Bad Juju

  Bad Juju

  By Dina Rae

  Prologue

  Tom Novak looked lovingly into his wife’s deep brown eyes as if he could read her mind. This was as close to perfect as it gets. The young couple always dreamed of serving God by volunteering as missionaries. The opportunity had presented itself.

  Twelve members of their church, Christ Our Savior, arrived outside of Port au-Prince the first week of their children’s summer vacation. They signed up to help with the island’s reconstruction several months after the fatal Haitian earthquake.

  Tom was especially worried about Henry, his fifteen year old son. Although intelligent and highly functional, Henry’s Asperger’s Syndrome risked setting off an array of behavioral problems. New surroundings, communication, and decision making were not the boy’s forte. But Henry loved to fixate. The 7.0 earthquake became his obsession. It was Henry who suggested the family volunteer after their minister announced sign-ups for the trip during a previous sermon.

  Christ Our Savior’s mission would assist other volunteers in erecting a health clinic, women’s shelter, and community washroom with showers. Other missionaries and rescue organizations established a camp with portable kitchens, restrooms, tents, and other essentials back in February, shortly after the earthquake occurred. They welcomed the needed extra hands from Christ Our Savior.

  The missionary encampment resided a few miles west of Port-au-Prince in the town of Leogane, the epicenter of the earthquake. After a few days of detangling organizational kinks, the new volunteers were fully aware of how the volunteer camp operated. Each person had a specific duty to fulfill, making them work like a well-oiled machine. Progress was slowly being made.

  The past week had been life-changing. Besides the new construction, they were interacting with some of the natives and spreading the Gospel. At the end of the day, Tom would drag his family to a clearing on top of a hill and look out to the sea at the spectacular pink and orange sunsets.

  “This is really beautiful. I love this place. What about you guys? Feel the presence of God?” Tom asked.

  “Dad, I love it here,” Henry said.

  “Love it enough to stay longer? I only put us down for a week, and our stay is almost over. I can extend it. What do you all say?” Tom asked as they watched the sun shrink into the ocean.

  “Let’s stay!” exclaimed Henry.

  Tom gave Jessica an ‘I told you so’ look as Henry beamed. Vacations were something they had given up on years ago after Henry’s violent tantrums. Change did not come easy to the boy. Tom knew Haiti would be different.

  “Don’t I get a say in this? I miss my friends. And this is hard work. Not exactly a vacation,” whined Natalie. She was almost fourteen and about to enter high school.

  “Of course you get a say. Can you stick it out another two weeks? You’d still have more than half of your summer left,” Jessica compromised. She hung her arm around her beautiful, waif-like daughter, looking more like her sister than mother.

  “I guess. It’s God’s work, right? How bad can it be? Sorry to complain.”

  “Tom, you’re right. We’re doing something good here. They need us. Look around this place. Wreckage everywhere. It could be such a paradise. Poverty, disease, and now this,” lamented Jessica. Her eyelids began to droop. “I’m getting sleepy. Let’s go. Been another long but wonderful day.”

  As they headed back to their encampment, Henry began inundating the family with more island facts. “Mom, did you know more than 200,000 died in the quake, and 300,000 are injured? Over a million are misplaced…” When Henry was interested in a subject, he strived to learn as much as possible. He acquired an encyclopedic knowledge of the island.

  Natalie bickered as he constantly saturated them with trivia. “Shut up! I’m so sick of you acting like an expert!”

  Tom nudged his wife and smiled. The bickering didn’t seem to matter. Things were as close to perfect as they could be.

  Their missionary camp was two miles away from one of the main Haitian rescue camps. In spite of the various world relief programs, the island remained a security nightmare. Rapes and child abuse were rampant.

  Each night a dozen men from Tom’s camp stood guard. Although the area was heavily patrolled with police, the island had a population of nine million with an ultra-lean staff of nine thousand police officers. The criminals knew they were the majority and acted accordingly. For months the missionaries had patrolled their own camp with radios, Tasers, Billy clubs, and handguns on high alert for drifters. To date, they had been spared from attacks.

  Tom and the other men from Christ Our Savior were immediately assigned the rotating job as the camp’s security guards. He heard from the others about dozens of escaped prisoners seen inside of the rescue camps nearby. Their security doubled as a precaution. He kept this information from his family, not wanting them to worry. Another uneventful evening passed without any of the guards getting sleep.

  Minutes after sunrise, Tom woke up his family. He had a task for his children to perform throughout the morning. He knew Natalie would hate it, but Henry, with his hulking size, would prove useful.

  “Okay. We won’t have a crane until later this week, but can’t waste time. There’s a flatbed of cinder blocks parked over by the future showers. We marked up the perimeter of the building yesterday. Now I need you to unload each cinder block and lay it down around the painted line,” Tom directed as he shook flakes of cement out of his blonde hair.

  “Dad, they’re so heavy! C’mon, don’t you have something easier for me to do? I’m a girl!” Natalie grumbled.

  “The exercise is good for you. They only weigh ten, maybe fifteen pounds. Toughen up, young lady. And Henry, you’re so strong. You’ll be able to carry two or three at a time. It’ll be a cinch,” coaxed Tom.

  “No problem, Dad,” he answered, proud to be needed and capable of doing the work.

  “Oh, alright. But I’m taking plenty of breaks. Don’t want to throw my back out,” Natalie said. “Or I’m filing a workman’s comp claim against you!”

  “Can you just do something without the lip? Your mother is finishing up with some of the tile work at the clinic,” Tom said as he pointed a few hundred yards south. “This afternoon you can both help her paint some of the walls. Let’s get started.”

  The morning dragged on and Natalie continued to bellyache. As a carpenter, Tom was conditioned to hard labor. His daughter’s moans fell upon his deaf ears as he lifted three or four cinder blocks at a time and effortlessly carried them over to the restroom facility.

  “Natalie, we’re almost done. I’m going to check on Mom. Why don’t you both finish up? There’s a few dozen blocks left to take out of the flatbed,” Tom instructed.

  “Oh Dad, let me go with you. I really want to see what Mom did. Tile or something, right?” Natalie begged. Her desperation to get out of the labor was apparent.

  Henry was in his own world, a zone of repetition. Like a plow horse, he kept working without missing a step. Tom still did not want to leave him alone. Another parish member familiar with their situation stepped in.

  “I’ll keep an eye on him,” assured Keith, an elder from their parish. “Find the fella interesting. So smart. All those things he knows about Haiti. He’ll be okay for a few minutes.”

  Tom and Natalie hiked over to the medical clinic and admired their mother’s exquisite tile work in the front lobby of the newly erected building.

  “I got the bathrooms left to tile. This afternoon the kids can come over here and paint,” she offered.

  “Painting sounds like a breeze at this point. My arms are so sore from carrying those heavy blocks,” Natalie griped.

  “Think of the character that you are building. Can’t get this at home. And Jess, this is really sensati
onal. You’ve got to do something like this in our bathroom once we’re home. See you at lunch,” Tom smiled. He kissed his wife and hiked back to the outhouse.

  As Tom and Natalie approached their construction site, his heart raced and weighed heavy with a fearful premonition. He could see Keith running around the partly constructed shower facility with a sense of urgency. Tom couldn’t hear from the distance, but knew something was very wrong.

  “Natalie, let’s run. Something just ain’t right. I can smell it.”

  “You think it’s Henry?”

  “I sure hope not.”

  Tom and Natalie bolted towards the public restroom, catching up with Keith and two other men now involved. As suspected, Henry was currently missing.

  “He couldn’t have gone far. The flatbed is only a few yards away from here. He was busting butt with those blocks. Tom, I’m so sorry. This is my fault. We’ll find him. I’m gathering everyone up right now. He might have wandered over to where your wife is working,” Keith cried.

  Shouts of “Henry” filled the camp. Construction ceased as everyone shifted their focus towards finding the boy. All three areas of the site were searched from top to bottom. The day wore on, turning to dusk.

  “The hill! Where we watch the sunset!” screamed Jessica. “Maybe he’ll go there. It’s part of our routine.”

  Tom, Jessica, and Natalie ran up the hill and waited. The sun’s colors were unusually red like blood.

  Several minutes of silence went by. The Novaks watched their first sunset in Haiti without their son.

  “Let’s pray,” Tom stated as they stood on top of the hill in the darkness. All three of them bowed their heads down while he spoke. “Dear God, protect my son. Please bring him back to me if he’s still alive.”

  Chapter 1

  2000, Hayward, Wisconsin

  Tom and Jessica Novak sat in the waiting room of Dr. Berger’s office. The cozy space was decorated with primary colors, toy bins, floor mats, and small tables, putting them and their son, Henry, at ease. The doctor encouraged them to watch her interaction with Henry through the large rectangular window while they waited.

  At five years old, Henry lagged behind other children his age in almost everything, especially communication. His three year-old sister was learning five or more new words a day while his vocabulary hadn’t increased over the last year.

  Tom and Jessica had been in Dr. Berger’s office all morning. Hunger set in and patience evaporated. After her last series of tests, the doctor marked up her clipboard and took Henry’s hand. Knocking on the glass, she motioned for Jessica and Tom to enter into her office.

  Taking a seat, Tom asked, “So what’s the matter with him?”

  “Health wise, he’s fine. But you already know that. That’s why you are here. I need to go through my notes and reread what his other doctors have documented,” said Dr. Berger, looking down at the clipboard.

  “Please, enough with the suspense. As of this moment, and we realize your diagnosis could change. What do you think is the matter with him?” Tom pleaded. His light blue eyes were full of concern. A long silent pause occurred. “C’mon, Doc. We can take it.”

  “Well then, without preparing a formal evaluation, I believe your son has autism, possibly Asperger’s, but this can change. Here’s some information on both of the impairments,” said Dr. Berger as she handed them stacks of informational flyers.

  “Autism? I heard of it, but am not sure what it is,” Jessica asked as she plucked long dark hair strands of hair out of her scalp.

  “It’s a disorder one is born with. If, and it’s still very much an if, Henry has autism, there is an enormous range of behaviors, personality traits, learning abilities…” Dr. Berger stated.

  “Doc, worst case scenario, will he be mentally challenged?” Tom questioned.

  “I don’t know. With severe autism he won’t be able to communicate, he’ll have learning disabilities, might injure himself, maybe seizure, and he might even become aggressive. But I doubt that is the case. He is currently talking. Maybe not as much as you would like, but he answered my questions. Little things like his rocking and word repetition I noticed. He seems impulsive, avoids eye contact, pulled away when I took his hand…Again, don’t quote me, but he seems more on the high-level side of autism otherwise called Asperger’s Syndrome. Communication will still be a problem, but it’s possible for Asperger children to learn, even excel in certain subjects. If he has Asperger’s, then there is plenty of hope.”

  ***

  The doctor’s educated guess became her diagnosis. Throughout the years, at least half dozen specialists concurred. Henry was high-functioning but odd. His peculiarities kept him from socializing. His limited communication graduated into one-way conversations. He didn’t know how to appropriately respond to others’ emotions. Empathy and sympathy were foreign. However, he was able to tell his parents that he loved them and excelled in school. For this, Jessica and Tom thanked God every night.

  Raising a son with special needs was a hardship they eventually got used to. Both parents threw themselves into their evangelical church, receiving even more support from their congregation. Natalie, their other child, was both physically and mentally healthy. Things could have been much worse, and they considered themselves blessed.

  Years after Henry’s initial evaluation, his reading comprehension was above grade level and he excelled in math. With ease, he watched his teachers demonstrate how to solve a problem on an overhead and then perfectly complete the corresponding worksheets and tests. Every new step, process, formula, and rule was retained in his memory. But there was a dark side to his talent. Anytime a teacher deviated from the routine and tried something creative, problems would occur.

  Despite Henry’s linear thinking, he was placed in an accelerated math program since the 6th grade. Now a freshman in high school, he sat with sophomores in an advanced placement geometry class. He loved the class for two reasons: the ease of the subject and Brittany Bonaducci.

  Chapter 2

  Ms. Fontana was well aware of Henry’s idiosyncrasies. In fact, the whole town of Hayward was aware. He came with an Individual Education Plan (IEP) and two overprotective parents who weekly barraged her and Henry’s six other teachers with phone calls. She taught geometry in Henry’s favorite format for months. The rest of the class craved something different from the worksheets and tests. Mr. Hines, the math teacher in the next room, suggested a lesson on triangles using puzzle pieces. She decided to try it.

  Henry invited himself into Ms. Fontana’s class every day during lunch. Her classroom was empty and his geometry class followed. She liked to use the time to grade papers. At first she resented Henry’s endless chatter about war movies and History Channel episodes. One day she interrupted him and asked if he would like to grade papers. He readily accepted.

  Meticulously, he graded stacks of homework and tests with the coordinating answer keys, saving her hours of work each week. She enjoyed the lightened workload, and he preferred her quiet room to the lunchroom of his peers, not knowing how to fit in. They soon formed the favorite student-favorite teacher bond.

  Ms. Fontana prepared him for a change in the day’s lesson.

  “Will there be partner work?” he asked.

  Already sensing his apprehension, she answered, “Yes. Assigned partners.”

  This seemed to pacify Henry at the moment. Sadly, they both knew no one would voluntarily choose him as a partner. The first, and then second bell rang. Class had begun.

  “Please quiet down. We don’t have a lot of time. Today we will be working with triangles and the Pythagorean Theorem. You and your partner will complete this project by the end of the class,” Ms. Fontana directed.

  Some of the students began to shift desks and get out of their seats in order to pair up with a friend in the classroom.

  “Excuse me. Assigned partners. At least for now.” She could have heard the disappointed sighs from across the hall. “Alright, Mark and Lisa
, Jose and Tara, Janice and Deja, Henry and Brittany…”

  Once assigned, everyone slowly configured their seating. Everyone except Brittany. She joined Tony and Rio in the back of the classroom. Both boys were handsome and popular.

  “Brittany, over here, by Henry. You’re his partner,” Ms. Fontana motioned. She packed up her books and moved a few seats down while rolling her eyes.

  Ms. Fontana explained the directions and passed out the sets of triangle puzzle pieces. By the time everyone began, the class was halfway over.

  ***

  Henry stared at Brittany’s flowing light brown hair and enormous brown eyes. She was beautiful, possibly the most beautiful girl in the school. He wished he could say something to make her like him, but conversation was his biggest weakness.

  “Brittany, do you like history? My great-grandfather was in World War II and his troop was on the History Channel because…”

  “Don’t care. Shut your god-damned pie hole. We need to finish this.” she sneered.

  “He was in Poland. You ever hear of Auschwitz? He and his soldiers liberated…”

  “I said I don’t give a shit! We need to get this done before the bell. Quit talking and start working,” she snapped as she raced through the puzzle pieces and math problems.

  A minute went by in silence. Henry couldn’t contain himself.

  “Did you know that Stalin killed way more…”

  “Shut the fuck up or I’m telling Ms. Fontana that you’re jacking off and I’m doing all the work, you little freak! We’re only halfway through.”

  “Okay. I think if we put this angle here, with this other angle…” Henry demonstrated.

  “Henry, I did that problem fifteen minutes ago! Do number 14 and I’ll do 15 - you do the evens and I’ll do the odds,” Brittany ordered.

  Dejected, Henry began his set of problems in silence. They were almost finished. Rio pushed his desk into theirs, forming a three-way seating arrangement.

  “You finished? Here. We’re done. Need the last two answers?” Rio offered.