asked. She followed us as we toured the fruit stands. My grandmother refused the mango chunks that the vendors handed to her, preferring instead to squeeze and pump the custard apples she wanted to buy.
"You well, Grandme Ife?" Louise asked, jumping in front of my grandmother.
"Oui, I got up this morning. I am well."
"And you Sophie, you well?"
"Very well," I answered. "Thank you."
"Will you buy the pig?"
"Don't you have things to look after?" snapped my grandmother.
The boy with the kite was sitting in Louise's stand for her. Louise kept following us, ignoring my grandmother's coldness.
"My foot, you see, you stepped on it!" The baby-faced Macoute was shouting at a coal vendor.
He rammed the back of his machine gun into the coal vendor's ribs.
"I already know the end," said my grandmother. She grabbed my hand and pulled me away. She wobbled quickly, her sandals hissing as the lazy foot swept across the ground.
Louise rushed back to her stand. My grandmother and I hurried to the flamboyant and started on the road home.
I turned back for one last look. The coal vendor was curled in a fetal position on the ground. He was spitting blood. The other Macoutes joined in, pounding their boots on the coal seller's head. Every one watched in shocked silence, but no one said anything.
My grandmother came back for me. She grabbed my hand so hard my fingers hurt.
"You want to live your nightmares too?" she hollered.
We walked in silence until we could hear the konbit song from the cane fields. The men were singing about a platon-nade, a loose woman who made love to the men she met by a stream and then drowned them in the water.
My grandmother spat in the dirt as we walked by Louise's shack.
"Are you mad at Louise?" I asked.
"People have died for saying the wrong things," answered my grandmother.
"You don't like Louise?"
"I don't like the way your Tante Atie has been since she came back from Croix-des-Rosets. Ever since she has come back, she and I, we are like milk and lemon, oil and water. She grieves; she drinks tafia. I would not be surprised if she started wearing black for her father again."
"Maybe she misses Croix-des-Rosets."
"Better she go back, then. You bring a mule to water, but you cannot force it to drink the water. Why did she come back? If she had married there, would she not have stayed?"
"If she had married there, then you would be living with her and her husband."
"Those are the old ways," she said. "These days, they go so far, the children. People like me, we look after ourselves."
"Tante Atie wants to look after you."
"I looked after myself all the years she was in Croix-des-Rosets. I look after myself now. Next when we hear from your mother, I will ask her to send for Atie, so Atie can go and see New York, see the grandness like you have."
"Don't you want to go?"
"I have one foot in this world and one foot in the grave. Non, I do not want to go. But Atie, she should go. She cannot stay out of duty. The things one does, one should do out of love."
"Do you tell her that you do not want her to stay?"
"I would tell her if she ever engaged me in talk. Your Tante Atie she has changed a lot since she was with you. The reading, it is only one thing."
"I think it is very good that she has learned to read," I said. "It is her own freedom."
"There is a story that is told all the time in the valley. An old woman has three children. One dies in her body when she is pregnant. One goes to a faraway land to make her fortune and never does that one get to come back alive. The last one, she stays in the valley and looks after her mother."
Tante Atie was the last.
Chapter 18
T ante Atie was stretched out in an old rocker. Brigitte lay on her lap. My grandmother took her beans to the yard to pick out the pebbles. She fanned a small fire with her hat, washed the beans, then put them to boil in a pot.
Brigitte yawned in her sleep as I picked her up. Tante Atie got up, grabbed her notebook from the floor,
"You well, Grandme Ife?" Louise asked, jumping in front of my grandmother.
"Oui, I got up this morning. I am well."
"And you Sophie, you well?"
"Very well," I answered. "Thank you."
"Will you buy the pig?"
"Don't you have things to look after?" snapped my grandmother.
The boy with the kite was sitting in Louise's stand for her. Louise kept following us, ignoring my grandmother's coldness.
"My foot, you see, you stepped on it!" The baby-faced Macoute was shouting at a coal vendor.
He rammed the back of his machine gun into the coal vendor's ribs.
"I already know the end," said my grandmother. She grabbed my hand and pulled me away. She wobbled quickly, her sandals hissing as the lazy foot swept across the ground.
Louise rushed back to her stand. My grandmother and I hurried to the flamboyant and started on the road home.
I turned back for one last look. The coal vendor was curled in a fetal position on the ground. He was spitting blood. The other Macoutes joined in, pounding their boots on the coal seller's head. Every one watched in shocked silence, but no one said anything.
My grandmother came back for me. She grabbed my hand so hard my fingers hurt.
"You want to live your nightmares too?" she hollered.
We walked in silence until we could hear the konbit song from the cane fields. The men were singing about a platon-nade, a loose woman who made love to the men she met by a stream and then drowned them in the water.
My grandmother spat in the dirt as we walked by Louise's shack.
"Are you mad at Louise?" I asked.
"People have died for saying the wrong things," answered my grandmother.
"You don't like Louise?"
"I don't like the way your Tante Atie has been since she came back from Croix-des-Rosets. Ever since she has come back, she and I, we are like milk and lemon, oil and water. She grieves; she drinks tafia. I would not be surprised if she started wearing black for her father again."
"Maybe she misses Croix-des-Rosets."
"Better she go back, then. You bring a mule to water, but you cannot force it to drink the water. Why did she come back? If she had married there, would she not have stayed?"
"If she had married there, then you would be living with her and her husband."
"Those are the old ways," she said. "These days, they go so far, the children. People like me, we look after ourselves."
"Tante Atie wants to look after you."
"I looked after myself all the years she was in Croix-des-Rosets. I look after myself now. Next when we hear from your mother, I will ask her to send for Atie, so Atie can go and see New York, see the grandness like you have."
"Don't you want to go?"
"I have one foot in this world and one foot in the grave. Non, I do not want to go. But Atie, she should go. She cannot stay out of duty. The things one does, one should do out of love."
"Do you tell her that you do not want her to stay?"
"I would tell her if she ever engaged me in talk. Your Tante Atie she has changed a lot since she was with you. The reading, it is only one thing."
"I think it is very good that she has learned to read," I said. "It is her own freedom."
"There is a story that is told all the time in the valley. An old woman has three children. One dies in her body when she is pregnant. One goes to a faraway land to make her fortune and never does that one get to come back alive. The last one, she stays in the valley and looks after her mother."
Tante Atie was the last.
Chapter 18
T ante Atie was stretched out in an old rocker. Brigitte lay on her lap. My grandmother took her beans to the yard to pick out the pebbles. She fanned a small fire with her hat, washed the beans, then put them to boil in a pot.
Brigitte yawned in her sleep as I picked her up. Tante Atie got up, grabbed her notebook from the floor,
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