Meet The Haitian Goddess Deux
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The sun rose over the town of Quartier Morin, about thirty miles from the major City of Cap-Haitien in North Haiti. It found Sebastien Renard in bed, sulking. The big and tall young Black man stirred restlessly. Another sleepless night. For the thousandth time he wondered what could have possessed his father, Boston Police sergeant Ernest Renard had left him stranded in this backwards town. Seriously. Sebastien didn’t feel like he belonged there at all.
Of course, his grandmother Cecilia, the matriarch of the Renard Clan would say otherwise. She told him how she remembered his birth in Quartier Morin, way back in 1987. Of course, mere months later his parents moved to Boston, Massachusetts. And they didn’t return to the Republic of Haiti until 2010, after the earthquake. Sebastien was a naturalized citizen of the United States of America. He wasn’t born on U.S. soil. However, it was the only home he knew for most of his life. Then, of course, his life went to hell.
He remembered Natalie O’Shea, the tall blonde chick he met on his first day at the University of Massachusetts, Boston campus. She seemed so cool and so friendly. Still nursing the wounds of his high school sweetheart, Haitian princess Vanessa Jean-Claude dumping him for a white guy, Sebastien had been drawn to Natalie O’Shea. She was cute, and didn’t mind letting a guy know it when she liked him. They had some of the same classes, since they were both Criminal Justice majors at UMass-Boston. Like him, she had a cop for a dad. Sebastien was proud of his stern father, though he rarely said that to the old man. Natalie’s father, Boston Police detective Matthew O’Shea was a true Blue Blood. Fifth or sixth generation Irish-American cop. Yeah, there were differences between them.
Yet he, Sebastien, had been young enough and foolish enough to believe they could overcome those differences. He hadn’t realized that some things never changed. Even in liberal Boston, home of Massachusetts first African-American Governor, people frowned upon seeing Black male/White female couples. Even in the age of Obama. Sebastien and Natalie liked each other. But in the end he cared more for her than she did for him. He hadn’t known that her father despised his old man ever since he got passed over for a promotion. Matthew O’Shea felt that the only reason his one-time friend Ernest Renard rose to the rank of sergeant was because of his colour. After the fiasco involving the Cambridge Police Department and that legendary African-American professor from Harvard, the Boston Police Department faced a rash of allegations of racism. In a town where ethnic minorities technically outnumbered Caucasians, the Irish and Italian leaders of the City decided to appease the locals. They did that by promoting men and women of color to positions of power. To show the ethnic population that the White folks could be benevolent leaders still, rather than be replaced by the next Black guy or Hispanic woman who saw themselves as a voice of change.
At least, that’s why Matthew O’Shea believed Ernest Renard became a police sergeant. Upon discovering that his only daughter was going out with the son of his most hated rival, the old detective had been beyond incensed. He ordered Natalie to break off their relationship. In the end, always a daddy’s gal, Natalie acquiesced. She dumped the guy she liked to make her racist father happy. Sebastien didn’t take the news too well. That’s why he went out that night, got drunk and got into a scuffle. And somehow, he ended up on the news. Because he was the son of the man who could become Boston’s first Black chief of police someday. This was the beginning of dark times for Sebastien Renard and the Renard family.
His father Ernest Renard watched his chance of becoming police chief all but vanish. He’d risen to the rank of sergeant within a mostly White police force because he was hard-working and squeaky-clean. The ethnic populations of Boston respected him. The leaders of the African-American and Hispanic populations liked him. They saw him as a voice of reason within the austere Boston Police Department. That’s why the leaders of the Boston Police Department had no choice but to promote him after yet another White cop in New England attracted international attention and public ire because of institutional and individual racism. The Department punished Ernest for the mistakes of his son. And Matthew O’Shea became the next captain. A position he hadn’t even been in line for, until the Department’s hero screwed up big-time by risking his career to save his idiot son. In exchange for the District Attorney dropping all charges against Sebastien Renard, Ernest Renard had to forsake all chances of ever becoming police chief. He’d never be more than a police sergeant now. He might even lose that rank someday if another foul up happened. You never know. Treachery is the order of the day within the Boston Police Department. Let no one tell you otherwise.
Both to punish his son Sebastien and protect him, police sergeant Ernest Renard sent him to the one place where he’d be safe from the Boston Police Department’s racist goons. Sebastien found himself in Quartier Morin, his family’s ancestral home in the North side of the Republic of Haiti. The place was beautiful. Lots of farm land. Lots of honest people. And he was bored out of his skull. The hard-working, God-fearing Haitian folks who lived in town were as alien to him as Martians. He spoke a heavily accented Creole, and they picked him up as a foreigner right away. What they called Diaspora, and kind of derisively too.
At least that’s how he felt until he met…her. Florence Joseph. Tall, curvy, large-breasted, wide-hipped and big-bottomed, with gorgeous skin the color of charcoal. And long, neatly braided hair. The daughter of a Haitian farmer through and true. For days he watched her go about her business in town. The six-foot-tall, gorgeous Black Amazon was friendly but seemed to command an inordinate amount of respect in this small town’s otherwise macho culture. And he knew it wasn’t because of her raw beauty, which was only accentuated by her big, round ass. He’d never seen an ass like that. Hot damn. He watched her ride a horse to the marketplace and sell coal to businessmen to feed her old mother Arlene and her younger brother Paul. He watched her dress up in a flowery red and white dress as she went to church dutifully every Sunday with her brother and mother. She was always polite but distant to the men who spoke to her. Oh, yeah. Tall, beautiful and aloof. That was Florence Joseph in a nutshell.
And the young Haitian-American wanted that rare fish for himself. One day, he gathered his courage and approached her. She was sitting on a bench in the park near the town’s church, reading a Harlequin novel. He approached her with a smile and a wave. She looked him up and down. Her eyes narrowed. Politely but with chilly overtones, Florence asked him who he was. Sebastien blanched. Did she really ask him that? Everybody in town knew who he was. The grandson of the town’s mayor. The one whose parents were big-shots not only in Haiti but in the United States as well. The one with the weird accent in his strange Creole. Sebastien prudently introduced himself. Florence smiled at him, but he saw in her eyes that she wasn’t impressed. She shook his hand, and then went back to reading her book. Sebastien stood there, thoroughly vexed. What could he do now? This sexy lady was pointedly ignoring him. He did the only thing he could think of. He sat next to her, and put his arm on the bench’s back. Dangerously close to her shoulders. His hands accidentally brushed her shoulders. He opened his mouth to speak, but never got a word out. For, with amazing strength and speed, Florence seized him, swept him off his feet and tossed him to the ground. He landed with a thud on the dusty grass.
Hands on her hips, Florence Joseph glowered at him. In a voice like thunder, but thoroughly feminine, she told him that if he ever touched her again, she’d k
ill him. He looked into her eyes, which seemed to glow. And for the first time since that wild police chase across Massachusetts Highway 95, Sebastien felt fear. He mumbled an apology, still stunned by what she’d done to him. In high school he’d been both a wrestler and a football player. A tough guy. Yet somehow she just sacked him. Florence held her hand and pulled him to his feet. He sat on the bench, stunned. Without another word, she turned and walked away. Sebastien dusted himself off, more stunned than humiliated. Though that feeling would come later. He watched Florence as she walked away. And all he could think was how amazing her ass looked. Hot damn. She had moves like Xena, or maybe Buffy. Only she looked like a younger version of Pam Grier. Wow. If he wanted a piece of her before, he just had to have her now. All of a sudden, he didn’t feel like leaving Haiti anymore. He had definitely found something to occupy his time.
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