Children of the Storm

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    ONE
        
        Having lived nearly all of her twenty-three years in the brief summers and the bitter winters of Maine and Massachusetts, Sonya Carter was especially intrigued by the Caribbean-by the almost too-bright skies, the warm breezes that smelled of salty ocean air, the palm trees that could be seen nearly everywhere, the delicious mangoes, the spectacular sunsets and the sudden twilights that deepened rapidly into purple darkness… Too, the warmth of the Caribbean seemed to represent life, bustle, excitement, anticipation-while New England, in her mind, was associated with death and loneliness. She had lost her parents in Maine, thirteen years ago, when their car overturned on a stretch of icy highway. And this past winter, her grandmother, who had raised her ever since she was orphaned at the age of ten, had at last succumbed to the deep and awful coughing that had plagued her for years, the taint of the lungs that had long been her burden. In the last weeks of her life, lying in the crisp white sheets of the hospital bed, she had been thin and dark, her face drawn, too weak even to smile. Certainly, people died all the time in the Caribbean, just as they did in the rest of the world; this was no place of respite from tragedy, no sacred shelter from the ravages of time. But here, at least, Sonya had never lost anyone whom she desperately loved. This newness, this freshness of the place and its lack of associations, was what made it special, an unsullied haven where she could more easily be happy.
        Lynda Spaulding, a girl with whom Sonya had roomed during her senior year at the university, thought this journey was a distinctly bad idea, and she went to great lengths to persuade Sonya to call it off. “Going way down there, among strange people, to work for someone you've never met face-to-face? That's going to be trouble, right from the start, you mark my words.”
        Sonya had known that Lynda was more jealous of her success in securing such a position than she was concerned about Sonya's well-being. “I think it'll be just fine,” Sonya had said, repeatedly, refusing to be disillusioned. “Lots of sun, the ocean-”
        “Hurricanes,” her roommate said, determined to throw clouds over the situation.
        “Only for part of the year, and then only rarely.”
        “I understand the sea can sweep right over one of those small islands when a real bad wind comes up, during a storm-”
        “Oh, for heaven's sake, Lynda!” Sonya snapped, “I'm in more danger on the freeways than I am in the middle of a hurricane!”
        Later, Lynda had said, “They practice voodoo down there.”
        “In Haiti.”
        “That's the center of it, yes. But they practice it all over those islands.”
        Sonya had now been in the islands three days and had yet to see any sign of dark religious rites. She was glad that she had come, and she was looking forward to the job.
        She had flown from Boston to Miami on a 747 Jumbo Jet, uncomfortable in such an enormous craft, certain that it could not be expected to keep its hundreds of tons aloft for very long, surely not long enough to cover the length of the East Coast. In Miami, she boarded a cruise ship of the French Line for her first sea journey and, less frightened of drowning than of falling twenty thousand feet in a steel aircraft, she immensely enjoyed the trip. The boat stopped at San Juan, Puerto Rico, then leisurely wended its way southward until it stopped at the exquisitely beautiful island of St. Thomas where the beaches were both white and black, the sand hot and the orchids wild. The next stop was St. John's port, then on to the French-owned island of Guadeloupe where they docked at the city of Pointe-a-Pitre late in the afternoon of a brilliantly clear first Tuesday in September. The ship would sail on to Martinique, Barbados, Trinidad, Curacao and then, eventually, back to France. Sonya disembarked at Guadeloupe, missing those other exotic ports, but not particularly upset by this. She was eager to begin her new job, her new life, to form new hopes and dreams and set about making them reality.
        Her four large suitcases and one metal-bound steamer trunk were unloaded onto the dock at Pointe-a-Pitre, where a fiercely dark terminal worker put them onto a four-wheeled cart and led her into the air conditioned passenger's lounge.
        “It be an outrageous wahm day,” he said, smiling with many