The Farming of Bones by Edwidge Danticat Page B

a beautiful child with a long manly face. He skipped from foot to foot, fidgeting while standing in front of me. I handed him the goat bones Luis had cut for me the night Señor Pico had come home. He smiled as he thanked me, pulled on the unraveling hem of his short pants, then ran off to show the other children his prize.
    Félice was sitting on the doorstep in front of Kongo’s room, her fingers trembling as she picked at the birthmark beneath her nostrils.
    “Kongo here?” I asked.
    She nodded.
    “Why don’t you go inside and sit with him?”
    “He won’t receive me,” she said.
    I peeked through the bit of palm frond that served as Kongo’s door. The room was dim, except for an oil lamp at his feet. There were two old mats facing each other on the dirt floor and a pile of half gourds and earthen jars in the middle. Kongo sat on his own mat, squeezing a rare, precious, ball of flour dough in and out of the spaces between his fingers. He cursed the flour, murmuring that nothing ever took shape the way one wanted it to.
    Félice motioned for me to go to Kongo. “I know he will receive you,” she said.
    “Old Kongo?” I called from the doorway. “It’s Amabelle, come to see you.”
    Kongo moved aside the scrap of palm frond and let me in. I walked over to the mat where his son Joël had once slept. A pair of clean dark pants and a bright yellow shirt were laid out as though Joël had set them down to be grabbed in a hurry. I leaned towards the old man to better see his face.
    “Too dark?” he asked.
    “A little,” I said.
    “M’renmen darkness,” he said. “In sugar land, a shack’s for sleeping, not for living. Living is only work, the fields. Darkness means rest.”
    “Darkness is good,” I said, simply to agree.
    “Is she still there?” he asked of Félice. “I told her to leave, I did, but she won’t go. She can’t stay all night. I don’t want her to stay.”
    Félice stirred and cleared her throat as though to remind Kongo that she was listening.
    “You the woman who’s with Sebastien?” he asked. “You Amabelle?”
    “Yes.”
    “When he was killed, my son, Sebastien found the clothes you see next to you, to bury him in. Brought me a pile of wood, Sebastien did, to make a coffin for my son. Sebastien, he is like my own blood.”
    “Condolences,” I said. “I am sad for the death of Joel.”
    He plopped the dough on the ground and pounded it with his knuckles.
    “I was asked to make a request of you,” I said. “Don Ignacio, the elder at the house where I am, would like to come see you.”
    He removed his hand from the dough and concentrated on digging the flour out from underneath his fingernails. Then he reached into his pocket for snuff and took a pinch.
    “That is a strange request, Amabelle,” he said. “What do they want with me, these people?”
    “Don Ignacio wishes to talk to you of Joël’s accident.”
    “I don’t know if it was an accident, Amabelle. He was not one to die so easy, my son.” He raised his face towards the ceiling to keep the snuff from sliding from his nose down to his chin. Outside Félice cleared her throat again, this time it sounded like she was crying.
    “The elder, Papi, he would like to pay for Joel’s funeral,” I said.
    “No funeral for Joël,” he said. “I wanted to bury him in our own land where he was born, I did, but he was too heavy to carry so far. I buried him where he died in the ravine. I buried him in a field of lemongrass, my son.” He lowered his head, letting the tobacco mix drop to his chest. “He was one of those children who grew like the weeds in the fields, my son. Didn’t need nobody or nothing, but he did love his father. It wasn’t ceremonious the way I buried him, I know. No clothes, no coffin, nothing between him and the dry ground. I wanted to give him back to the soil the way his mother passed him to me on the first day of his life.”
    I could hear the children outside drawing sticks to decide who