American Gothic by Michael Romkey Page A

out his silk handkerchief and wiped his nose.
    “Your boy has been made sick by a germ, a tiny amoeba too small for the human eye to see, that lives in impure drinking water.” He held his fingers as close as he could without them touching. Judging from her reaction, Lavalle could tell that he was not educating but frightening the woman. The simple country people cowered in fear of invisible forces. In times of trouble, they appealed to a pantheon of absurd gods and goddesses to protect them from evil spirits. The poor woman could not read a word or write her name; how could she understand amoebic dysentery?
    “Never mind,” Lavalle said, and smiled to show that he was not unhappy with her. “The little boy is dehydrated. He will be all right, but only if he drinks a lot of water. Do you understand?”
    “Oui.”
    “It is important that you boil water before he drinks it. He is sick from drinking dirty water. Dirty water bad. Understand?”
    She nodded.
    “You must bring the water to a rolling boil, then let it get nice and cool before letting him drink. Boiling the water will make it safe for the child to drink.”
    He reached into his bag and came out with a small paper sack filled with a powder he mixed up by the barrel at the hospital.
    “Mix a tablespoon of this into each cup.”
    The woman’s expression lightened markedly. Powders and potions were something she understood. She thought he was giving her magic dust, a concoction like one the local witchdoctor would whip up to make someone fall in love or to keep away the evil eye.
    “It’s a combination of salts his body needs to replenish,” Lavalle said uselessly, knowing the woman would prefer to think of it as magic. What did it matter as long as it helped the child? “Boil me a pot of water,” Lavalle said. “I will show you.”
    The doctor stayed until he was sure that the woman understood the simple treatment. He would come back the next day to check on the boy. If he wasn’t recovering, he would take him back to Hospital St. Jude in Cap Misère, where he would watch over the child himself. Dysentery was easily treated, but in the backward tropical countryside, it killed many.
    The late afternoon clouds where gathering over the Massif de la Hotte Mountains by the time Lavalle got back onto his sturdy horse. Instead of returning to Cap Misère, he decided to allow himself a bit of diversion and headed out for tea at Fairweather House, where Lady Fairweather always made him welcome.
    The road followed the curve of the horseshoe-shaped bay. Lavalle looked across the water to the white limestone cliffs rising dramatically to a gabled house. Maison de la Falaise—Cliff House—had been vacant since before Lavalle’s arrival, although its owner, a wealthy Belgian, somehow managed to keep the surrounding gardens and park in immaculate condition. Maison de la Falaise and its coca plantation had been on the market at a reasonable price, though life in such a remote and backward corner of the world appealed to few, so the property had remained vacant. Lavalle considered buying it himself once or twice, though he was far too busy running the hospital and helping the poor to properly manage such an operation.
    Anchored beneath the house was a sleek black sailing yacht flying an American flag.
    Perhaps Maison de la Falaise had finally been sold.
    The prospect of a new neighbor—albeit a distant one—pleased Lavalle. Aside from Lady Fairweather, there were no other whites along the coast. Though his practice consumed him, there were times when Lavalle hungered for the company of someone with whom he had something in common. He had never realized how much he liked talking about books and ideas before coming to a country where almost no one could read.
    Maybe the American liked to play chess, Lavalle thought. He had not had a game since getting off the ship in Port-au-Prince. The doctor rode on, entertaining himself with thoughts about opening gambits until he