The woman tugged at my hand.
'We really must go,' she said.
'She is going,' Tante Atie said, releasing my hand.
The woman started walking away. I moved along with her taking big steps to keep up. I kept turning my head and waving at Tante Atie. Her large body stood out in the middle of the airport lobby.
People rubbed against her as they rushed past. She stood in the same spot wiping her tears with a patchwork handkerchief. In her pink dress and brown sandals, with the village dust settled on her toes, it was easy to tell that she did not belong there. She blended in neither with the smiling well-dressed groups on their way to board the planes nor with the jeans-clad tourists whom the panhandlers surrounded at the gate.
She stood by the exit gate and watched as the woman pulled me though a glass door onto the runway leading to the plane.
The plane was nearly full. There were only a few empty seats. I followed the woman down the narrow aisle. She showed me to a seat by a window. I slipped in quickly and looked outside, hoping to see Tante Atie heading safely home.
I only saw a patch of the smoky sky. The woman left. She soon came back with a little boy. He was crying and stomping his feet, struggling to wiggle out of her grasp. She cornered him against the seats and pressed him into the chair. She held him down with both her hands. He stopped fighting, slid upward in the seat, raised his head, and spat in her face.
His shirt was soaked with the saliva that was still dripping from either side of his mouth. He rubbed his already-red eyes with the back of his hand. Leaning forward, he pressed his face against the seat in front of him. It was almost as though he was trying to find a way to muffle his own sobs.
I reached over to stroke his head. He grabbed my hand and dug his teeth into my fingers. I hit his arm and tried to get him to release my fingers. He bit even harder. I smacked his shoulder. He let go of my fingers and began to scream.
The woman rushed over. She pulled him from the seat, raised him up to her chest, and rocked him in her arms. He clung to her body for a moment then pulled away, digging his fingers into her neck. She stumbled backwards and nearly fell. He slipped out of her arms and ran out of her reach. She dashed down the aisle after him.
A tall man blocked the aisle and stood in the little boy's way. He began to cry louder when he noticed that he was cornered. He jumped on a passenger's lap and began to pound his head on a side window. The man grabbed him and wrestled him back to his seat. He strapped him down with his seatbelt, then leaned over and did the same for me.
As soon as his seatbelt was on, the boy sat still. Both the man and the woman stood over him and watched him carefully, as though they were expecting him to reach up and grab one of their eyeballs. He did nothing. He sat back in his seat, bent his head, and wept silently.
, 'What is the matter with him?' the man said in French.
'His father died in that fire out front. His father was some kind of old government official, tres corrupt,' she whispered. 'Tres guilty of crimes against the people.'
'And we are letting him travel?'
'He does not have any more relatives here. His father's sister lives in New York. I called her. She is going to meet him there.'
'I can see why he is upset,' the man said.
The plane began to roar towards the sky. I looked outside and saw the cars heading away. I could not tell Tante Atie's taxi from the others.
The sound of the engine silenced the boy's sobs. He soon fell asleep, and shortly after, so did I.
Chapter 6
Children, we are here.' The woman was shaking both of us at the same time.
The plane was empty. We walked down a long passageway, the woman first, with the little boy's hand in hers, and then me. She rushed us by the different lines without stopping. She only waved each time and flashed a large manila envelope.
We soon joined a crowd and watched as suitcases filed past us on a moving mat.
'Do you see your bags?' she asked.
I saw my suitcase and pointed to it. She walked over and picked it up and put it on the floor next to me. We waited for the little boy to point out his, but he did not.
She leafed through his papers and said, 'Jean-Claude, do you see your suitcase?'
He buried his face in her skirt and began to cry. She walked over and checked the stubs on the suitcases. He did not have any.
We walked down another corridor. Then a glass gate opened itself and we were out in a lobby filled with people holding balloons and flowers. Some of them burst forward to hug loved ones.
A woman moaned as she walked towards Jean-Claude. She grabbed him and squeezed his little body against hers.
'They've killed my brother,' she cried. 'Look at him, look at my brother's son.'
She carried him away in her arms, his face buried in her chest.
My mother came forward. I knew it was my mother because she came up to me and grabbed me and begin to spin me like a top, so she could look at me.
The woman who had been with me looked on without saying anything.
'Stay here,' my mother said to me in Creole.
She walked over to a corner with the woman, whispered a few things to her, and handed her what seemed like money.
'I cannot thank you enough,' my mother said.
'There is no need,' the woman said. She bowed slightly and walked away.
I raised my hand to wave good-bye. The woman had already turned her back and was heading inside. It was as though I had disappeared. She did not even see me anymore.
As the woman went through the gate, my mother kissed me on the lips.
'I cannot believe that I am looking at you,' she said. 'You are my little girl. You are here.'
She pinched my cheeks and patted my head.
'Say something,' she urged. 'Say something. Just speak to me. Let me hear your voice.'
She pressed my face against hers and held fast.
'How are you feeling?' she asked. 'Did you have a nice plane flight?'
I nodded.
'You must be very tired,' she said. 'Let us go home.'
She grabbed my suitcase with one hand and my arm with the other.
Outside it was overcast and cool.
'My goodness.' Her scrawny body shivered. 'I didn't even bring you something to put over your dress.'
She dropped the suitcase on the sidewalk, took off the denim jacket she had on and guided my arms through the sleeves.
A line of cars stopped as we crossed the street to the parking lot. She was wobbling under the weight of my suitcase.
She stopped in front of a pale yellow car with a long crack across the windshield glass. The paint was peeling off the side door that she opened for me. I peered inside and hesitated to climb onto the tattered cushions on the seats.
She dropped the suitcase in the trunk and walked back to me.
'Don't be afraid. Go right in.'
She tried to lift my body into the front seat but she stumbled under my weight and quickly put me back down.
I climbed in and tried not to squirm. The sharp edge of a loose spring was sticking into my thigh.
