by Ted Oswald
Cinéus and Wilnor carry Lolo into the shack like he’s a dead man. Libète does all she can not to run far and fast.
They lay him on the ground. There’s a dirty bucket thick with calm flies, and the men’s careless shuffling sees the flies rise and then return to the bucket’s filth. Libète hovers behind the guards, outside. She palms at her throat, and then her chest. She feels another bout of coughs coming on.
— I’ll go and get him some water, Prosper says.
Libète’s face tightens. She does not hear the words.
Lolo. Here.
It is incomprehensible. The intersection of her parallel lives makes the world seem like it might implode. I can never get away. No matter where I go. Nothing I can do–
— He looks like death, Cinéus says to himself. Don’t you catch what this one has, girl! We wouldn’t want to see you in such state.
— Are you all right being left with him? Wilnor asks.
Libète sniffs and nods without speaking. The odds were impossible. How could this be? A cruel coincidence? God’s judgment for running, hiding, and spurning him?
The two men left her as she stared at Lolo, a husk of a man. Prosper returned with a lidded plastic bucket full of water. He laid it down.
— What a disease. What do you think he has?
— Tuberculosis. She spoke the word as a reflex.
— Yeah? How do you know?
She didn’t respond; only knelt before the sick man. Lolo’s breath was shallow, rasped. Her thoughts flew again before returning, like the flies.
— What can you do for him?
— I’ll . . . need to try to wake him before long. Give him water. Try to get him to eat some food. He needs rest. His body is shutting down because of the illness. She suddenly realized that the stains on Lolo’s shirt were dried blood.
— Sophia. I . . . I just want to say that . . . I can’t imagine what you’re going through.
She spun. How could Prosper know who this man was? What his presence here meant to her?
— I know you’ve been told to leave Foche. And I just want to say, I think it’s wrong.
Libète snapped to attention. She rose. You listened to my conversation with your mother? But you couldn’t have. You left when I arrived . . .
It dawned on her. You were there, she whispered. She looked at his eyes; registered them. They were the same ones she had seen behind her escort’s mask. You’re one of the Sosyete!
— I’m an initiate. I have no power. If I did, I would speak up for you. It’s wrong what they’re doing.
— Who? Who are they? Others from Foche?
— I . . . can’t say. The words pained him. You know I can’t. But I hope you know that I want to.
Thoughts of remaining now almost made her laugh. With Lolo here, everything was changed. Flight was a necessity. Unless . . .
A new, terrible thought came to her.
— Wash your hands when you get home, she ordered.
— What?
— I’ll stay with him.
— I can’t leave you alone with this one.
— I’ll stay with him.
— He’s a thief! What happens when he wakes?
She felt flames rise inside her chest. So many repressed feelings; they were the air to give this fire life.
— I don’t need you, Prosper. She rose up. I don’t need someone as weak as you. As pathetic as you. Creeping in where you’re not wanted, living in the shadow of a great mother. You need to go, and you need to go now.
Prosper’s jaw clenched. Each sentence was a new slash and cut, ending his hopes that she might want him, might care for him. He deflated. She could see her words had her desired effect.
He left, simply floated away.
The coughs arrived again, making her heave, bringing her to her knees. She wiped at her mouth with her wrist, pulling it away in horror. San. Blood.
She too had Lolo’s disease. Contracted when and how she did not know. All of these months since arriving, she had been without medication. She had finished most of the treatment cycle, thought it might have been enough to keep her latent form of tuberculosis from becoming full-blown. She had felt no real change in her health, only a tugging at the back of her throat these past months. There had been mild fear of infecting others, but she was close to none but Magdala and had willed herself, despite the evidence, into believing she was well. And now, Lolo’s arrival seemed to aggravate the condition. His presence tore down every bit of fictive protection and health she had built around herself these months.
There was nowhere she could have peace unless his threat was stamped out.
She undid her headscarf and balled it in her fist. Her mind was blank, her face empty, raw impulse motivating her as her conscience’s influence was rendered null.
She took the mass in her hand and guided it to cover the subtle slit of Lolo’s mouth and end him.
She runs, runs fast down the shore.
She runs, runs till her lungs cry out.
She runs, runs till her sides scream.
She collapses, falls to the ground, fingers snagging the earth like anchor flukes. She would have sobbed if only she could breathe.
The prayers–long percolating, ready to bubble out of her–she caps.
Non.
This is not the time to call on some aloof Deity, the uncaring Thing of reputed power, the knowing Author of all this misery.
Non.
She hears the motorcycle coming along a parallel road, the bike’s grumbling cadence now familiar. Her tears wet the pebbles below, mingling till they dry and disappear. Soon a shadow hovers over her, and she can look only to its owner’s familiar feet.
He kneels beside her, bends over her, pauses before he wraps his arm around her. All will be well, he promises. All will be well, Jak whispers.
How can you say such a thing? How can you know? she wants to scream at him.
But she doesn’t. She can’t.
He pries her hands from the earth, dries her eyes with the backs of his wrists. And seemingly possessed, he kisses her forehead, softly.
Libète, my friend, he whispers. There is more.
Despite everything, she believes.
Her mind lingers in the fog of what followed her flight: the beach, the kiss, the walking back hand in hand. Stephanie and Dimanche setting to packing, planning in hushed voices, animated by new purpose and fear.
Questions were finally posed.
Why are we separating? Too dangerous to stay together.
Where am I going? The north.
With Dimanche? Yes.
Where is Jak going? The east.
For how long?
Silence. Empty air.
Jak and Libète sat side by side in the beached boat, given the gift of a final, quiet moment together.
He reached into his things and withdrew his salvaged notepad. He opened to a page, flipping through notes and sketches to a beautifully rendered portrait of her. Though torn into fragments, it was her, the restored her, smiling, eyes alight.
— You did that? She gave a sad smile, seeing herself as she longed to be.
— Will you take it? To remember me?
Her head bobbed.
Dimanche had a green canvas duffel he threw in the sidecar, a sack half-full. They saw him turn and pause to take in the boat, the peaceful water and dull, descending Sun. He turned his back on his nets and traps and solicitude to look at Libète. We’ll get you more things, he said quietly. On the road. To wear. Stephanie was fussing with the BMW’s trunk, its lid reluctant to clasp shut after its unmentioned collision.
A bird, a final messenger, was placed in Libète’s red book bag. To carry word once we’ve made it to where we’re going, Dimanche said. There’s no phone coverage there.
And then it was time. Dimanche, stiff and tall, shook hands with Jak and Stephanie. The tension between girl and woman had settled again, and they kissed the other’s cheeks coldly. Libète was reluctant to catch her
eyes. Go safely, Stephanie said. You too, Libète said reflexively.
When Libète reached Jak, she could not look at him. These new, strange feelings stirring within her both frightened and consoled. The one held the other for a time, knowing they faced a future where the only certainty was that they would not enter it together.
— Now, Dimanche uttered.
Libète whispered to Jak and Jak whispered back, words none but the two of them could hear.
They separated.
As Dimanche kick-started the bike and Stephanie turned the car’s key, Stephanie spoke for them all:
— N a we talè, she said, her eyes wet. We’ll see you soon.
Libète holds the cloth an inch from Lolo’s mouth.
She sees his brow is crumpled. The corner of his mouth tugs, as if what plays out in the depths of his subconscious is torturous. She breathes, and deep. Her fingers are inflexible talons, grasping the scarf.
There is more.
The words resurface, inexplicably so, spoken to her in what feels like another age. Her eyelids flit. Her mind toggles from past to present to past.
Jak.
Wha–what am I doing?
She reels back, repulsed by what has claimed her. And yet, unable to resist, she finds herself returned to her perch over Lolo, her cloth again at the ready. A battle rages inside.
— I’m so tired, she sobs.
The door to the shack opens, and Libète leaps backward.
— Sophia? Magdala stands there, mouth agape. What are you doing?
Libète stammered something. Shame was writ large across her face.
Magdala laid down a bowl of piping hot cassava. Janel asked me to bring this one food, Magdala said. She shifted her stance and looked at what the girl grasped. Again she asked: Sophia–why were you so close to the sick man?
Libète skirted against the ground and into the corner. I’m a wretch! she cried. A wretch!
— Sophia! Magdala shouted. What’s come over you?
— I’m not Sophia, I’m not Sophia, that’s not my name. Please, please don’t call me that.
— You don’t look well, Magdala said. She touched Libète’s forehead. You’re ill! You’re feverish! And what’s this blood on you?
— The fever’s nothing! My name is Libète. And I was going to kill that man.
Magdala recoiled. How could you consider–
— Paske m fini! I’m finished, I’m finished, I’m finished.
Magdala tolerated none of this. She grabbed Libète’s shoulders and shook her. Calm yourself! The strength behind the words gave Libète pause.
— Sophi–I mean, Libète–tell me more. Please, so I can help you.
Libète couldn’t decide which place to start. I, I’m from Port-au-Prince. I was pursued, chased far from home when I came to you. I was accused, falsely, of the murder of a friend. I fled those who would take my life. And I know something, a secret, information that if learned makes my life–the lives of everyone I care about–worthless.
— What is this secret? What could it be?
Libète’s lips pursed and eyes watered. I don’t even know its meaning. But I don’t dare share it. I don’t dare place this burden on another’s shoulders. She moaned. I’ve thought about it for all of these months and I can’t understand it. I have many enemies. I ran afoul of a certain businessman. I ruined his name by making known his secret crimes. He wants me dead, I know. But there are others who want this secret. It’s the only thing that kept me from harm before I arrived here. So one hand shielded me while the other hand tried to end me.
Magdala shook her head. But who is this one here, then? The one who would end you or the one who would shield you? To find you all the way on the other side of Haiti! Ay!
— He is–was–a friend. I saved him a long time ago, and he betrayed me. Tried to poison me but poisoned my friend instead, the one whose death I’m blamed for. But how he has come to be here–I have no idea!
— He mustn’t see you then! You must hide! He’s a thief, I hear? No one will believe a word he says anyway. I’ll tell Janel! She’ll see you protected.
— No. I have to go. Now. It’s certain.
Magdala gripped the nearby wall for support. Then tonight, if it must be! Get down off the mountain! This will pass! Yes, yes. It all will pass. Magdala’s face betrayed the confidence of her words. Libète buried her face in her hands.
— Li-bè-te. Magdala said the name like it was difficult to pronounce–Foche will not let these vagabonds take you. Go away, just for a time. Félix can go with you. The Sosyete, they’ll change their mind if Janel is on your side. She’ll find a way!
Libète looked up with glistening eyes. You think?
Magdala nodded. I do. After all, the end of hope–
— Is the end of us all, Libète said, finishing the sentence.
— Go, Libète. Collect your things. I’ll keep watch over this one and make sure you have time to get away.
Libète hugged the woman fiercely. You are too good to me. I’m just a visitor who overstayed her welcome.
— A visitor? Please! Magdala poked Libète’s chest. You’re my daughter, through and through.
Libète kissed her cheek. Mèsi, Magdala. For your hope.
Libète took up her abandoned scarf near Lolo’s head. She turned back to see Magdala leaning against the wall, wide-eyed and gripped by fear.
— What is it? Libète turned back to Lolo. He faced them with open eyes and loosed a shout that defied his shriveled form: It’s her! I see her! The murderer is here! Libète is here!
Flight
Fòk ou konn chemen anvan ou pran wout.
You must learn the way before you take the road.
They speed up into mountains bathed in cloud, a great haze of unknowing. North, north, north, until the light is spent, and they are spent.
A bump sends her bouncing an inch. Dull pain jumps from her battered muscles. Libète’s body aches from the day’s exertion: fighting off Dimanche, in whose custody she now found herself, and sprinting on the beach, an attempt to escape the very life she found herself careening toward. She shifts in the sidecar. Her knees are tucked into her chest and her chin tucked into her knees, to fit their bags, hide her face, and permit her to drift in and out of deep sadness and into sleep.
Another bump, and slowing. Dimanche pulls off the road into an ominous grove of trees.
— Why are we stopping here?
— You need rest.
She extracts herself from the sidecar. Her legs prick as her blood circulates again. It is cold, and a breeze heavy with unease twirls about in the mists. Uncurling makes her shiver. He sees this and takes off his loose, billowy jacket. Put it on, he orders. She does ungrudgingly.
The bike’s headlamp stays on, and he sets his sack before it to rifle through its contents. He hands her a blanket, then a half-full water bottle and peanuts, all without instruction. We’ll start again in a few hours, he finally says. There it is again, the pistol, pulled from his waistband as his gaze sweeps the rows of trees. He kills the light when the stillness satisfies him.
Moonlight struggles to pierce the canopy. She stumbles over the uneven clods of earth as her eyes adjust to the dark. She turns, questions the dark: You going to sleep?
— No.
— Aren’t you tired?
— No.
She lays the blanket down on a patch of level ground and wraps herself. Sleep descends after a time, but a final thought arrives before its fall.
What are you, Dimanche?
Lolo shouts, and he shouts, and he roars.
Libète cannot move, she cannot. Magdala throws the bucket of water over him, and he gasps and chokes. She next butts Libète to the side and straddles Lolo, the skeleton he is, and pins him with her strong arms. Her hand soon locks his mouth tight.
— Go! Get away! Magdala shouts.
Libète trips over the doorjamb and makes a mad sprint. Neighbors poke heads out of homes, but Libète is gone, s
lipping into darkness behind outcrops and cornstalks. Worrying about Magdala, she spins. Cinéus and Wilnor rush up to the shack, their dog lunging ahead of them.
She sighed. Finally they’ll do some good. Shouting spilled from inside, and then a scream. Magdala was there, in the entrance, and Wilnor yanked her by the wrist. She fought the grip and pummeled him. He retaliated. The blow, a hard one, sent her to the ground.
Libète ran toward Magdala reflexively, then stopped. Whether because of fear or selfishness or reason, she paused.
Cinéus next brought out Lolo, who was sopping and genuinely weak. He was bent double over the ground and coughed into it as his lungs denied him breath. All she heard was shouting, incomprehensible words, but still Libète knew. They’re in league! And yet again, Lolo was a lie.
She tried to fit the pieces into place. Benoit sent Lolo here? As far as she knew, Benoit wasn’t still pursuing her.
Neighbors began streaming to Magdala’s aid. Foche won’t let this stand. Weapons were drawn, and the shouting became cacophony.
It was a race. Libète didn’t know how long she had before Cinéus and Wilnor had dealt with the growing crowd and began prowling the hills to find her.
Her lungs burned as she tore along the mountain trails, speeding up inclines and treacherous drops to reach Magdala’s home. Her bag in hand, she stuffed everything she would need to hide: clothes, her recovered notebook and pen, a cup, toothbrush, matches, her roll-up sleeping mat, and three unripe avocados. She would head down the mountainside where she wasn’t so known, glean from crops, live in shadows, and let the truth gradually untie the knotted plot in which she found herself entangled.
She sprinted out the door and shot up the path toward the fort. It was past sundown. Félix would most certainly be there.
— Félix! she called in a rasped roar. Félix! She continued to work her way up the darkened rock path. The boy appeared, modesty seeing him don a collared shirt.
— Sophia? He finished buttoning it up. I mean, Libète?
— It’s me.
— Sa k ap fèt? Did Janel say she could help?
— She said she’d try–but that’s nothing now, absolutely nothing. I have to leave. Your mother . . . Libète struggled, her sick lungs rebelling against all of the exertion. Needs your help, she gasped.