allan says, and he slides forward from the van and stands up. “Let’s get down here, right here on the street, and pray to Jesus. He’s here with us now, I know it, I can feel His presence. Come on, Bob,” he says, grabbing Bob’s arm.

Bob wrenches free. “No! Just take the damned money, will you?” He waves the bills in front of the man’s face.

“Bob, no!” Allan cries. “Just pray, that’s all you have to do. Pray to Jesus for forgiveness and guidance, and repent. That’s all you need to do. Repent. You don’t need me, Bob. You need Jesus. We all need Jesus. You’re no different than anyone else, in spite of what you’ve done.”

Bob steps back. “You won’t take it, then.”

Allan looks at the money clutched in Bob’s hand. “No. Lord forgive me, but I can’t. I can’t. Not unless we both pray to Jesus and He tells you it’s the right thing to do, and also tells me I should take it.” Allan gets down on his knees in the street beside the van. “Fall on your knees, Bob!” He’s sweating, and his blue eyes glisten. “Pray! Jesus will hear you. Jesus loves you, Bob.”

Jamming the money into his pocket again, Bob wheels around and walks swiftly away. When he looks up, he sees the four young men from the bar watching him. He briefly hesitates, then keeps coming, and as he passes them, the leader of the group smiles and says, “Still out, eh? Sure you don’t want no black pussy, mister? Plenty black pussy around here.”

Bob looks into the young man’s face. “You know what I’m looking for.”

“Me?” He breaks into a warm smile, and his bushy sideburns spread like wings. “I can’t know what you are looking for, mister, until you have told me.”

“Are you Haitian?”

“Born there, yes, but American now. All of us,” he says, still smiling. “All-American boys, eh?” he adds, and he steps back and slings his long arms over the shoulders of the other young men. They all smile now, as if for a group portrait.