She took a long sip of tea. Her throat rattled as she swallowed. She gripped the cup with both hands, I guess, because her hands were so shaky.
I felt a shiver go down my back. The story was terrifying and sad, but her whispered voice made it even more frightening. I had to remind myself that this took place in 1935.
“I was a child but the pictures never faded from my eyes. The island was devastated. Turned to rubble. But it took only
She waited for me to react. Her silvery eyes still hadn’t blinked.
I set down the cup. “What do you mean? What kind of nightmare?”
She swallowed. She leaned closer, close enough for me to see the thick layer of powder on her tight cheeks. “Le Chat Noir returned to normal in weeks. Because the
“When the job was done, did they return to their graves? No. The dead were proud of their handiwork. And they enjoyed the sunlight. It healed them and made them look almost normal, so normal most of them could blend in with the living. They decided to stay.”
I squinted at her. “The dead? The dead people stayed?”
She nodded, her expression solemn. She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. Her hand was dry and hard, like solid bone. “That’s what makes Le Chat Noir special, dear. It’s the only place on earth where the living share their space with the living dead.”
I glanced down at my empty teacup. The tea leaves on the bottom appeared to form an X. Of course I didn’t believe Marguerite’s story. But it left me feeling strange, kind of cold and tingly.
She smiled for the first time. Her smile cracked the powder on her cheeks. Placing both hands on the table, she pushed herself to her feet. “I see you are thinking about my story.”
I nodded. “Yes. It’s. . frightening.”
Her smile faded. “Not that frightening, dear. I died ten years ago, but I’m doing pretty well. Can I bring you another cup of tea?”
My mouth dropped open.
A dry laugh, more like a cough, escaped her throat. “I’m only teasing you. I see your ride is outside. Enjoy your stay on our beautiful island.”
2
Lea sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing her hands over the tropical-colored, flowery quilt, letting the warm sea breezes tickle her face. The lace curtains fluttered at the open window of the rooming house. White and yellow daisies floated in a glass bowl of water on the bed table beside her.
The small, second-floor room was bright with afternoon sunlight spreading across the blond-wood floor, and spotlessly crisp and clean with a vague aroma of coconut in the air. Red and blue starfish dotted the wallpapered walls, appropriate since the place was called Starfish House.
The two-story, shingled house with a sloping red-tile roof stood on a low, grassy dune overlooking the Eastern shore beach and a row of white fishing huts along the water.
She didn’t want to check. She didn’t want to spoil her first day.
She could hear the hushed voices of her hosts drift upstairs from the front desk. An hour before, when the jeep-taxi dropped her off at the front door, they had both come bursting out, clapping their hands and speaking rapidly and excitedly in French, almost dancing around Lea and her two bags.
Macaw Henders and her husband, Pierre. They owned the six-room inn. She was a big woman, Spanish- looking, with cocoa skin, round, black eyes and straight black bangs across a broad forehead.
She wore an expansive red-and-fuchsia housedress with feathery sleeves and collar and a red bandanna over her hair. Lea had to suppress a laugh since it really did look like bird plumage.
In contrast, Pierre was as thin as a pencil, balding, with brown eyes deep-set in a serious face. One of those people who always looks worried, Lea figured. No way to determine how old he was. He could be thirty or fifty.
A soft knock at the doorway startled Lea from her thoughts. She stood up as Macaw appeared, holding a tray with a white china cup. She handed the cup to Lea. Lea gazed down at a foamy, dark brown drink. She expected the cup to be hot, but it was cold.
Macaw smiled, revealing a gold cap on one front tooth. “Go ahead, Madame Sutter. A welcome drink. Take a small sip to start.” She spoke in a lilting singsong.
Lea took a small sip, then another. Coffee with vodka? No. But definitely potent and sour. She could feel the warmth slide down her throat, into her chest.
“Macaw, what is this drink called?”
The woman hesitated. She ruffled her feathery housedress, much like a preening macaw. “Kill-Devil,” she said finally, lowering her eyes.
Lea laughed and gazed into the cup. “Kill-Devil? Do you know why?”
“Because it’s powerful enough to kill the Devil?”
Lea took another sip. She was starting to like the bitter taste. “This is a lovely room,” she said, gesturing with her free hand. And then blurted out without really thinking about it, “Am I the only one staying here?”
The woman nodded.
“But, why?”
Macaw’s smile faded. She pretended to be interested in something on the tray. “I guess they have their reasons, Madame Sutter.”
3
BLOG POST
BY LEA HARMON SUTTER
The only good news is that it gives me a little time to find some kind of adventure to write about before I have to duck and hide.
I’m writing this post on my iPad. I can feel the emergency vibes. People are boarding up their windows and pulling their boats onshore. The sky has turned an ugly lead color, and the wind feels heavy and damp.
My hosts, Macaw and Pierre, were reluctant to let me leave the house. I’m not sure they understood that my job is to go out and do risky things so I can write about them.
I’d been in touch (by email) with a woman who lives on Le Chat Noir, named Martha Swann. Martha told me about an island ceremony called
I told my hosts I wanted to attend a
