“Oh, I don’t need to let that sink in. It’s been ‘sunk in’ for years,” she said. “So to confirm, you’re saying that a ‘voodoo’ ceremony, with all the bells and whistles of the singing and dancing and blood and chanting, brought Haiti this earthquake—”
“It’s quite unfortunate—”
“—that those people planning this insurrection in 1791 made a literal pact with the devil in exchange for their freedom—”
“When you say it like that—”
“—and that is what was behind all this?” She gestured toward the pile of rubble that had been the national palace. “It wasn’t a slip on a fault that caused a release of energy that produced seismic waves that tremored throughout the earth and resulted in what seismologists consider an earthquake?”
“Perhaps that’s the scientific reasoning, but there are things at work that even we don’t know about,” he said.
“So the countries behind hideous atrocities like colonizing occupied lands and raping and murdering their inhabitants and enslaving millions of people...what has been their retribution?” My mother didn’t wait for a response. “Thanks for being here. Let’s bring in our next guest.”
* * *
I kneeled and removed the empty mason jar I’d brought in my large purse.
“Hipster blogger or vodou priestess, you gotta pick one,” Jason whispered.
“Why are you whispering?” I said, also whispering.
“I don’t know. It just seems like we should...” he said. I’d had Jason come along for his car. Tati Estelle’s driver, Fernand, was off, but I knew Jason would give me a ride and some company without asking too many questions. And if we’re being honest, I didn’t want to be alone. Walking late at night in a wide, dusty field would make anyone uneasy.
My knowledge of this place, Bois Caïman, was restricted to the old myth that had informed my epic appalling class presentation and my mom taking down that pastor who came on her show. Yet there I was, taking shaky steps up a hill that was supposedly a contraction in the first labor pains of this country. I was on a continuum that had me oscillating between doubting my mother’s warnings and wanting to heed them. If I were reading about a random seventeen-year-old attempting to overthrow an eternal curse to save her mom, I’d say the poor kid’s brains were fried.
Except. Except one of the things I’ve most admired about my mom was her ability to go after the answers she needed. Even she had given Roseline’s proposition a shot all those years ago, despite resenting the idea of a family curse her entire life. Meanwhile, I had spent my fair share of energy resenting her for not caring enough to find a solid place for me in her world. Breaking this curse was my way of handing her the world again and hoping I’d have a closer spot in her orbit.
Hitting up a few historic landmarks and scooping up some dirt (which is all Roseline instructed me to do) would help my mom or it wouldn’t—it couldn’t make things any worse. So I ask again, why not?
I dragged the open jar across the ground, picking up brown clods until the container was a quarter filled. I paused and looked up at Jason, who was leaning against a tree a few feet away from me. He tilted his head as he watched me but said nothing. I waited for a sign—the wind to howl, an alligator to hiss. I’d even take a rustling of leaves. Nothing happened. My mind flickered to the mental picture I’d formed of my aunt writhing in pain on this same land, and I counted my blessings. I patted down the soil on the ground to smooth over the evidence of where I’d dug and twisted the jar’s top closed.
“All right. Let’s go.”
UPDATED TO-DO LIST FROM ROSELINE’S PLACES TO VISIT
Bois Caïman
Sans-Souci Palace
Labadie
Citadelle Laferrière
Sunday, February 28
The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant
My dad’s parents died when he was twenty-five. The last time he returned to Haiti was for their funeral.
“There’s nothing there for me anymore,” he’d say when I’d ask him every so often why we didn’t visit. I never mentioned that, when I was much younger, I’d heard him unsuccessfully try to convince my mom to agree to a family trip. The only thing that had changed since then was that I was here now. And Mom too. I suspect she had gone crying to him for backup as soon as I’d taken my slice of cake to my room after our argument.
The morning after he arrived, I was rolling dough to make dumplings with her when he announced that he was going to check out his old “stomping grounds” and told me I’d be coming along.
My mother snorted. It was the most relaxed I’d ever seen her.
“Ha. Your use of ‘stomping grounds’ suggests you ran things over in Limonade when that’s the furthest thing from the truth,” she said.
“Ahh, but I am a big man bearing gifts now,” he said.
Dad took Tati Estelle’s car, a temperamental stick shift I personally would’ve refused to drive anywhere near the steep cliffs that formed the path to Limonade. I had mostly adjusted to the bumpy roads and no longer felt the extreme nausea that I had when I first got to the island. But now, the thought of seeing where my father grew up, the environment that made him the obnoxiously nerdy and earnest man who raised me, twisted my stomach in anticipation.
As we continued farther and farther into Cap-Haïtien, the homes got smaller and less vibrant. Many houses were covered in peeling paint, suggesting they were once just as cheerful and bright, albeit more modest, as the ones in my aunt’s neighborhood. We pulled up to a wooden fence that was covered in vines and got out of the car. A rickety door that led to the house was propped open with a cinder block, and we could smell the sweet scent of tobacco wafting over to us.
“I don’t own the house anymore, since I sold it when my parents died,” Dad said. “There are people living here now, so we really shouldn’t disturb them, but...”
Dad walked through the doorway and shouted a greeting to the old man who sat on a stool in front of the house. He was smoking a corncob pipe, his mouth opening and closing like a fish washed ashore and gasping for air.
“We’re just looking, friend!” Dad said in Creole. “I used to live here when I was younger.”
The old man nodded, unbothered, and continued puffing on his pipe.
“This is it,” my dad said, turning to me. The land the house stood on was impossibly small compared to my mom’s family home. The Dubois estate was ten times as big, the house before us easily the size of the suite that Tati Estelle slept in. The exposed concrete bricks were painted a faded salmon color, the ramshackle tin roof a lighter shade of pink. Trees lined the outskirts of the enclosure and served only to make the packed dirt that surrounded the house look even more desolate and barren. I suddenly had a much better sense of why Dad worked so much. Even when you’ve “made it,” you’re scared to death about losing it all.
“Home, sweet home,” Dad said with a small smile as we turned and left through the gate, waving to the old man as we did.
I followed silently as Dad led the way down a dirt path that acted as a makeshift sidewalk, each house a faded arc in the spectrum of a rainbow. I tried to imagine my dad as a child, growing up and walking down this trail every day for school. Did he always know that he would eventually leave this place and build another life for himself hundreds of miles away?
The farther we walked, the more trailing plants lined our steps. The houses were becoming more scarce until we eventually came upon a large clearing. It was the biggest plot of land that I had seen since coming to Dad’s old neighborhood.
“This used to be a farm,” he said as we continued to walk. We rounded a bend and I could see a small house a short distance away. “I would spend every afternoon here when school let out.”
“Doing what?”
“My father worked for the man that owned this little farm. It’s not much land, but
the yard was filled with corn, sweet potatoes, and bananas. Whenever there was a surplus, the owner would let my dad take some to sell for himself and he would take it home to my mother. Together, my parents sold enough to get me through school and that was pretty much all they could afford.”
“How did you get all the way over to Mom’s old neighborhood?”
“I walked. I didn’t get these calves ’cause I was blessed with good genes,” he joked. “These days, my old neighbors take care of things the best they can, but the owner died years ago.”
“It looks like the soil died right along with him,” I said.
We finally reached the house and knocked loudly on the dark blue door before us. The rest of the house was painted a bright green, the same exact shade as a chayote. A woman in a paisley muumuu with a baby on her hip answered the door and gasped when she saw my dad.
“Ah-ah! Could this really be Jules?” She hugged him tightly.
“Oui, Anne. And this is my daughter, Alaine.”
I waved and gave her a peck on the cheek.
“Come in, come in. Daniel, come see!”
Three more children sat on the floor of the small living room.
A middle-aged man in a gray undershirt walked in and made the same exclamation. I guess my dad really was a big man now.
“Well, if it isn’t Ti Blanc!” he said, referring to my dad as a “white man” the way Haitians routinely did expats or their children.
“Daniel. You have a beautiful family. How are you?” They clapped each other forcefully on the back.
“Not bad. Hungry—but what’s new?” I always found it fascinating that Haitians were more likely to tell you the truth about their conditions. No “I’m fine” here, not when the children were so plainly thin. There were no ballooning stomachs poking out from malnutrition, but his children did appear frailer than I looked in pictures at their ages. I tried not to stare at the little girl who greeted us as she adjusted the strap of her dress for the fifth time.
I pressed my cheek against Daniel’s and kissed the air beside it. Then I settled onto the floor to get to know the kids.
Nehemie was eight and sucked his thumb as he looked at me warily. Samuel was five and a half and remained curled into a ball asleep on the floor, even through all the welcoming/shouting.
Julmise, ten, was the oldest and only girl. She was named for my father. I’d had no idea anyone admired him enough to do that. I doubt I’d ever been prouder of him than I was at that moment.
“I want to be a doctor like Tonton Jules,” she said. “I’m good in school.”
“That’s great!” I said, leafing through the stack of classwork she handed me from their low table. All 100/100. “Keep up the good work and you will be.”
“Do you want to be a doctor?” she asked.
“No. But I do want to help people,” I said.
“How?”
“There are lots of ways,” I said, crossing my arms.
“Like what?”
“The usual ones.”
Julmise looked at me dubiously. So much for child whisperer.
“Where’s your maman?”
“Home.” I hesitated. “She’s sick.”
“I can heal her when I’m a doctor.”
My throat suddenly closed up, my eyes prickling with unshed tears as I smiled at Julmise and patted her hand.
There are so many more of these kids we could be helping with PATRON PAL, I thought to myself. They had ambition and dreams but no outlets to plug them into. My eyes fell on a card.
I cleared my throat a few times before speaking. “What’s this?”
“My Patron,” Julmise said. She analyzed my face. “Do you have a...Pal?”
“I do, thanks to my allowance. His name is Jeremie... But tell me, what does your Patron do for you?”
“Eh bien, are you talking about that PATRON PAL crap?” Daniel called from his seat. “Those people promised us enough money to pay for school. They said that they’d pair each of the children with a sponsor who would then pay for them to complete their studies. At first, we were reluctant to even join. The thought of the children’s faces plastered all over the internet was a little alarming. But we went through with it because we want the kids to have a better shot and make it out of here...like you did, Jules. But the payments haven’t been consistent at all. These Patrons barely send enough for Julmise, let alone Samuel. And there’s always something wrong with the app. We’ve had to hold Samuel back and use the money towards Julmise. We know that if at least one of the kids is able to finish school, that will help us all.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dad asked.
“Oh-oh, Jules, this isn’t your responsibility,” Daniel said.
“Didn’t I say I was your family? You can come to me for anything, especially if the kids have been unable to go to school.”
“It’s just that we know that the Dubois woman was your sister-in-law... We didn’t want you to think we were asking you for special treatment,” Anne said apologetically.
“I’d never think that,” Dad said, frowning.
After about another hour of catching up, my dad cleared his throat.
“We have to get going, but I had to greet you two while I was in town and introduce you to my daughter.”
He slipped something into Daniel’s hand when he shook it goodbye. Daniel held on for a beat and whispered, “Merci.
“God may have taken Davide in that earthquake, but he sent me another brother,” Daniel said more loudly, clearing his throat.
“Then please use me as one,” my father said. “You know I can help you with anything you need.”
“When was the last time you had bonbon sirop?” Anne said.
“Too long.”
We walked back to the car, arms heavy with bags filled with the sweet-smelling sugarcane cake.
Dad fiddled with the key before sticking it into the ignition. He looked at his hands and then shifted in his seat. Hemmed. Hawed.
“Alaine. I could’ve been Daniel. Easily. We grew up on the same block, knew the same people. I just had parents who could scrounge up the money to send me to school. And even then I was ashamed of them. I’m not proud to admit it, but I am mature enough to acknowledge that what I was feeling was embarrassment...for something they had no control over. I met your mother near the end of high school, and once I did, I wanted to hide my own life and adopt the lavish one she led just a few miles west. I remember once being too afraid to tell her that I couldn’t call home because we didn’t have a phone.
“I spent so many afternoons skipping out on my responsibilities to my family, chasing after a life that I would’ve never even known had I not met your mother. My parents must have been disappointed. They knew they raised me better than that. And I barely came home when I went away to the States for medical school...” He cleared his throat and wiped his eyes with his ubiquitous handkerchief.
“I had some more growing up to do when my parents died. I let this place go and tried not to think of the people I’d left behind. Even after I became a doctor and started sending my money to a few neighbors in the village, I’ve carried this ghost on my back. But I like to think my parents forgave me, because they were kind people. Modest. They loved what they had and never stopped me from pursuing more than what I could see from the small field they tended.
“I guess what I mean to get at in all my meandering is this—your parents are trying their best. Don’t let anything stop you from helping your loved ones if you have the means, even if it feels like you’re doing nothing.”
I looked him in the eyes and nodded. “I know.”
Monday, February 29
SAVED INSTANT MESSAGES ON THE ONLINE WORK
PLATFORM “SLACKR” B/T ME AND TATI ESTELLE
Alaine B. 10:16 AM
Howdy!
Estelle D. 10:30 AM
Hi there! Kind of busy, do you need anything?
Alaine B. 10:31 AM
No worries—I checked your calendar and saw you’ll be running around all day but I wanted to bring your attention to something... That family I visited with my dad yesterday actually had 3 kids enrolled in PATRON PAL and they said they’re really struggling...like not-having-enough-to-send-every-one-of-their-kids-to-school struggling. It sounded like they weren’t getting what they should’ve been. Shouldn’t we be using the money that some Pals receive above the school tuition towards other students whose Pals might not be as consistent?
Estelle D. 10:32 AM
I can’t really get into this right now. I’ll take a closer look but it’ll have to wait until after my 10:30. Talk later!
The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant
Getting another ride from Jason apparently came with strings.
“Sure,” he said over our standing lunch at the best (and worst only) food truck in our plaza on Monday. “But I’m going to need something from you in return.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “I can give you gas money.”
He laughed. A piece of fried yuca flew from his mouth and he quickly dabbed at his lips. It was gross but slightly endearing? Ugh, forget it, just gross.
“The gas I got,” he said. “A date I need... Or in clearer terms, would you like to go to my cousin’s wedding with me?”
I smiled, my mind firing off a trillion questions: What will I do with my hair? What will I wear? What do his shoulders look like in a tux? Equal or better than when he’s in a sweatshirt? Can he dance? Can I dance? Am I going on a date with a college boy? Why didn’t I ever pay attention when Kaylee Johnson bragged about going out with college guys? Does it even really matter though? Shouldn’t I just be myself? Blech. Why do I sound so much like Dad right now?
What I actually went with was “Can’t hold off the zuzu girls alone?”
“God, no. I need you to keep me company and stave off any intrusive questions from my relatives. You in?”
Dear Haiti, Love Alaine Page 21