Breath, Eyes, Memory - Edwidge Danticat [42]
"Did you have a nice visit to the cemetery?" I asked.
"There are two ways to go to the cemetery. One is on your two feet, the other is in a box. Each way, it is a large travail. Where is your Tante Atie?"
"She is visiting with Louise."
"Why do I even ask?"
She picked up a machete from under the porch and chopped a green coconut in half. Eliab pushed an open gourd beneath the coconut and caught the cloudy liquid flowing out of it. My grandmother carved out the flesh with a spoon and stuffed it in her mouth.
She chopped another coconut and brought it over to me. The coconut milk spilled all over my chest as I raised the shell to my lips.
My daughter reached up to grab the coconut. My grandmother and Eliab sat on an old tree stump, sharing the soft mush inside the coconut. My grandmother threw some at the pig, which it leaped up to swallow.
. . .
Tante Atie did not come home for supper. My grandmother and I ate in the yard, while Brigitte slept in a blanket in my arms. My grandmother was watching a light move between two distant points on the hill.
"Do you see that light moving yonder?" she asked, pointing to the traveling lantern. "Do you know why it goes to and fro like that?"
She was concentrating on the shift, her pupils traveling with each movement:
"It is a baby," she said, "a baby is being born. The midwife is taking trips from the shack to the yard where the pot is boiling. Soon we will know whether it is a boy or a girl."
"How will we know that?"
"If it is a boy, the lantern will be put outside the shack. If there is a man, he will stay awake all night with the new child."
"What if it is a girl?"
"If it is a girl, the midwife will cut the child's cord and go home. Only the mother will be left in the darkness to hold her child. There will be no lamps, no candles, no more light."
We waited. The light went out in the house about an hour later. By that time, my grandmother had dozed off. Another little girl had come into the world.
Chapter 23
A rooster crowed at the next morning's dawn. I peeked into Tante Atie's room. Her bed was still made, without a wrinkle on it. She had not come home at all the night before. My grandmother made herself some bitter black coffee with a lump of salt to prepare her body for the shock of bad news.
I sat out on the porch with Brigitte waiting for the food vendors to come by. They trickled by slowly, each chanting the names and praises of their merchandise.
My grandmother bought some bananas, boiled eggs, and hard biscuits, Louise and Tante Atie came up the road. Tante Atie was ahead. Louise marched a few feet behind her.
My grandmother looked up without acknowledging their presence. Louise walked into the yard, charged towards the tree, untied her pig, picked it up, and walked away.
"Why? What are you doing?" I called after her.
She did not turn back.
"What is the matter with her?" I asked Tante Atie.
"Manman told her to come get the pig or she would kill it," Tante Atie said.
Tante Atie was carrying a small jar of water with three leeches inside.
"Is it true Grandme Ife? Did you say that?" I asked.
"We need a pig, we buy a pig," said my grandmother.
"I will buy it," I said.
"Non non," Tante Atie jumped quickly. "The money, it will surely go for her boat trip to Miami."
"You think you can keep money out of her hands?" asked my grandmother.
"I do not want to push her into the ocean," Tante Atie said.
She raised the leech jar towards the sun. The animals squirmed away from the light, their black slippery bodies coiling into small balls. She raised her skirt and stretched out her calf. Opening the jar, she tipped it over so that the water was soaking her skin. The leeches slowly crawled out of the jar and climbed on a lump on her calf.
She ground her teeth when one of the larger leeches bit into her skin. She leaned back against the porch railing, pulled her notebook from her sack, and began writing her name. She wrote it over and over, following a pattern at the top of the page.
The leeches sucked the