Discoveries

Henry boarded the ferry at Shepler’s after a few too many with his fellow officers on the Chippewa hotel back deck. Before he did, he called his wife to forewarn her that he was a little inebriated and that she would have to do the driving home. He also mentioned that she might get lucky tonight. Oh, and could she stop and get some frozen custard at that place on . . . on . . . well, she’d figure it out.

It was a tradition, among the cops on Mackinac, that the Wednesday before the Boat Races, the boys (and the one woman, who was lumped in) would “tie one on;” their last chance for at least a good week to blow off some steam, an opportunity to rehash old war stories, and perhaps even spend a few minutes setting a strategy for dealing with the crowds, the drunks, and the other issues that were better left off log books if that could be helped. Although the staff was primarily self-sufficient with the Captain, Henry, Timpkns, and two relative rookies, Henry was told that the Boat Race week would test his stamina on the little island.

Henry settled in to one of the upstairs ferry seats, preferring the fresh air to the enclosed chairs below. Neither was it lost on him that the alcohol and nachos coupled with the movement of the boat might require him to make a run for it, and the seats upstairs were considerably closer to the outside railing. He had removed his uniform before they had gone out drinking, but it would likely make his fellow boat-riders a little uneasy to watch one of their men in blue hurling on the floor.

He had had a good time tonight with the boys, to his surprise. He even got in a few stories about life on Detroit streets that had them rolling in the proverbial aisles. Most importantly, he got to hear about The Boat Races in greater detail, and learn a little about why this particular week in July was considered the week to be on the island, for vacationers and locals alike.

To the locals, it was a cash cow. The hotels had long been booked out and every house on the island was either rented or filled, mostly with race-supporters who in turn had folks bunking on any bed they could find. The restaurants that required reservations had waiting lists and all extra staff was called in to help. Those eateries and bars that normally didn’t split tips did so on this weekend to encourage as much cooperation in pushing the drinks and servicing the crowd as possible. And they were helped by the numerous sponsoring liquor companies who were only too happy to hawk their latest drink on sparkling new table tents that touted triples for the price of a single.

In a state where lakes are as plentiful as cars, the moniker “Michigan’s Best Boat Party” really means something. For anyone who takes their sailing seriously, it is an event not to be missed.

Started by the Chicago Yacht Club in 1898 when there were only 4 boats in contention, the Race to Mac has attracted thousands and remains one of the greatest endurance races to watch. The previous year, there were over 200 boats competing for one of the coveted awards and many thousands more flocking to the island to toast or commiserate with the winners and losers. The 333 mile Chicago-to-Mackinac Race is one of the longest fresh water boat races in the world, and the list of entrants to the race reads like a who’s who of the rich and famous, all accomplished yachstmen in their own right. To hear the boys pn the force talk about the people who passed through the island over the years, was to understand the importance of being connected to it.

At the 100 year anniversary in 1998, Steve Fossett set the overall race record, completing the course in 18 hours 50 minutes. In 2002 Roy Disney set the monohull record. Even Henry, who didn’t know his port from starboard, recognized those names. There were many others recited to him that he did not recognize, but were equally impressive to those in the nautical know.

Henry learned his job would begin long before the racers hit the island. From the minute the race started in Chicago, reporters, film-makers, and friends, wives and children of the racers would be well-established – and well lubricated -- on the island. The boys knew that until the competitors landed on the island, their work would be mostly during the daytime hours. What there was at night would be centered downtown in the bars and restaurants. As the week wore on and the finishers crossed onto dry land, the drunken sprawl would span all corners of the island. Henry was warned that sleep would not be on the agenda once the crew had landed.

He would sleep tonight, and the next two days, his days off. And he would brace himself for the event of the year, bigger even, and more nationally recognized than that damned Lilac Festival. True to her word, Mary Ann refused to set foot on the island during that festival, but he was hoping he could convince her to come for the races. Not that he would have time to be with her, but she ought to experience it, Henry thought. As the ferry pulled in to the St. Ignace dock, he reminded himself to ask her. He hoped he hadn’t had so many fruity drinks that he would forget.

Mary Ann was waiting for him at the dock. Normally, when she picked him up, they agreed that she would just pull over at the entrance to the pay parking lot and he would walk out and meet her. Tonight – likely fueled by his slurred speech and confession of drunkenness -- she was waiting for him as he disembarked.

“How many fingers am I holding up,” she said, grinning a little.

“Elevendy,” he shot back, kissing her and grabbing her hand. “Will you carry me?” he said, leaning his weight on her. She pushed back.

“Babe, I’ve been carrying you ever since we got married. That’s why there’s only one set of footprints in the sand.”

“The reason there is only one set of footprints in the sand is because you’re a vampire,” he said. They both laughed. He missed his wife and was glad to be home. She was funny and smart and after spending a day on housewife island, it was nice to be with someone who wasn’t simply waiting for his paycheck. Of course, he was a cop, so she wouldn’t have been waiting for much, anyway.

“Um, I’ll let it go that vampires are invisible in mirrors and just go with what for your was a snappy comeback, because you’re cute and you’re drunk. How was your evening?” she asked.

“You know, it was actually pretty good. I had a good time.”

“I’m glad you had a good time. How is everybody in Mayberry? Opie? Aunt Bee? Barney?”

“Well, Otis drank a little too much so we throwed him in the hoos-gow,” said Henry, playing along. They had gotten in the habit of joking a bit about his flimsy police duties, although this week he thought he might actually see some action.

“Did they give you the skinny on the Boat Races?” she asked.

“They did, and you should really come,” Henry said. “It’s actually a 100 year old tradition on the island and it doesn’t come with flowers or people dressing in top hats, or the exploitation of Jamaicans, near as I can tell.”

“I googled it and I think I actually might show up” she said. Perhaps even bring some of the kids from Summer school or a trip. Do you know, some of them have lived her all their lives and never seen the races. It’s a pity, really.”

“Not you, sticking up for the island,” said Henry.

“Don’t worry. Far from it, but it’s what I told my kids back in Detroit; exposure is the thing. Make up your own mind about how you feel about the world, but at least see if for yourself. Anyway, the races have a more historical element to them. I think it’s worth it.” Mary Ann let Henry into the car and got in on the driver’s side, handing him a small Styrofoam cup with a lid on it that was sitting in the car. “Here. Eat.” It was frozen custard.

“Have I told you lately that I love you?” he said, tucking in to the cup.

“Not nearly enough,” she replied, pulling out of the parking lot.

Henry spent the 10 minute drive from the dock to their home filling her in on the various matters they had discussed during their drink-fest. There would be a lot of money being tossed around and lots of betting. So long as it wasn’t blatantly out in the open, they were to ignore it. He was also advised to largely ignore the pot smoke from private residences where there were adults present. Not that the cops approved of this sort of thing, but unless there were kids out of control, it simply wasn’t worth going in. If they did find something, they’d have to do an arrest and during the races, no telling whose son, cousin, or wife you might be cuffing up. Things could get sticky. Keeping the peace was the watchword. The tiny holding cells they called a jail would be used as a drunk tank if needed, so they didn’t really want any unnecessary arrests going on.

Many of the locals who didn’t spend the entire summer on the island would certainly be up for the big weekend. Henry was warned that some of the old time families needed to be treated with kid gloves. They were heavy partyers, many of them, and would not be in the bars, bur rather hosting giant shindigs in their homes. The parties tended to get loud and owing to the hot nights, were rarely confined to the indoors. Neighboring homes that were occupied by locals or regulars would not be a problem, but the odd rental family that was expecting quiet so their newborn could sleep or so they could spend the evening listening to the crickets would be in for a surprise and would likely call police. It was a delicate balance, trying to keep from alienating newcomers while trying to persuade the older revelers that perhaps they could keep it down. Just a little.

“I see,” said Mary Ann. “So essentially, the boat races are the Midwestern version of the Bohemian Grove, huh? Sort of drunken debauchery for the rich, where the cops are just babysitters.”

“Something like that,” he said, grinning. She made it sound so, so unsavory, but in talking to the boys it seemed fairly natural.

The Rockports, the Grunds, the Merriweathers, the Greens, to name a few, were all in the habit of getting rip-roaring drunk and cranking up whatever it was that could be cranked. Music, food, alcohol, drugs, it was all done in excess this week and it was to be expected and generally ignored, if it was a prominent family.

“What? Is there some secret handshake that all these privileged assholes are going to give you so you can tell them apart from just a regular asshole?” asked his wife, turning into their driveway. He wasn’t sure by Mary Ann’s tone whether she was playing along with him or was little annoyed, but was too tipsy to care if his stories were upsetting her. He was enjoying himself.

“Sort of. It’s more of a look, you might call it privileged racial profiling,” he laughed. “Only we single them out so that we don’t actually beat the crap out of them. Actually, the boys were giving me tips on how to spot the ones who were hands off. Evidently, they’re pretty good at spotting the untouchables,” he said.

“Inquiring minds want to know,” she said, leading Henry into the house. He was happy to be home, spinning though he was, and in proximity to his wife and his favorite chair, which at the current moment, was looking better than his wife. Perhaps she wasn’t going to get lucky tonight after all. He was bushed, and practically fell into the down cushions.

“Well, for the men, loafers without socks worn with expensive ironed shorts and a button down shirt,” said Henry. “They say it’s almost like there’s a manual of how to dress wealthy.”

“Doesn’t everyone wear that?” asked Mary Ann.

“Apparently not. Anyway, they were trying to describe this sort of ‘swagger’ to me. They said it will become clear when I see it. One woman described it like the men walk as if they were on a runway, sticking out their chests a little. Evidently, you can’t miss it.”

“And this is your cue? Are they trying to spot the wealthy or the wealthy homosexual?” asked Mary Ann from the kitchen. She was making the two of them iced tea.

“Hell if I know. Anyway, it makes me marvel that these island cops can spot the subtle body language of a rich guy, but they can’t tell when a drug deal is going down when it’s right in front of them,” said Henry, accepting an icy glass from his wife. “I saw this young guy walk up to this Jamaican guy in what was so obviously a handoff. In Detroit, it wouldn’t even have been a good handoff. Anyway, I pointed it out to Timpkins and he thought I was a genius.”

“Did you make an arrest?”

“No, evidently, the kid was a legacy, you know, son-of-wealth? Anyway, we let it go, but after that, every time the boys saw a white kid and a Jamaican together, they’d look hard.”

“How racist is that?”

“Well, it’s not that far-fetched on this island. Seems weird, I know, but there is really very little interaction between the Jamaicans and anyone else who works there. It’s too bad, too, because they are such great people. So different from Americans, so open and forgiving,” he said, pressing the cool glass against his forehead. “Anyway, you get to know some of them, and after awhile it’s pretty clear what’s going on. They’ve got runners and stuff, but like I say, this isn’t Detroit. Cops up here aren’t really accustomed to how it’s done and people are pretty sloppy. Anyway, if a Jamaican is talking to a white guy on the island that he doesn’t work for and the Jamaican doesn’t point to a bathroom or a store within 10 seconds, there’s something up.”

“And you’ve proven this how exactly,” she asked, an air of doubt in her voice.

“Mary Ann, I’m bored out of my fucking mind most days. I follow hunches here and there, I look in old files, police reports, stuff like that. I’m telling you, any rookie on the force in Detroit would sniff these boys out in a minute. It. Is. So. Obvious.”

“Do you think there’s some form of cover-up going on?” Mary Ann suddenly sat up straight. “Oh no…… Oh, shit! You don’t think you stepped out of the frying pan and right into the fire again, do you?” she asked, recalling the whole reason they were in Mackinac in the first place.

“No, nothing like that. These cops aren’t corrupt. At least I haven’t seen an indication of that. I just think it goes back to exposure. In the first place, the captain just hasn’t had exposure to the drug world and he’s not a detective, and in the second, you know, he just wants a place where people can spend a nice summer. I think he doesn’t want to see bigger problems, and in some ways, I guess I don’t blame him. I mean, the place is a national park. If they can’t keep it running it shuts down. I think the drugs is part of the underground economy on the island.”

“Well, I never thought I’d see the day when you thought it was OK to deal.”

“I don’t. I really don’t. I hate this shit. You know how I feel about what it does to families. You know how I feel. Shit, I got fired more or less for how I feel about corruption and drugs. It’s just, I don’t know, Mary Ann. Sometimes I think the place needs to be burned to the ground, and other times I think that we owe these Jamaicans this. I know that sounds weird, but it’s like having a different perspective. I mean, I’m completely positive Jack Walker is getting a little bit of action on the island, but I know it probably makes it possible for him to cater to his customs folks who get him the visas for the Negril natives to come here. Take him down and it’s like, like a house of cards,” he said, recalling the captains very words on their first day.

“OK, wait. You mean, the straight-laced Midwestern goober we had dinner with? The one with the pinch-faced wife?”

“The very same,” said Henry. He told her about the meetings he’d seen Jack have with a Jamaican named Jujee who seemed always to be moving around from job to job for Jack. Other Jamaicans worked the kitchen or the golf course or on the grounds crew for the whole summer, but Jujee seemed always to be where the action was, running errands for Jack. There were other little tells, body language being the key, and late night encounters in strange places on the island, personal deliveries to this or that home. And a lot of cash being thrown about by a black man who should have been holding onto every penny.

He might have talked to the captain about it, but he suspected that no one on the force would ever work actively to tarnish Jack’s reputation. Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was make enemies on this tiny force. Moreover, if Jack were smart, and Henry suspected he was, the only one who would go down would be Jujee. According to his friend Miiga, Jujee was a leader in the community and took care of the old ladies. Since Henry wasn’t sure where his investigation would lead and didn’t want to hurt the very people he intended to protect, it was probably best just to let it go. For everyone involved including himself, he really couldn’t afford to do anything.

“OK, I hear you,” said his wife. This is all very Follet. I’ll reserve judgment on that, but I want more details about this weekend. Spill.”

Henry sipped his tea, sobered up, and talked about having to stay on the island most of the time because they would be running back-to-back shifts. He talked about the tips the officers got, evidently, a huge perk to supplement their meager salaries. Being in the right place at the right time could land you a 100.00 just for being a cop. Men in various states of inebriation would thank the “men in uniform” just for being there. Also, for some of the more popular private parties, an off-duty cop could make a nice chunk of change serving as a bouncer of sorts. Finally, keeping tabs on the locations of certain island gentry and helping them home without a word to their wives might warrant a nice Ben Franklin or two.

He talked about the booze companies setting up shop at various bars, and the country store clearing whole aisles to stack the cases of alcohol that would be sold on the island. He told her about the famous racers who bring along entire entourages of adoring fans. It would be an exciting weekend. A chance, for once, for him to have something to do, anyway, besides read old police reports and help search for bad guys fabricated by Mrs. Havers.

“What about prostitutes? They get a pass, too?” she asked. “Not that I care either way, just wondering if you were going to extend the same rights to concubines as you sound like you will to their clients.”

“Who said anything about prostitutes?”

“Oh, come on, Henry. Where there are men without their wives, privilege, money, drugs and alcohol, there are definitely prostitutes.”

In fact, there were prostitutes, men and women both, who flew in from New York, Chicago, San Francisco, and other places to take advantage of a very lucrative 5 days. Certain hotels, those on the island that were farther out and not subject to high traffic, were known to cater to them, charging 3-4 times their daily rate and turning a blind eye to any tell-tale signs that unsavory activity was going on.

According to the officers, the clientele who came and went through the makeshift dens of iniquity read like the who’s who of the financial and political world. There would be an arrest or two on the island for solicitation, but they were designed to disparage as few big names as possible. Often, the tip-offs came from Jack Walker himself. That way, they could be sure the bust would provide the appropriate deterrence message without actually ensnaring someone who might take down the island. In reviewing the police logs from about 5 years years back, he saw that Dick Grund had been arrested once for prostitution. He figured that meant Dick wasn’t as important has he thought he was, which pleased Henry.

“Well, it seems like you have your work cut out for you although it sounds more like strategic politicking that strategic police work, if you ask me,” said Mary Ann.

“I think that’s probably right.”

“Well, how was the rest of your day? Did you see your girlfriend?”

“I did,” said Henry, smiling. He and Mary Ann had taken to calling Miiga his girlfriend. Over the past few weeks, they had managed to “meet” several times and had developed a sort of clandestine friendship on the library deck. It was the respite he needed from the place, and he sometimes stopped by the library several times in a day hoping he would catch her. He loved hearing about the community that without her, he would only know from the outside. She was careful, he knew, not to betray the confidences or deep secrets of her people and he never fished for information (he had been tempted when she talked a few times about Jujee, but he let it go, not wanting to accidentally trap her in something for which she was otherwise not involved). Still, he had learned more than he ever expected and had gained a true admiration for them. It was part of what was coloring his opinion of the underground economy of the place.

“I see. And did she bring you any goodies?” asked Mary Ann. Henry knew his wife was hoping that he would bring home some of the ginger cake he brought back last week. She had asked about it almost daily since then. He had to admit, it was damn good.

“Candied mango. Mmmmmmmm,” said Henry.

“Fork it over.”

Henry reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic baggie containing what was left of the candied Mango Miiga had brought him that afternoon. It was sweet and chewy and had been dusted with a layer of salt, which gave it a bit of a sour bite to it in the beginning. Henry learned that for the most part, the Jamaicans didn’t participate in the largess of the Boat Races. Although they too were working triple shifts at the various restaurants and bars, bussing tables, washing dishes, and prepping food, they were sometimes forgotten when it was time to divvy up the spoils. At some bars, tip-pooling was mandatory and was divided by the managers. In those cases, the Jamaicans got their due, but Miiga told Henry that there would be much complaining at the end of the weekend when they came together at the Dome to talk about who got what.

She would be working the entire weekend, she told him, and so wasn’t likely to be spending any time between now and next Monday at the library deck. Mrs. Grund would be at her mother’s place, the old Grund Mansion, because Mr. Grund always had a big party that went on all night. She and the cook, Marlene, would be working the whole weekend, and except for the occasional visit to the grocery store to restock, would pretty much be tethered to her employer. She had given him the mango to tide him over, but promised him that she would again bring some ginger cake after things calmed down.

“Have you found a way to, you know, help that girl?” his wife asked.

“Not yet. I went to the clinic and asked about her mother. I was told that there was a record of her, but I would have to get a court order or permission from the family to view it. They did give me a date on it, and it was the same year she would have gotten pregnant, but what could it have said?”

“Probably not a lot, but then, why would they force you to get a court order?”

“That’s par for the course, honey. You always have to get a court order, even to view a hangnail,” said Henry, reaching over to take a piece of the candied mango his wife was hording.

“Well, it sure is coincidental that she would go to the hospital that year and no other year. And after 25 years, it wouldn’t hurt to tell you, you know, orally, what was in the record. Why would they be so obstinate?”

“Mary Ann, you’re the privacy maven. How would you like it if your records from 25 years ago were given out just because some yahoo doctor thought it would be OK?” asked Henry. He resented the insinuation on his part that he hadn’t tried hard enough.

“Touche. You’re right. Still, I bet it’s something. Maybe she knew she was pregnant and was trying to get an abortion. Or maybe she had VD or something. In fact, it's likely she had VD. Didn’t you say she died of liver cancer?”

“Yeah, what does that have to do with an abortion? And anyway, we know she didn’t get one since Miiga is around.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with an abortion, but it could have something to do with VD. I mean, this is sort of a longshot, but this issue popped up when I was teaching out in that school in East Detroit,” said Mary Ann. “I can’t remember if it’s Hep A or Hep B. Wait, let me Google it. Be right back.” She got up and left Henry to his tea.

“Found it!” Mary Ann came back and pushed a freshly printed piece of paper in front of his face. “See, right here. If you have Hepatitis B and it’s left untreated, it can cause liver cancer. There was a young girl in my class. Knew she had Hep and got pregnant. Anyway, I helped her research it. Maybe Miiga's mom went to the doctor that summer because something was wrong and she knew she had Hep. Maybe she knew she was pregnant, let's say, and she didn't want to infect the baby. I don't know.”

“Maybe, but maybe she didn't know she was pregnant. And maybe she just had liver cancer. And Maybe she died of liver cancer without getting Hep B. Maybe she went to the clinic to get cream for a rash. Maybe she got a case of poison ivy. Maybe she got a fuckin’ bee sting. It could have been anything, and anyway, it doesn’t matter since I can’t see the record.” Henry though the issue was moot at this point.

“I still say that it’s odd that she went in the year she was pregnant and no other year. And I know the Hep thing is a longshot, but I'm just telling you what I know. Didn't you say you interviewed some guy who had hep here on the island? Maybe this island is a regular typhoid community.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” said Henry. “But I don’t know where it’s going to lead us. And I don’t know how it could help Miiga if her father’s not listed. And I can’t believe he is.”

“Well, for one thing, this article says that 90% of babies who are born to mothers infected with Hep B will contract it. What if Miiga has never been treated? Don’t you think you owe it to her to find out?”

“I think that’s getting a little personal. She may have it and not have told me because she was embarrassed. She is sort of a shy girl, Mary Ann. I was the one at fault for her telling me she was conceived on the island in the first place. I made this stupid comment about the color of her skin and I think she thought I was fishing. You know, like I knew that she was a bastard child, but wasn’t saying anything. I feel pretty bad about that.”

Mary Ann was laying the pressure on. Surely there was a way he could get to the records without alerting Miiga. Could he fabricate a police investigation, maybe? Could he sneak in when no one was looking and try to find the report? Didn’t he how it to this poor girl to find out if her health was in danger. Even if her father’s records were not contained in Vanessa’s medical report, wasn’t this child’s health more important than her dead mother’s privacy.

He had tried other venues, including going back to the files at the station to see if there was anything in 1979 that he could dig up. Problem was, things were only kept for 15 years in the Mackinac building. Records older than that were shipped out to Mackinaw City, to the archives building. He could probably grab a pass and go look, but that seemed like too much trouble, and besides, unless there was a criminal element associated with the event, which he doubted, then nothing would be in the records anyway.

He really felt he had done all he could do for Miiga. He had suggested to Miiga directly that she might be able to waive her mother’s rights, or than her father could do it, but he had added that it might be a lot of work for her to find out that her mother had a yeast infection. He recalled that she had reacted with non-chalance, as if her original admission was not longer important and she had turned a corner on the matter. He had not wanted to stir the pot more. This, however, was not his wife’s position. After a verbal pummeling containing all the reasons that he should check out the records, he agreed to at least take a look in Mackinaw City.

“You do understand that I have to take one of my day’s off to do this little sleuthing project, don’t you? I have to drive all the way to Mackinaw City, fill out a bunch of forms, and sift through a lot of records to find nothing, don’t you?” he said, hoping for sympathy. He got none.


“Oh be quiet,” his wife said. “First of all, it’s probably the most interesting police work you’ve done in years, and second of all, if there’s an injustice here, then you should be the one to correct it.”

“You know I won’t find anything, most likely,” he said.

“I know, but then you can say that you exhausted all avenues. It’ll be up to Miiga to take it from there. You said yourself that you were fond of this girl. Do the right thing.”

“And what do I get for going on this snipe hunt?” he asked.

“You just might get lucky tonight,” she said, smiling and grabbing his hand to pull him up from his chair. “And you know, whether you do or don’t find anything, you can at least tell her to go to the clinic and have herself tested for Hepatitis. Just say that you found some link to liver cancer with Hep B.”

“OK, that sounds reasonable. Now if I have to get up at the buttcrack of dawn, I better go to bed.”

The next morning, Henry drove over to Mackinaw City, the last mainland stop before Mackinac Island. People coming from another state usually somehow got to Detroit, and then took a tiny prop plane to Pellston, then a cab ride to Mackinaw City, and a boat to the island itself. Mackinaw City was a dressed up version of St. Ignace, with more fudge and ice cream shops to accommodate the tourists who passed through. Given the number of motels, Henry guessed that many tourists preferred the cheaper accommodations across the lake. So long as one didn’t miss the last 8pm ferry, a family could save a $100.00 a day staying in the little lackluster town of Mackinaw City.

The Mackinaw City Police Station was easy to find, situated in the Village’s small center, next to city hall and other municipalities, like the water/sewer, electric company, the Emmet county clerk, and Village Treasurer. The department employed 5 full time officers, 2 part-time officers, and a parking enforcement officer, so it’s numbers were just slightly higher than on the island, but the area they covered was considerably larger. Their small numbers were in large part due to the sleepiness of the town, and the fact that in cars, they could cover a considerable amount of ground faster than they could on the island.

Henry had never met any of the officers from Mackinaw City, but he gathered from talk around the island that there was some tension between them and his small crew, as if the Mackinaw City officers were resentful of the status. One whiff on a 90 degree day would have put that to rest, thought Henry, as he walked up the steps. A large sign warned tourists not to ask for souvenirs:

The Mackinaw City Police Department does not
participate in swapping patches with other agencies/entities/individuals.
If you are a police officer and would like to purchase a shoulder
patch from the department, please visit our office (102 South Huron)
with valid departmental identification. The costs are $10.00
for a regular size patch and $5.00 for a small patch.

Instinctively, he went to the public release file, to check on the crime statistics. In the last week, not traffic crashes, no B&E’s, no larceny, no civil disputes, 2 Malicious destruction of property (some kids, thought Henry), and 3 arrests. There was one report in the file entitled “suspicious incident.” Reading it made Henry laugh at its triviality:

On June 1, officers received a report of a female being abducted near the Crossings. The victim stated that she had been taken, against her will, to a wooded area south of town and left to walk through the woods. After interviewing the victim officers found that she had fabricated the story for personal reasons. As the victim initially reported this to the Cheboygan County Sheriff's Department the incident was turned over to them for prosecution of filing a false police report.

In Detroit, something like that would never have made it to the police log, or if it had, it would have been long buried by this time. Here, it was big news. Overall, things were quiet, although, like his tiny island across the water, there was a busyness about the place: people were gearing up for the heavy traffic from the Race to Mac, the overflow from which would hit Mackinaw City, including the public drunkenness, made worse by the fact that folks could drive cars on this side of Michigan.

Henry walked up to a seasoned clerk who peered at him over her glasses. Like most in this part of Michigan, effusiveness was not her hallmark. “May I help you?” she asked and he reached her. Henry pulled out his badge and handed it out to her.

“Henry Botner, over in Mackinac Island,” he said, putting back his badge after she nodded, and holding out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“How are you?” she said flatly. “What can I do for you, Officer Botner. Someone you hear to see?”

“No, actually. I’d like to get a look at the archives, if I could. I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead of time,” but I thought I’d stop in on my day off, so I wouldn’t loose any work time.”

“Well, there’s no one to take you back right now,” she said, not looking up from her filing. “Everyone is out on patrol and I’m here at the front desk. Is there something in particular you’re looking for? A case, perhaps? I’m pretty sure that we don’t have any Mac files for any recent years. I think those are still on the island. How far back you lookin’ for?”

“1979,” he said.

“Wow, 1979?” It was the first time Henry heard anything close to an emotion come from the woman. “That is a long time ago. Only thing that hasn’t passed the statute of limitations by now is murder, and I don’t recall a murder since I’ve worked here,” said the woman.

“And how long is that? Because looking at you I’d say you weren’t long out of college,” Henry said, winking at the older woman still peering at him over her glasses. She smiled briefly and then collected herself.

“Please. Save that butter for your toast,” she said, but Henry could see she was visibly pleased. “I’ve sat at this desk for 38 years. That long enough for you?”

“I’d never believe it,” said Henry. “Well, I’m not investigating anything as serious as a murder. In fact, I doubt there’s any police report at all. Just trying to help a woman find her father, that’s all. On the off-chance that there might be some information in the files, I thought I’d check.”

“Well, if you don’t mind sittin’ right there to look at the files, I can have Sharon go pull them for you. Can’t be much. Never is coming from Mackinac Island. Whole year’s worth can fit in a banker’s box or two most years. Normally, we’d let you go in the conference room there, but see, somebody’s got to be present while you review the files. Protocol, you know.”

“I understand.”

“Anyway, I don’t suppose it would hurt for your to review them out there, if you don’t mind being out in the open. Doesn’t sound like too big a deal.”

“I’m happy to take that desk,” said Henry. “And I’m sure I’ll be out of your hair in no time. Like I say, it’s a real longshot I’ll find anything anyway.”

“Sharon!” the clerk motioned to a young woman who was busy laying out DARE brochures on a table. “Sharon, go get the Mackinac Island archive files for – what year did you say? 79?” Henry nodded. The girl disappeared down the hall and out of sight.

“79 . . . 79 . . . let’s see. That was a big year on the island. Lots going on. Could be more than a banker’s box that year, actually. That was the year that “Somewhere in Time”’ was filmed on the island. Have you seen it?”

“I can’t say that I have,” said Henry, embarrassed that he still had not managed to make it to the Grand for the weekly showing of the movie.

“Well, I did. Pure Rubbish,” she said, lowering her voice slightly. “I don’t know what the big deal is about that movie, but I can’t believe the thing ever made a penny.”

“Police had their hands full, did they?” asked Henry.

“No, just a bunch of gawkers at the movie stars, that’s all. Anyway, there was that going on, and let’s see. Oh yes, the Pilot’s something-or-other annual meeting was that year. Sounded like World War III all those planes coming in over us. Oh, and there was that guy, Mussers or something, who bought the Grand that year. Still owns it, I think. That’s about all I can remember,” she said.

“Well, you certainly have a memory for detail. Anything else happen that you recall, anything worth writing a mystery novel about?” he said.

“Not as I recall, no. The place is beautiful, I’ll give you that, but dull dull dull. Me, I like the hustle and bustle of goings on here,” she said. “Did you see our log book? Crazy.”

Sharon came out with 4 boxes stacked on a hand truck.

“I guess it was a busy year,” said the woman whom Henry had nick-named “Agnes” in his head (her name tag was obscured by a giant silk rose pinned to her shirt). Sharon wheeled the documents over to an empty desk in the common area behind the counter and motioned Henry to let himself in through the entry on the left.

“Let me know if you need to use the photocopy machine or something,” she said, and went back to her pile of papers.

The Detroit PD had gone “computer” some time ago, but he imagined now that if it had not, the number of boxes it would take to store a year’s worth of police reports would have filled the room. 4 boxes was nothing. On the other hand, it would have been nice to use a searchable database instead of having to sift through a bunch of papers that, in all likelihood, no one figured would ever been looked at again when they stored them. He settled himself in and opened the first box.

Henry was amused to discover that the reports 26 years ago looked fairly similar to those they were keeping today. Suspicious activities, public drunkenness, and the like. “Agnes” had been right about the filming, and there were a number of incidents surrounding that. Power outages due to overloads based on some of the filming equipment, over-zealous Christopher Reeve fans getting a little too close to the star, and the like. She’d also been correct about the planes. In 1979 the Pilot Lawyer’s Association held their annual meeting at the Grand Hotel. The old bird was batting a thousand, which probably meant he would find nothing of interest that year that she hadn’t already listed.

By the third box, Henry could fairly well predict the types of calls the officers were having and when. In some ways, he’d wished he had thought to really vett the archives at the office earlier; they provided a real flavor for what his police work would be. It fairly accurately mirrored his present duties, and he even recognized some of the characters by name, including Mrs. Havers.

Then he saw something. He read the report carefully. Then he read it again:

June 29, 1979. 9:38pm: Call received by dispatch from Dr. M. Bontemps, resident on duty at the Mackinac Medical Center, relating to possible sexual assault of Jamaican female, Vanessa Robins, 20 years of age, brought in for examination by her brother. Dr. reported apparent psychological trauma, severe bruising and vaginal lacerations consistent with forcible rape. Subsequent interview with victim at clinic was unsuccessful in producing an identification of possible suspect. Interview with brother, S. Owen identified Richard Grund, Jr. 25, as attacker. 10:59 pm: Initial interview with suspect Grund conducted in home at 3 Bridle Road. Suspect identified victim as housekeeper, but denied having intercourse with victim. Refused swab test, but voluntarily agreed to interview at station following day (see, audio tape #0679 – Grund1). Items collected: victim’s bed clothing, clothing of suspect.

June 30, 1979. 8:30am: Recorded audio session #0679) Suspect admits to being under the influence during night in question and claims he has no memory of any events the preceding day. (Victim refuses to name attacker). Search of Grund home, pursuant to lawfully obtained warrant, reveals no additional evidence reasonably connecting Grund to assault. 2:55pm: Visit to Jamaican bunkhouse known as “dome,” where victim has been moved. Brother insistent that Grund is perpetrator, but subsequent interview with victim not forthcoming. She maintains refusal to name attacker.

July 15, 1979. Blood analysis of underpants and clothing worn by victim reveals only victim’s blood. Semen retained for later analysis, sent to Quantico Lab (dev: 19384-926). 2:50pm: Second Interview with Suspect (see, audio tape #0779 – Grund2). Grund represented by counsel, present at interview, admits to having sex with victim, but says sex was consensual. Maintains no memory of event. Victim unavailable, has flown back to Jamaica. Contacted through Interpol. Refuses to acknowledge any sex or identify attacker. Officer relates that Suspect has admitted to sex. Victim continues refusal to discuss matter or name attacker.

August 1, 1979. Dispatcher receives anonymous report from female pointing to Suspect Richard Grund as victim’s attacker. Subsequent visit to Suspect for third interview requested. Officers told by Suspect’s mother that suspect is resident at a alcohol recovery center out of state. Notes that suspect has “black-outs” due to alcohol addiction. Anonymous caller remains unidentified.


There were some photographs in the file, including a few of Vanessa Robins, who was immediately recongnizable as Miiga’s mother, from the pictures that Miiga had shown Henry. The officer who did the investigation was a young sergeant at the time, John Fish. It did not appear from the file that Dick Grund had ever been arrested on the case. He could ask the captain himself, but wondered if he might be setting off a firestorm. Just to be sure, he asked Agnes to pull the files for the subsequent years.

In 1979, DNA testing and analysis was not available, which accounted for the lack of scientific evidence. Of course, Grund had admitted to the sex, so there was no additional need to identify the semen. It was a matter of he said-she said and it didn’t appear that Vanessa was willing to testify.

Although the statute of limitations had long run on the case, Henry remembered that while he was on the Detroit force, a flurry of rape cases had been brought for crimes committed years ago. He had even testified in a couple of them and they had brought convictions. The cases had been brought by the DA pursuant to a 2001 state law that allowed a prosecutor to prosecute any rape case if DNA evidence was found that linked a perpetrator to a crime. The statute of limitations would restart pursuant to the discovery of the new evidence. Surely, Miiga herself was walking breathing DNA evidence of Dick Grund’s paternity, and maybe Stedley would be willing to testify. Of course, maybe no rape had taken place after all. Maybe the trauma that was identified by Dr. Bontemps was shame or guilt on Vanessa’s part. Maybe she liked it rough. Henry had seen his share of double lives being led.

Henry was a little dazed. He had only made the trip to appease his wife, to assure her that nothing was in the files. Neither of them had expected what he found. He didn’t know what to do. He sat there, trying to decipher the information, now running like a freight train, through his head. It was all so surreal, sitting there in the quietude of a small-town police department. Somewhere in the background din he heard phones ringing and people talking about this or that event, people going about their business as he sat there digesting what he read.

Things began to fall into place for Henry, while other things got cloudier. He now understood why Vanessa had never identified her daughter’s father, but he couldn’t understand why Miiga would work for the very man who raped her mother. Stranger still, if Dr. Bontemps was Margaret Grund’s father, how could he let his own daughter marry someone capable of such inhumanity? Something was strange about all of this. He wanted to call the captain, since it was he who did the investigation all those years ago, but he wasn’t sure if he could get any help from him. On the one hand, Timpkins didn’t appear to like Dick, and he had mentioned the Cap didn’t much like Dick, but Timpkins had also said he didn’t remember why. Maybe the Cap’s hands were tied in a way Henry couldn’t know. Maybe that was the reason he hated the man so much. Henry would have to go this one alone, at least for the time being.

“All done?” Agnes looked at him as he replaced the box tops on the boxes and restacked them on the hand truck.

“Yes, thanks.”

“Find Anything?”

“Uh, not really. But it was a nice walk down memory lane.”

“Didn’t think you would,” she said. “Mackinac’s not known for its intrigue.”

Henry managed a weak smile and walked down the stairs. He had investigated a number of sexual assaults back in Detroit before he was moved to the Gang Unit Division. They had all been difficult, but now, he felt the air had left his lungs. Walking into the heat, he found it hard to breathe. His friend, his little Miiga. How could he tell her what he knew. He couldn’t.

But there were more unanswered questions that answered ones now. He had to work them out. Even if he never told Miiga, he had to unravel this whole thing, if only for its own sake. He needed to understand how things had gotten so twisted in this story and on that island.

There were other people still around besides the captain who might be able to Shed light on the situation. Stedley. Stedley would know. He had never met the man, but he felt like the time was right. And Dick Grund himself, if he could figure out a way to get information from him. Maybe he would talk to Henry, maybe he would let his guard down since it was so long ago and Henry was new. Maybe.

Henry drove his car over to Shepler’s to catch the ferry back to the island. He was not in the habit of being on the island when he wasn’t working. In fact, the last time he was there out of uniform (besides yesterday) was when he and Mary Ann had been invited to dinner by Jack Walker. He didn’t like the place, much as he tried, and despite its intrinsic beauty, and so he spent as little time there as possible.

He boarded the ferry and sat back in the chair to take in the information he had just discovered. He wanted to make a logical story out of the whole thing, but so many pieces didn’t fit. He let the air hit his face and allowed the noise of the inboard motors drown out his thoughts. Poor Miiga. She had never known her father – and now he realized she could never know him, at least not like other daughters. And her mother – she had lost her mother to . . . to . . .

“Oh God,” he said out loud. “Oh, God. He killed her. He fucking killed her.” Henry sat staring into the white wake created by the ferry’s break. Mary Ann had been right. He recalled his conversation with Dick a couple of weeks earlier. The remnants of misspent youth, he had said. A bad needle in a tattoo shop. This asshole. This asshole had committed the ultimate crime and he was never going to be held accountable. He hadn’t only raped her, but he had killed Vanessa and no one was going to hold him accountable.

An anger and a hatred began to wash over him, slowly, like oozing honey, thick and strong. He almost didn’t want to know the rest of truth at this point. It didn’t matter. Who could he tell? How could he make amends for what this man had done? How do you give a child her mother back?

He stared at the water as the ferry pushed toward Mackinac, hoping that he would never get there; that the ferry would somehow take a detour and land him in a place where rich men didn’t use their power to get away with things for which the rest of the world had to stand trial. Henry was going to make him pay. He wasn’t quite sure how, but he was sure that this man needed to pay. He would be on him until he found something. It would be his life’s work if he had to make it so.

The boat pulled into the dock and Henry walked off, heading in the direction of the Jockey Club, the place where Miiga had told him Stedley was working. At this point, there was no need to get the records from the hospital, but still he had to know things. What he read in the file and what he knew to be fact were irreconcilable, in some cases, and he had to straighten out his world.

It was terribly hot, but Henry didn’t feel the heat today. He didn’t smell the lilac and fudge mingling as he walked past the stores. He didn’t even notice the sting of the manure as the horses clopped along beside and past him. He was at once sickened, excited, depressed, driven, hopeful, frightened. He wanted to talk to Stedley. Doubtless he was the “brother” on the report. He wanted to know the real story and whether they could do something. Whether he could do something. He wanted to help.

It occurred to him in this moment that Stedley could very easily be off duty, or not want to talk, or be too busy to talk. Where would he go then? Would he have taken this trip for nothing? Shit. Why didn’t he have the good sense to call? He could have called from the station so easily and made an appointment. But his adrenaline was high and he was caught in the moment. Please be there, Stedley, he thought.

Stedley was at the Jockey Club. A worker asked Henry to wait at one of the tables outside while he went in the find him. He generally worked the evening shift, but he was in the back taking inventory, washing the rubber hotline mats, and making the schedule for the coming week. The days before the Race to Mackinac began, there was a quiet, steady flow of activity. Shelves were restocked, premium liquors were added to the well, and waiters were jockeyed around to make sure that the staff was prepared for the onslaught of tourists and home-comers that would infiltrate the island, an no one knew better how to manage the flow of the Race to Mac than Stedley.

Henry saw him emerge from the building and walk toward the tables where Henry was sitting. He was a man of average build and age; Henry guessed he was close to 50, though he could have passed for late 30’s. His hair was cropped tightly and he was clean-shaven, with a strong walk and gentle eyes. When Henry caught his eye, he gave a huge wide smile; the smile of a well-trained host, Henry thought: warm and open, just as he had come to expect from the Jamaicans.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said to Henry, holding out his hand. “I’m the manager here. How can I help you?” There was a noticeable lack of strong Jamaican patois. Althought Henry could make out that he was from the West Indies, his accent was greatly reduced. He guessed it was from the 30-something years Stedley had spent working the crowds here.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Henry Botner, I . . . I’m a pol . . . I’m a friend of Miiga’s.” Henry watched Stedley’s eyes brighten and the wide grin return.

“Oh, how very nice. How do you know my Miiga?”

“Well, it’s a funny thing, I guess,” said Henry. I, we met on the library deck. I eat lunch there and she’s often there reading a book. We struck up a conversation one day and, well, she’s just a lovely person. And she speaks so highly of you.”

“Well, that’s nice, yes. Miiga is a lovely person. It’s nice to meet you. Did she tell you to stop by? Please, let me get you something. An iced tea, perhaps?”

“Oh, well, only if you’ll join me. Do you have a few minutes?”

“For a friend of Miiga’s, of course. Please sit. I’ll be right back with two glasses of iced tea. Stedley quickly disappeared back into the club leaving Henry by himself again.

This was it; where the rubber met the road, Henry thought. He searched for the words he would say. He wanted to approach this gingerly, but how does one ask the questions he was about to ask in a delicate way? How does one talk about a rape with decorum. He didn’t know. So he just sat, hoping the words would come once he opened his mouth. If they didn’t, well, maybe that was a sign, too, and at least he would know.

Two minutes later, Stedley returned with the iced tea and say it and himself down with Henry. “So, tell me, do you work the island, too?” He was so genuine in his manner, Henry now regretted that he hadn’t told him he was a cop right from the start. Now it looked as if he was hiding something.

“Well, yes, I’m one of the new police officers on the small force here,” he said, looking at Stedley to see if his face gave away anything in reaction. Nothing. “Actually, it’s kind of funny. The first day I was on the island, I wasn’t watching where I was going and I ran smack into Miiga. Knocked her flat, just about 200 feet from here.” He smiled.

“Was that you? I remember that. I was workin’ but the kids teased her awful about that.” Stedley let out a big laugh that made Henry feel comfortable again. Stedley didn’t seem to be intimidated by Henry’s presence, which made Henry immediately like him. In the few minutes that they had spent together, it was clear that Stedley was comfortable with who he was, which he suspected would make it easier to bring up what he was about to bring up.

“Well, I have grown quite fond of her, and I must tell you, my wife and I look forward to the occasions when she brings us some Jamaican food.” The statement was true in all respects, but he felt that he ought to slip his wife into the mix, just so Stedley didn’t get the wrong idea.

“Yes, Miiga is very kind. And you like Jamaican food? Well, that is nice, too. You must come down to Negril sometime and visit us. There you will get real Jamaican food.” He smiled at Henry. There were only so many times they could talk about their fondness for Miiga, and only so many discussion about food they could have before things got awkward, so Henry took a deep breath and began.

“Well, I do hope to come down someday, it seems like a beautiful island. But I guess I should tell you that I’m not just here to introduce myself,” Henry said, after a brief pause. Stedley looked confused. “Oh, I’m not here in an official capacity, Stedley, please don’t worry about that. It’s . . . I’m here as a friend of Miiga’s. She’s not in trouble or anything . . . I’m not quite sure how to bring this up, Stedley, so you’ll forgive me if I stumble through this. Just know that I’m here out of my fondness for your niece.”

“We have a saying in Jamaica: ‘a trembling voice is a sign of sincerity and courage.’ Please, tell me what’s on your mind?” The smile was still there. Henry knew he would not expect what was coming.

“I was going through some old police records, looking for some, well, it’s not important,” he lied. Surely he couldn’t say that Miiga had wanted to know her father’s identity. He swallowed and kept going. “Anyway, I read through the records for 1979, and well, I imagine you know what I found.”

“Sir?” The wide smile had left Stedley’s face, but he was not unpleasant.

“I, well, I read a police record about a rape investigation, and I’ve put two and two together. I am fairly certain that the record has to do with Miiga’s mother, and that you were, well, with her on the island when this happened.”

“I don’t understand. Why are you asking me about this? Has something come up?”

“No, oh gosh, no, it’s . . . I . . . I’m just horrified that this happened. There’s nothing official, it’s just me. I . . . I . . . want to do right by Miiga. I want justice for her. I am so very sorry for this. The police records don’t appear to show an arrest. In fact, the police records show that the man we questioned back then is the very person Miiga’s working for now. I don’t understand that; how that could happen. There are a lot of things I don’t understand about this; pieces missing. Clearly, I am missing some pieces and I would never want to do anything to hurt Miiga. I, that’s why I came to you as soon as I read this.”

Stedley looked down at his tea for what seemed to Henry to be an eternity. He wasn’t sure what was coming, but it could as easily have been an explanation as a request for Henry to leave the premises. And Stedley could certainly clam up. Finally, he looked up. His eyes were just barely damp, but Henry could see that this touched Stedley very deeply, even after 26 years.

“I was there, yes. And I will tell you what happened, but first I want to know: did you tell Miiga anything?”

“No, of course not,” said Henry. “Honestly, I didn’t know anything to tell her. I don’t want to make things worse for her. Some of this information might make things worse.” Then, Henry added again, “Look, I’m not here on official business. This is truly friend to friend. I promise that what you tell me stays with me, if that’s the way you want it.”

This seemed to relax Stedley just a bit. He took a sip of his tea and began.

“Miiga used to work for Mr. and Mrs. Grund, the other Mrs. Grund, the old lady. It was Vanessa’s third year on the island, but this was a new job for her. Before that, she worked for the Grand. But the live-in jobs, they pay better and the work is not hard. So she come to work for Mrs. Grund.”

“Yes, I’ve been to the Grund place. Over on _____________ Street,” said Henry.

“No, that’s the Bontemps house. Vanessa worked for the Grund’s on Bridle Road. Vanessa stayed in the carriage house in the back. They had one son named Dicky. One night they were just talking, ‘Nessa and Dicky, and he walked her back to the carriage house. It was very friendly, but when she opened the door to her room, he pushed her in and . . .” Stedley looked down for a moment. “Then he left her. Lying there.” Stedley stared out past Henry as if he were searching for the words that would come next.

“She called me at the Dome and I came to get her. She told me what happened and I could see she was bleeding, so I took her to the clinic. Dr. Bontemps – that’s where Miiga works now, at the Bontemps house – he was there and he insisted on calling the police after he looked at ‘Nessa. She was in bad shape, Mr. Botner.”

“Please, call me Henry.”

“She was in bad shape, Henry. I can’t tell you how hard it was on me to see her that way. Henry, yes, Henry. Well, Henry, Dicky, he gets a lawyer and he says he blacked out. He says he doesn’t know what happened, but he knows he didn’t rape my ‘Nessa. If anything happened, which he can’t remember, then he says it was consensual.”

Henry watched Stedley blink away tears and then look away. He stared at the golf course behind the restaurant for close to a minute. Henry sat in silence and waited. Clearly it still hurt him, even after 25-plus years, that there was even a question of her innocence. If Henry had speculated, even for a moment, about whether it was consensual, he didn’t now.

“Consensual. That’s what he said. Then his mama, she come to the Dome the next day and give ‘Nessa $2000.00 to go home, so we sent her home. I stayed on the island and I heard he went to a clinic that summer for alcohol; that the black-outs were real. But I don’t know how you can rape somebody and not know. I don’t know that.”

“So, that was the end of it? The police didn’t investigate further?” Henry was embarrassed asking the question since he could have researched it himself in later police records, but his fervor had been so blinding that he had walked out of the station house too quickly.

“Well, a little, maybe. I think when Dicky came back they talked with him again, you know, to follow up. He had a letter from a doctor about the black-outs and they say he had his lawyers with him the whole time. Mrs. Grund, she come by to see me and give me $2000.00 more cash for Vanessa and she told me that the story was the sex was consensual and that if Vanessa didn’t want her reputation dragged all over the island, and her whole family and all friends fired, she’d take the money and remember the story.”

“That’s blackmail! You know, you should have pressed charges, against Dick and the mother,” said Henry, angry again about how poorly Vanessa had been treated and how transparent the threat was. “If it were my daughter, or my sister, I would have pressed it. I mean really put their feet to the fire. I don’t understand why more wasn’t done.”

“Mr. – uh, Henry. I don’t think you understand. If it were your daughter or sister, she would have been white. It’s nice you think we’re all the same, but if you forgive me, well, that’s talking like someone who don’t know the world all that much.”

Henry knew the world only too well. He thought about his beat in Detroit; how the black gang members were the ones being shaken down for their drugs and then subsequently arrested anyway by the white cops. Their pleas fell on deaf ears, for the most part. And those who did listen and try to step to the plate, like himself, were banished from the force, to places like Mackinac Island. He was one of the luckier ones. Some good cops who had dared to stake a stand against society’s throwaways were living out their professional lives in grey slacks and a blue blazer, sitting behind some office lobby desk checking visitors in and unlocking cleaning closets.

He drew a breath and stared into his tea. “I’m sorry, Stedley. You’re right of course, and I am just so so sorry. I can’t imagine how Vanessa would have wanted to come back to this place after that.”

“She didn’t want to come back. Truth is, none of us want to be here, workin’ the hours we do for the pay we get. We do it because we have to, Henry. And back then, we really had to. That money really helped ‘Nessa, and Johnny – that’s her husband – he got himself a newer fishing boat so he could take care of them better.

“But she came back anyway and started working for Mr. Grund? That just seems strange,” said Henry, who wanted to understand how someone looks her rapist in the eye every day, makes his bed.

“No, it wasn’t like that. It’s a little complicated, but I’ll try to explain it to you. Dr. Bontemps, he was a good man. He tried to help, too. He called the police that night I brought her into the clinic and he told the police to go get her things back at the Grund house so she would never have to go back there. Then, at the end of the summer, he asked me if Nessa needed a job. He said his family would be honored to have her working at his house, but only if she needed it. He also said he would pay her a fair wage, more than what we get when we work for the places Mr. Walker sends us.

“When Miiga was born, Johnny was out of work and they needed the money bad, so she came back to work for Dr. Bontemps’ family. That’s where she worked til she died.”

“But, I thought that she worked for the Grunds.”

“No, see, Dicky Grund married Dr. Bontemps’ daughter, Margaret. Then, Mrs. Grund – Dicky’s mother – she moved in to the Bontemps’ home and gave her home over on Bridle to the Bontemps. I don’t know the details of why, but anyway, Dr. Bontemps’ family lives in the old Grund Mansion and Miss Margaret and Dicky live in the Bontemps home, where Miss Margaret grew up.”

“Wait a minute. That makes even less sense to me,” said Henry. “Are you saying that Dr. Bontemps let his daughter marry a man who sexually assaulted a woman and was positive for Hepatitis? That doesn’t sound even remotely possible to me.”

“I don’t know about any Hepatitis. But, well, Dr. Bontemps died about 20 years ago. I don’t think anyone but me and him and the Bontemps maid knew anything about Dicky. When he died, well, there wasn’t no one to tell Miss Margaret anything, except for the maid. An’ I know she felt like it wasn’t her place to say anything to Miss Margaret; at least not then. Miss Margaret, she’s had a lot of problems, you know, growing up, and she met Dicky at a rehabilitation clinic. So maybe she thought he had changed. But even so, being the maid, it wasn’t Marlene’s place.”

Wasn’t her place? Am I in Bizzaro-world, thought Henry. Who doesn’t speak up in such a situation? He tried to put herself in Marlene’s shoes, but couldn’t. As if Stedley could read his mind, he responded.

“Having power and not having power. Makes you sacrifice differently. It’s why Rich people, they do things that poor people wouldn’t do. And poor people, we do things that rich people would never do. And the only way to explain it is power.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have a friend who works on the island. She’s black and been makin’ beds here for 30 years. She’s from Detroit, not from the islands, so she used to bring her son up some weekends to stay with her. One time she spanked him real hard for talking back to her, and her employer came out and yelled at her for beating her boy. Said she would never do something so cruel to a child. Later, when we were all at the Dome, my friend said she’d rather beat her boy silly when he acted up than watch him get shot or lynched because he mouthed off to the wrong white man.” Stedley looked at Henry. “Do you see what I mean?”

“I think so,” Henry said, reeling from the vivid picture he was getting about his own world.

“Well, Marlene, she’s a single mom. She can’t afford to lose a good paying job. She works for the Bontemps both on and off the island. She loved Miss Margaret, but she couldn’t risk her own children to save Margaret. What if they fired her? What if they didn’t believe her? She’s just a maid.”

Stedley finished his story, telling Henry that some 10 years after the rape, Dicky had married Margaret Bontemps and had moved to the Bontemps home to spend summers there. When Vanessa first saw him walk through the door, no recognition registered on his face. It had been both a relief and an insult to Vanessa. He took one look at her, learned her name, and looked through her like she was any other black seasonal help. It had made it possible for Vanessa to continue to work at the home. According to Stedley, whose accounts came from Vanessa, the old lady never let on either way whether she recognized Vanessa, just creeped around the house.

“When Vanessa died, Miss Margaret, sent flowers and a beautiful note to Johnny and Miiga. She sent an invitation that Miiga could come work for her. It was the first time we even knew that anyone knew Vanessa had a child. I found out Marlene told her, just that same year.”

“Yes, I’m so sorry for her. The liver cancer. If I were a betting man, I’d say Dick Grund gave her that, too.”

“What? I didn’t know you could give someone liver cancer,” said Stedley, looking quizzically at Henry.

“Hep B. He probably gave her Hepatitis, which we know he had as a kid. If left untreated, Hep B can become liver cancer. I know sometimes medical attention for some conditions is hard to come by in some countries. Did she know she had hepatitis?”

Stedley’s mouth was agape. Henry had thrown him far off guard and he simply stared, a look of disbelief on his face.

“I guess that’s why I wanted to say something. At least that’s one of the reasons. He didn’t just assault her, Stedley. He killed her. And I worry that Miiga has Hep B, too. 90% of all babies born of mothers with Hepatitus also contract the disease,” said Henry. Stedley continued to stare. Henry felt uneasy now, as if he had really put his foot in things. He kept talking to avoid the silence.

“There are other things, too. Miiga is an American citizen, Stedley, and all signs point to Dick Grund being her father. Whether he wants to acknowledge it or not, he owes her something, and he’s got the money to pay. I don’t know the child support laws in Michigan, but I’m sure she’s entitled to something. Just to avoid publicity, I’m sure you could reach a settlement and it could be good for Miiga,” said Henry, wanting to bring this full circle to the person about whom they were really talking. “I’ve been talking with her. She really needs to go to college. She’s so young and so bright. If you wanted, I could tell her the story and . . .”

“NO!” said Stedley. It was as if the last sentence had snapped him to reality. “No. Miiga will never know this story. I can’t stop you from telling her, but I can beg you now. Please, Henry, please.”

“I respect that you want to protect her, but knowing could change her life. She could be rich, Stedley. Or at least comfortable enough never to have to come back here. Or maybe she could just go to school on the money. There are a lot of good reasons to talk to her. We could get a lawyer, we could really change her life.”

“Yes, Henry, knowing will change her life and in a way that you can never undue and that all the money in the world can never help. How would you like it if you were told that you were the offspring of a rape; that your mother had worked for the rapist, and now you were working for him in his own home? How much money do you think it would take to get over that?” asked Stedley. Henry could hear him breathing through his nose, trying to calm himself. Then he continued.

“Miiga has me and her mother, she has a father who loves her, and she believes that her real father loves her, wherever he is. To me, that is priceless. Whatever money Dick Grund would give her would destroy her, Henry, if she knew why she was getting it. I’d like him to pay for what he did, but he will have to pay in another life.”

“Do you think Dick Grund even knows he has a daughter? Maybe he would like to know,” said Henry.

“No, I am certain that he doesn’t know. I . . . Marlene and I, we talk. I don’t think he knows. Vanessa never told anyone but Marlene and Marlene, she’s not one to talk about things like that. Henry, I don’t even think he knew who Vanessa was when he saw her all those years later. How would he know he has a daughter? And I don’t think he would be happy about the news. People who want children, they have children. Dicky, he doesn’t have children.”

“I see your point. But what about the hepatitis? There’s a good chance that Miiga may be infected. At the very least, we should have her tested. Even if you don’t tell her about Dick Grund. For her own safety. It could be another death sentence if we don’t. Please Stedley. Think about that.”

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