Today marks the beginning of Holy Week in the Christian Church calendar. During these seven days, the church commemorates Jesus’ triumphal arrival in Jerusalem (Palm Sunday), His betrayal (Wednesday), the Last Supper with his disciples (Maundy Thursday), crucifixion (Good Friday), and ends with His resurrection on Easter Sunday. When we dare to speak truth to power, retribution can be swift. It’s not easy to follow in His footsteps: To love one’s neighbor can come with risks to one’s safety and life. Sometimes, we may also lose what we hold dear.

In my short story “Rescued: An Easter Story,” the protagonist Dwayne Higgins, an innocent man caught up in a crime not of his making, is forced to examine the direction of his life. The story is inspired by a scary incident that occurred during the period we lived in Fortaleza, capital of the Northeastern State of Ceará in Brazil.

The year was 1990. At the time, I was working at a small family-owned international trade consultancy firm. On July 16th, sometime after 2:00 p.m., my estranged husband (hereafter called Husband) called me at the office. He had been robbed at gunpoint at the office of a local cambista (a black market foreign-exchange broker) with whom he worked in downtown Fortaleza buying and selling foreign currency. The bandits seized US dollars and Brazilian cruzeiros, amounting to over forty-one federal minimum salaries. My monthly salary as an import-export assistant was only two minimum salaries.

Several attempts to reach Husband failed. The cambista he worked with claimed that he knew nothing about Husband’s whereabouts. After leaving the office at 6:00 p.m., I picked up our five- and seven-year-old sons at school and told them what had happened to their father. We went to the apartment where Husband lived with his Brazilian amante (mistress). Also distraught, she had not heard from him since his call earlier that afternoon.

Fears of him being locked up in a Brazilian prison or, worse yet, “disappeared” by the police muddied my thoughts. The gravity of their father’s disappearance subdued the boys.

Our shared ordeal ended after nine o’clock that evening. Husband arrived in the company of two burly plainclothes police officers in search of the stolen money. Surprised to see me and the boys, one officer headed into the bedroom with Husband and his amante. The other officer remained with me and the kids in the living room.

In a polite manner, he questioned me about my name, where I lived, where I worked, our country of origin, how long we had been living in Fortaleza, our residential status, how long we were married, how long we were separated, and my relationship with my husband’s mistress. I assumed these questions were intended as verification of the information they had obtained from Husband—their major suspect of the theft. Our sons remained quiet and motionless, seated on the only sofa in the small space.

My sons and I did not get home until after ten o’clock that evening. We had missed a bullet. For now.

Opening Paragraphs of “Rescued: An Easter Story” by Rosaliene Bacchus

Dwayne Higgins stood at the open window overlooking the street in downtown Fortaleza, Northeast Brazil. The sounds from below filled his brother-in-law’s dingy office where foreign currency exchanged hands on the parallel market. An electric floor fan forced air in his direction. Canned ice-cold coke satiated his thirst in the eighty-seven-degree heat.

Thursday of Holy Week. Semana Santa. People clogged the street like a horde of rats burrowing their way amid the shops, searching for Easter bargains. Street children meandered among the pack, snatching watches and purses, disappearing with their loot. Young women flaunted low necklines and bottom-hugging skirts. Storefronts spilled their wares onto the pavement, obstructing the flow. Choked sewers belched up slime, saturating the air with stench.

In Fortaleza, life pulsated in bars and restaurants and on sun-soaked beaches. For the thirty-year-old, black American from San Diego, Southern California, this two-week visit was not for fun seeking. His Brazilian mother-in-law clung to life on a hospital bed, following a heart attack. Gabriela, his wife, spent most of the day at her mother’s bedside. Their four-year-old son stayed at a sister-in-law’s house, pampered by his cousins.

Dwayne crushed the empty coke can. He threw it into the trashcan near the desk and fan. He looked at his watch. One thirty-two in the afternoon. The Reverend Carlos Andrade was due anytime now to exchange his American dollars for Brazilian currency. Dwayne met the pastor last week at his father-in-law’s house.

The buzz of the intercom, from the security desk in the lobby, signaled that the pastor had arrived. Dwayne buttoned up his short-sleeve, cotton shirt. He could never get used to Fortaleza’s hot, humid weather.

The doorbell chimed. Dwayne peered through the peephole. The bespectacled, sexagenarian pastor stood alone on the other side of the door. He unlocked the door. Without warning, the door collided with his face. He reeled backwards. The pastor stumbled into the room, followed by two armed men. The men were about mid-twenties, heavyset, dressed in black suits and ties. They were both about his height, five-feet-eight.

“Do not move!” said one.

“Put your hands up!” said the other, kicking the door shut.

Continue reading at Rosaliene’s Author Website

Note: This story was first published in the now defunct New York-based magazine Guyana Journal April 2009 Issue.