Brother, I'm Dying - Edwidge Danticat [67]
At the time of Marius’s death, he’d left no trace of his more-than-five-year undocumented stay in Miami. No note for his mother. No bankbooks or jewelry, nothing that could be placed in a sealed pouch and mailed to his family. Because of the void out of which Marius had been shipped to her in a shiny American coffin, Tante Zi always carried pictures of his corpse with her wherever she went and wore only white clothes, as a daily reminder of his passing.
Tante Zi was wearing her mourning garb when she approached the first barricade in Bel Air that morning.
“Son,” she called out to one of the many armed young men guarding a narrow path between two shelled-out yellow school buses. One of the men bore an eerie resemblance to Marius, her dark, broom-thin, beautiful boy. She held out a hand to him. He reached back. She quickly pressed a Haitian twenty-dollar bill into it, turning away before the others could see.
“Pray hard,” he mumbled. Maybe he thought she was on her way to Our Lady of Perpetual Help to attend early-morning Mass.
He motioned for her to walk past and she did, moving farther into the neighborhood.
This was the first time she’d been in Bel Air since Sunday’s operation. She had never seen it so bad. The streets were cluttered with trash. There were empty tear gas canisters, hollowed grenades, spent cartridge and bullet shells and other garbage everywhere. Some houses were missing entire sections from the bulldozing by UN earthmovers.
As she walked through another checkpoint, this one a pile of tires as tall as she was, she raised both her hands over her head even though no one was there. Clutched in her right fist was a white handkerchief, which she waved back and forth to show that she was unarmed. The UN patrols and the gangs’ checkpoints were separated by only a few blocks, leaving room for someone like her, who just happened to be on the street at the wrong time, to be shot by both sides.
The sun had risen and a few people were beginning to venture out of their houses. She was trying her best to blend in, walking slowly as though she were just strolling and not going anywhere in particular, but she was also sweating, soaking her cotton blouse and skirt. Not since those long days between hearing the news of Marius’s death and waiting for his body to come home had she felt so frightened.
A UN tank was parked a good sprint away, down the hill, near the Lycée Pétion. She and Uncle Joseph had only to make it there before they could consider themselves safe, at least from the gangs. She’d have to find the right trail, perhaps the muddiest, the least-frequented path, through the maze of alleys that would deliver her there.
Filing down the pebbled alley leading to Man Jou’s house, Tante Zi alternated between walking too fast, then too slow. Just as she and Man Jou had agreed on the phone, Man Jou was waiting for her out front. They wanted things to seem as normal as possible, just a chance early-morning encounter.
“Would you like to come in?” asked Man Jou.
“Wi, mèsi, but I can’t stay,” Tante Zi said.
My uncle was sitting on Man Jou’s bed, calmly reading his Bible. He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on under the muumuu since Monday. His face appeared hollowed, his high cheekbones—so much like my father’s—sticking out a lot more than usual. Looking up and seeing Tante Zi, he seemed relieved but also sad.
“Frè mwen.“ Brother, Tante Zi said, kissing him on the forehead.
He raised his shoulders and shrugged, which she understood to mean, “Oh, well, things are what they are.”
“He doesn’t want to do it again,” Man Jou said. “He won’t wear the disguise.”
“Frè mwen,” Tante Zi said.
My uncle shook his head no.
“I’ll borrow a towel, then,” Tante Zi said. “We’ll cover his head, at least. If anyone sees us, they’ll think he’s a sick person, someone we’re taking to the hospital.“
My uncle was tired of hiding, but most of all he wanted to stop imposing on Man Jou, so he agreed to the towel.
When they stepped out into