been weeks since the quake struck. I hope you don’t hold it against me for asking you this now. I’ve been busy with life. You know how it is.
I hear communication is still pretty bad between here and there; hear it’s tough getting through. Have you been able to reach your people? From what I understand communication was pretty below standard even before this thing happened. I’m guessing you don’t know much of anything. Who would? Come to think of it, you may never know if all your family is accounted for. Dear God!
Listen, dear, I understand. I really do. I’ve even had a nightmare or two. If I were in your shoes, I don’t know what I would do. I can’t even begin to wrap my brain around some of the images I’ve seen on CNN. I can’t imagine what your people must be going through. The scope of this mess is like nothing the world has ever seen. Dead bodies in wheelbarrows. Dead bodies being shoveled into mass graves. Blood everywhere. Dust and blood. No one has a name. No one is accounted for, right?
This sort of thing must never happen on US soil. I’ve got kids, you know: a boy and a girl, plus one on the way. Can you imagine? I don’t know what I would do if something like that happened here.
Even our military guys down in your country are having a difficult time. And some of those guys have done tours in Iraq, Afghanistan. They say your country has the desert beat by a thousand miles. I read somewhere that the soldiers now have trouble sleeping. They can’t keep food down. They’re going to need serious assistance after this quake thing blows over. War, you know, is different. You expect to see certain things on the battlefield. You expect to hear certain noises, cries. You expect to smell certain smells. You expect to see death. A lot of it, in fact. But this is not war.
My heart goes out to you, dear. And to your family. Believe me when I tell you that. My heart goes out to your country too. I’d never heard so much about that place in my entire life before the quake hit.
You know, I became so interested and curious that I started to do a little research myself. I had no idea you guys were the first black republic. 1804, right? That’s pretty impressive. I saw something about the maroon people: slaves so clever no one could catch them. It was cool the way they hid in those hills. I’ll have to go back and read a little more about them. I like to know about that sort of thing.
I found out your country used to be gorgeous too. Imagine that! It was the place to be once upon a time, am I right? They called it the Pearl, or something like that. That sounds so resort-like, you know: Come on down to the Pearl. Lose your shoes and your troubles. Have a cocktail with one of those little umbrellas in them. Somebody told me Elizabeth Taylor and other movie stars used to vacation down there. I hear Bill and Hillary Clinton honeymooned down there. Who knew Haiti was a place to have a honeymoon?
Hey, can you believe your country is next to the Dominican Republic? It’s like one of those masks you see in the theater: comedy and tragedy, right? I’ve taken my family to the DR several times. Nice place. Amazing beaches. Good food! You’d never know your country was right next door.
Yes . . . of course . . . forgive me . . . Here I am going on and on, telling you what you probably already know. Believe me when I tell you I really, truly do feel your pain. I can almost put myself in your shoes. So, let’s get back to your question about bereavement pay.
Yes. If you consult the employee manual, you’ll see how bereavement is broken down according to proximity. Your mind might be all jumbled up right now with all that you must be going through. Mine would be too. So let me help you find the information you need:
If you lose a mother or a father, that’s an automatic five days off. With pay. If you lose a sister or a brother, three days, also with pay. Grandparents: two days (but you only get paid for one). First cousins: one day, without pay. An uncle or an aunt—depending on how close you were to them, half a day (and we’ll need proof, of course . . . you know . . . something to show you were actually at a memorial service . . . you understand . . . oh . . . wait . . . in your case . . . given the circumstances . . . well, how do I put this? . . . given what we’ve all seen on TV . . . you won’t be required to provide that sort of proof).
Back to the list. Yes . . . second cousins. Let’s see. No . . . they’re not on the list. You would not be allowed time off per se, but there’s always your lunch hour. At any rate, you can see, second cousins are not on the list. Your mother-in-law’s brother on her father’s side . . . no, also not on the list . . . Your cousin’s sister on his mother’s side . . . nope, sorry . . . The lady who took care of you for ten years while your parents immigrated to another country to work and send money so you could eat and go to school . . . sorry, not on the list either . . . The lady’s children? Come on, are you kidding me?
PART II
FLORA
THE HUNTERS
Her black curls glistened in the sunlight streaming through a hole in the corrugated tin roof. Take away those layers of dust and the spider webs crisscrossed on her lace-trimmed bib; take away that three-inch long crack in her right leg; anyone would have mistaken her for a real baby—a good, well-behaved baby, waiting patiently for her bottle of warm milk with a spoonful of powdered rice thrown in.
Nine years later and I still wonder what happened to that doll. She did not fall out of the high chair and drag her fractured limb out of the house. I searched everywhere for days. For years I entertained the fantasy that a street child had crept upstairs and taken the doll. But no one had broken into our house. The landlord must have lied. Nothing mysterious about that. Grown-ups lied all the time, to one another and to kids. Especially to kids: Be a good girl, sweetie, and take this balloon to the latrine for me. Don’t untie the knot. Don’t try to blow it up either. It’s a special kind of balloon. It’s no good once it’s been used. And it’s been used. Heh! Heh!
Of course the landlord lied. I can still hear him talking to Manman as if she were a child: “See that door at the top of the stairs? Don’t ever open it. You won’t pay rent for the room behind it. So pretend it’s not there . . . Oh, you see a doll through the keyhole? Just ignore it. My last tenant had kids too. Three girls, like you. The doll must have belonged to them. Look, madame, if you don’t want to rent the house, hurry up and say so. I’ve got fifteen other people lined up.”
“Mister, please.” Manman had been nervous. She needed that house for two reasons: the rent was the cheapest she had found anywhere, and the school which my sisters and I would attend was so close we could see our classrooms from the front porch.
Manman dared not look into the landlord’s eyes. “How many months do you want in advance, mister?”
“Two will do.” The man kept his own eyes on the sweetsop tree behind Manman.
“Two?” Usually, landlords were not so kind. Manman had expected him to ask for at least four months in advance.
“Yes, two.”
“God bless you.” Manman thumbed through the spectrum of Haitian currency in her hands: blue, brown, orange. A couple of green US dollars sat on the stack like icing on a cake.
The landlord took the money from Manman and counted it. When he was done, he said: “Welcome to your new home, madame.” A friendly smile played on his lips. He knew all along that Manman would take the house.
“Thank you, mister. Bon Dye va beni w. God will bless you.”
* * *
The landlord had his reasons for keeping us out of the doll room. Nine years later and I still wonder what those reasons were. Flora Desormeau, I tell myself, forget the doll. But I can’t forget—just as I cannot forget the day Manman came home late and as a routine peeped through that keyhole. “Where is she?” Manman was so distraught that the doll was gone she said it was time for us to leave the house too. She fished out her dog-eared Bible and the long list of highly recommended psalms that she carried in her purse for protection—like a switchblade or a loaded gun. She gestured for me to start reading while she crossed herself hurriedly.