Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti (37 page)

— That’s it. No need to fight anymore.

He re-tightened the kerchief, and she retreated into her body, gradually registering the effects of the small pill as it dissolved into her bloodstream. She felt a soaring sensation take over, gradually at first, clouding her thoughts in a pleasant haze.

René slumped against a nearby wall and watched, slipping into his own drug-addled stupor.

— Now we wait, Libète, he says. Now we wait.

— Marie Rose, I need you.

Libète stood before her friend’s tent. Small tears were in her eyes. She had tried to return to her essay for Elize, but her whole being was so stirred by René’s actions that she hovered near illness.

The tent flap opened and her friend came into view.

— Libète, cherie, what’s the matter?

She flung herself at the woman and gave her a hug, but said nothing, René’s threat looming large.

— I cannot tell you.

— Surely you can!

— I will not tell you.

A weighty silence ensued.

— I am sorry for whatever has happened, cherie. I hope that you will be alright. Maybe I can tell you what I could not before, when you had to leave?

She stepped out of the embrace and looked up at Marie Rose, a tear running down her cheek. You can do that, she said.

The young woman thought for a moment, looking coy. When you wrapped your arms around me just now, you touched two lives, not just one.

Libète looked at her in puzzlement.

— It is still a secret, but oh! I am so, so happy, deep within me. I’m pregnant, Libète! I’m pregnant!

Libète gave her another hug, an overjoyed hug. This news was welcome relief, almost cleansing the dirtiness left behind by René’s touch. Pregnant! she said. And what does Lionel think?

Marie Rose’s features clouded. He does not know yet, she said with great solemnity. I must wait for the right time. I think he might be afraid. I will tell soon, though. I have to.

Libète nodded. How old is this little one inside you?

Marie Rose smiled once more. He is over a month now I think. That’s what the doctor has told me.

— This is a blessing, I think, this baby, Libète mused. New life in a place like this! Maybe he’ll be like Jesus
,
born in the open, in a tent city, because there is no place to lay his head.

— What a thought, Libète! Ha! You must pray for us, for me, and the one inside me, so that we remain strong through all that lay ahead.

The drug is powerful.

How much time has passed, she does not know.

What happens next, she does not know.

She lay on the ground sideways. Her eyes bleary. Languid. Focused on nothing.

He sits in the corner. The light still shines upward. Looking strange. He does not move. Except for his breath. It comes. In. Out. In. Out.

There is a third one there. Hovering above.

Breath leaves the girl.

San Figi
.

The woman watches. Laying down beside her. Face-to-face. Libète looks into the void. The swirling colors.

Why?

No reply comes. Arms dead. Throat dry. Past things visit her. Hard things. Like haunting ghosts.

His phone rings. He stirs. It’s time, he says.

Libète wears her knitted cap even though the open air is stifling. She walks about the wild marketplace, watching people, so many people, come and go. Men carrying charcoal are covered in ash, and women with dire faces call out to her to buy their radishes, potatoes, and rice. She palms her money tightly, still left over from the killer’s pawned watch, so there is no fear it will be lost. There is one thing she seeks to buy, and one only.

— Madam, how much for that chicken? she asks a seller, pointing to a scrawny bird darting about its tight cage.
Now that Marie Rose is pregnant, she must eat better to strengthen her and the baby
. The bird is also to celebrate, because this is good news and there is not enough good news these days.

— You have money?

— I do.

— How much? she asks, dubious.

— Enough.

— That chicken there is 65 Haitian Dollars.

Libète plops down several notes on the table that stands between them, reproving the seller for her doubts.

— Are you sure you don’t want a second hen? the seller offers, eyes wide at the prospect of more profit.

— One will do, thank you very much.

**

Libète yanks the long piece of twine, pulling Ti Poul, her name for the chicken, back into obedience. She is an obstinate bird, but Libète doesn’t blame her for chafing.

— If I got out of that cage and had a rope tied around my neck, she says to the bird, I’d be upset too.

The chicken does not answer back, but shoots the opposite direction, forgetting about the twine leash until it’s too late and she’s snapped back into submission.

Libète laughs heartily. Instead of having Ti Poul’s feet tied, Libète had asked for enough string to make a leash. She thought it would be more fun that way. And she is right.

— You are a nice bird, Ti Poul, she giggles. But not a very smart one.

They continued in this fashion for some time, her and her captive, on the path back to Twa Bebe. When Ti Poul tired three-quarters of the way, Libète picked up the panting bird and carried her the rest of the way.

She knew what people would think, seeing such a poor child with a delicacy: they, including her Uncle, would assume she stole the bird. She did not care, because she did not steal it, and it was a gift for a friend. This was explanation enough.

Libète rounded the corner leading to the row of tents and tried to avoid the hungry looks of her neighbors. She stroked Ti Poul upon the head to sooth the bird, and herself.

She came upon Marie Rose’s tent and called out. No reply came.

— Marjorie? Libète called for the neighbor in the tent next door.

— Wi, Libète?

— Where is Marie Rose? Have you seen her?

— I thought she was in her tent, Marjorie yelled back. Maybe she is resting?

Libète grimaced. She did not want the surprise of Ti Poul to be spoiled. The tent’s flap fluttered slightly and Libète decided to peek in.
A gifted chicken is surely worth an interrupted nap.
Pushing her head into the opening she saw Marie Rose’s reclining form. She was asleep.

— Psst! Marie Rose. I have something for you! She dropped the chicken onto the floor, but Marie Rose did not stir. Are you asleep, Marie Rose?

Libète looked more closely now. Her blood froze in an instant.

Marie Rose was not asleep, but trembling.

The bottom of her skirt was soaked, a pool of red about her body.

There was no need to ask.

Marie Rose had miscarried.

**

While recovered physically a week later, Marie Rose remained emotionally and spiritually dead.

Libète watched her sit for long hours in the Sun, saying little. The girl visited often to help around the tent, preparing food or washing pots and pans. She did this without fear of Lionel.

Many in the camp turned their backs upon Lionel after the news had spread. While simply beating your wife was not enough to ostracize you, using the belly of your pregnant woman as a punching bag crossed some invisible line. He spent most of the week somewhere other than here, sheltered by others as base as himself.

Libète continued her visits to the hospital. There were many patients who did not wish to hear her encouragement or hopeful predictions, but she could tell they appreciated the presence of someone close by who reminded them that they were not alone. Each visit to the ward made her spirits high, while each visit to Marie Rose made them plummet once more.

Carrying a jerrycan upon her head, Libète breathed deep to gird herself. Marie Rose was still on her stool, just as Libète left her, staring vacantly at two small children at play down the row. Libète did not have to ask to know what her friend was thinking. She took the water inside without a word.

— Libète, you know, I don’t believe in Hell.

These words caught Libète by surprise. She poked her head out of the tent.

— What was that? I didn’t hear you.

— Hell. I don’t believe in it. Her gaze still hovered on the children, now in playful banter.

— Why…what makes you say that?

Marie Rose turned to look at Libète. We’re in it, Libète. She turned back to the kids. We’re in it. She paused again, anguish in her eyes while her voice stayed even. There’s no place lower than where we are. What’s Hell supposed to be? Fire? We’re burning up, every single day. No water to quench our thirst? If we drink we fall ill, we die. Our bellies ache, never satisfied. Our breasts run dry. Our children whither up before our eyes. She sighed heavily. Or never live at all.

— This is not good for you to think on, Marie Rose. What of good things. What of Heaven?

— I doubt that exists, too. God should not let such things pass.

The girl paused. Words came slowly. Your loss…I can’t understand, but things will get better. We’ll struggle together. Won’t we?

Marie Rose’s eyes drifted to Libète. She blinked twice and turned back to watch the children at play without another word.

René totes Libète outside. The drug still overpowers her and she cannot muster the will to protest.

She sees where she has been held all along—stored in the shell of an abandoned warehouse that is altogether familiar.

She is no more than a mile from Twa Bebe.

He lays her face down upon the ground. The serenity brought on by the pill makes whatever miserable thing that will happen next seem distant and impossible.

She hears the coming vehicle before she sees it. The night is especially black, and a light rain falls. René waves his flashlight in semi-circles, headlights flashing in return.

The vehicle, a big, sleek SUV, rolls up to the two of them, and René goes to speak with the driver. There is some shouting, but it is difficult to hear. René is not getting the money he says he is owed. The driver warns him to fall into line. René is quiet once more. He returns to Libète, swearing under his breath as he lifts her for what seems the final time.
At least
he’ll
no longer touch me
.