Uncle Frantz gazed toward the sky searching for memories in the clouds above.
Many of the folks from their hometown, the border town of Dajabón, had found work in Rhode Island and were eventually able to bring their families to the States. But when the topic turned to family and children, Uncle Frantz became quiet and told Luis not to ask any more questions about such a touchy subject. Index finger to the lips. After much prodding, Uncle Frantz revealed the identity of a lover he’d had many years before when interracial sex was very much taboo. He knew she had become pregnant right before she left for the capital, Santo Domingo, in order to escape the poverty and misery of the border town. He also knew she could never reveal the nature of their relationship and had decided to leave in part to hide the truth of a child who would have been born black to a family whose proud Galician traditions permeated every celebration, and whose ancestry could be traced to the Spaniards’ arrival in 1492. As a devout Catholic, there had been no other options. Frantz was aware she had lived in Santo Domingo for twelve years and then left for Puerto Rico in a rickety yola with her young son. Last he’d heard she was in Providence.
“You’re still in Providence, right?” Uncle Frantz asked.
Luis nodded.
“What family was she from?”
“She was a Cadalzo,” Uncle Frantz whispered.
No other words were spoken. The pain of not knowing his son overwhelmed the old man and the gravity of the revelation overwhelmed the young one.
*
“What the hell are you doing here?” Jose demanded when Luis showed up at the lumberyard. He stuck his chest out like a gorilla defending his turf, and he held a splitting axe tight in his hand.
“I’m sorry that things between us have become so strained,” Luis said carefully. “But I just came from meeting with your mother and she confirmed something for me that she would never tell you. As a matter of fact, she made me promise not to share it with you. And here I am violating my oath to her.” He looked down at the ground as if apologizing for what he was about to say.
“What are you talking about, man? What can my mother tell you that she wouldn’t tell me?” As he barked the questions, Jose moved closer to Luis, almost bumping chests.
Luis began to narrate the tragic story of Frantz and Carmen Maria, their illegitimate child, and their lack of contact after all these years. Jose’s shoulders rose higher and the muscles around his jaw tightened.
“Who the hell are you talking about and why are you telling me this?” Jose growled through clenched teeth.
“My Uncle Frantz is your father. And just like me, you are a black Haitian. And just like me, you can no longer call yourself a Dominican citizen,” replied Luis with both an air of certainty and a sense of relief at sharing the weight of the truth with his newfound cousin.
“Mentiras, you lie to make yourself feel better about losing your citizenship. My mother would never sleep with a negro like you. How dare you insult my mother this way!” Jose grabbed a big branch and began chasing Luis through the lumberyard, howling and spitting insults half in English and half in Spanish.
Luis frantically tried to stay ahead of the swinging lunatic. He climbed onto a platform above the moving Morbark 950 Tub Grinder, which was used to turn big branches into toothpicks, hoping that the machinery would somehow slow down the attack.
But Jose kept in pursuit, screaming obscenities and swinging the branch wildly. Was he trying to hurt Luis? Or was he just swinging at the truth, hoping that with one blow everything would return to normal and he could become white once again?
Luis grabbed the railing for balance, hoping he could jump off and over the tub of the grinder. Unfortunately, his sweaty right hand slipped and he fell swiftly to his death, but not before cursing Jose with his last breath: “Jodio negro.”
In the commotion, the grinder’s exhaust chute got knocked around from the pile of wood chips to the pile of split wood, and a wide spray of red covered the tree guts, just as the sky broke open in one of those New England thunderstorms that seem to come out of nowhere. Jose was taken aback, not by the scene of his cousin being pulverized in a few seconds, but at his lack of feeling for what had just taken place. With a mixture of righteousness and relief, Jose thought, All is good in the world again.
*
As the final bonfire faded, the crowd slowly left downtown. The crew on the boat high-fived another successful WaterFire, and once the boat was tied to the dock everyone headed to the Brewhouse for a well-deserved drink.
When Jose lifted his beer to toast to his first night on the job, the bartender pointed to his index finger. Under the dim light of the bar, Jose’s finger was red with what was obviously blood. Maybe from the night before, or maybe from the logs he’d solemnly placed on the fires tonight.
Jose lifted his finger to his lips and placed it to his mouth. “Don’t worry,” he said, “this is my own blood.”