him, some of them reaching over and stroking his backpack.
The oldest girl came back with a glass in one hand and an earthen jar in the other. He watched as she poured the water, wondering if it, like her, was a mirage fabricated by his intense thirst. When she handed him the water, he drank it faster than it took her to pour him another glass, then another and another, until the earthen jar was clearly empty.
She asked if he wanted more.
“Non,” he replied. “Mesi.” Thank you.
The girl went back into the house to put the earthen jar and glass away. The children were staring up at him, too coy to question him and too curious not to stare. When the girl returned, she went back to her spot behind the mortar and pestle and just stood there as though she no longer knew what to do.
An old man carrying a machete and a sisal knapsack walked up to the bamboo gate that separated the road from the house. The young boy who had run off earlier was at his side.
“How are you, konpe?” the old man asked.
“Uncle,” he said, “I was dying of thirst until your granddaughter here gave me some water to drink.”
“My granddaughter?” The old man laughed. “She’s my daughter. Do you think I look that old?”
Toothless, he did look old, with a grizzly white beard and a face full of folds and creases that seemed to map out every road he had traveled in his life.
The old man reached over and grabbed one of three wooden poles that held up the front of the house. He stood there for a while, saying nothing, catching his breath. After the children had brought him a calabash filled with water-the glass and earthen jar were obviously reserved for strangers-and two chairs for him and the stranger, he lit his pipe, exhaled a fragrant cloud of fresh tobacco, and asked, “Where are you going, my son?”
“I’m going to see my aunt, Estina Esteme,” he replied. “She lives in Beau Jour.”
The old man removed the pipe from his mouth and reached up to scratch his beard.
“Estina Esteme? The same Estina Esteme from Beau Jour?”
“The same,” he said, growing hopeful that he was not too far from his aunt’s house.
“You say she is your aunt?”
“She is,” he replied. “You know her?”
“Know her?” the old man retorted. “There are no strangers in these mountains. My grandfather Nozial and her grandfather Dormeus were cousins. Who was your father?”
“My father was Maxo Jean Dormeus,” he said.
“The one killed with his wife in that fire?” the old man asked. “They only had the one boy. Estina nearly died in that fire too. Only the boy came out whole.”
“I am the boy,” he said, an egg-sized lump growing in his throat. He hadn’t expected to be talking about these things so soon. He had prepared himself for only one conversation about his parents’ death, the one he would inevitably have with his aunt.
The children moved a few inches closer to him, their eyes beaming as though they were being treated to a frightening folktale in the middle of the day.
“Even after all these years,” the old man said, “I’m still so sad for you. So you are that young man who used to come here with Estina, the one who went to New York some years back?”
The old man looked him up and down, as if searching for burn marks on his body, then ordered the children to retreat.
“Shoo,” he commanded. “This is no talk for young ears.”
The children quickly vanished, the oldest girl resuming her work with the mortar and pestle.
Rising from his chair, the old man said, “Come, I’ll take you to Estina Esteme.”
Estina Esteme lived in a valley between two lime-green mountains and a giant waterfall, which sprayed a fine mist over the banana grove that surrounded her one-room house and the teal ten-place mausoleum that harbored the bones of many of her forebears. Her nephew recognized the house as soon as he saw it. It had not changed much, the sloped tin roof and the wooden frame intact. His aunt’s banana grove seemed to have flourished; it was greener and denser than he remembered. Her garden was packed with orange and avocado trees-a miracle, given the barren mountain range he’d just traveled through.
When he entered his aunt’s yard, he was greeted by a flock of hens and roosters that scattered quickly, seeking shelter on top of the family mausoleum.
He rushed to the front porch, where an old faded skirt and blouse were drying on the wooden railing. The door was open, so he ran into the house, leaving behind the old man and a group of neighbors whom the old man had enticed into following them by announcing as he passed their houses that he had with him Estina Esteme’s only nephew.
In the small room was his aunt’s cot, covered with a pale blue sheet. Nearby was a calabash filled with water, within easy reach so she could drink from it at night without leaving her bed. Under the cot was her porcelain chamber pot and baskets filled with a few Sunday dresses, hats, and shoes.
The old man peeked in to ask, “She’s not here?”
“No,” he replied, “she’s not.”
He was growing annoyed with the old man, even though he would never have found his aunt’s house so quickly without his help.
When he walked out of the house, he found himself facing a dozen or so more people gathered in his aunt’s yard. He scanned the faces and recognized one or two, but couldn’t recall the names. Many in the group were nudging one another, whispering while pointing at him. Others called out, “Dany, don’t you know me anymore?”
He walked over and kissed the women, shook hands with the men, and patted the children’s heads.
“Please, where’s my aunt?” he asked of the entire crowd.
“She’ll soon be here,” a woman replied. “We sent for her.”
Once he knew his aunt was on her way, he did his best to appear interested in catching up. Many in the crowd complained that once he got to New York, he forgot about them, never sending the watch or necklace or radio he’d promised. Surprised that they’d taken his youthful pledges so seriously, he offered some feeble excuses. “It’s not so easy to earn money in New York… I thought you’d moved to the capital… I didn’t know your address.”
“Where would we have gone?” one of the men rebutted. “We were not so lucky as you.”
He was glad when he heard his aunt’s voice, calling his name. The crowd parted and she appeared, pudgy yet graceful in a drop-waist dress. Her face was round and full, her skin silken and very black, her few wrinkles, in his estimation, more like beauty marks than signs of old age. Two people were guiding her by the elbows. As they were leading her to him, she pulled herself away and raised her hands in front of her, searching for him in the breeze. He had almost forgotten that she was blind, had been since the day of the fire that had taken his parents’ lives.
The crowd moved back a few feet as he ran into her arms. She held him tightly, angling her head to kiss the side of his face.
“Dany, is it you?” She patted his back and shoulders to make sure.
“I brought him here for you,” the old man said.
“Old Zo, why is it that you’re always mixed up in everything?” she asked, joking.
“True to my name,” the old man replied, “I’m a bone that fits every stew.”
The crowd laughed.
“Let’s go in the house,” his aunt told him. “It’s hot out here.”
As they started for her front door, he took her hand and tried to guide her, but found himself an obstacle in her path and let go. Once they were inside, she felt her way to her cot and sat down on the edge.
“Sit with me, Da,” she said. “You have made your old aunt a young woman again.”
“How are you?” He sat down next to her. “Truly?”
“
For years now, he’d been paying a boyhood friend in Port-au-Prince, Popo, to come and check on her once a month. He would send Popo money to buy her whatever she needed and Popo would in turn call him in New York to brief him on how she was doing.
“No,” he said. “Popo didn’t tell me anything.”
“Then why did you come?” she asked. “I’m not unhappy to see you, but you just dropped out of the sky. There must be a reason.” She felt for his face, found it, and kissed it for what seemed like the hundredth time. “Were you
