Then she asks, “Did everyone respect my sister? She was a big-time mambo, right?”
“Yes and no. And no and yes,” I say as I kneel behind her on the bed, parting the thin, graying strands of her hair. I can’t help but think that my own mother’s hair is still full and black.
“What is that, a trick answer? I did not ask you a trick question. Your mother was right. You are Legba’s child.”
“He’s at the corner, Matant. He watches over this house, you know.”
“Who? Bad Leg? That crazy crackhead?” She laughs and sounds just like Pri.
“Chantal said you used to call him Legba, too. You knew.”
“I didn’t know shit, just like you don’t know shit, Faboubou. Don’t worry. You’ll learn.”
I stop braiding her hair. “That’s not true, Matant Jo,” I say, trying to make my English sound like my cousins’. “I know things. Me and my mother, we did well in Haiti, with or without your money.”
She laughs her Pri laugh again, but only the right side of her body shakes. “You did well in Haiti with my money. You think I was going to let my sister rot in the countryside with a new baby in her hands?”
“We prayed for you. When I was a young girl and I couldn’t even understand anything, I knew that it was my job to pray for my aunt and cousins because it was the only reason my papers said that I am American. We were grateful for that, not just for the money.”
“When you were born, I told your mother to stay. Why did she have to leave, eh? When it was time for her to go, I tore up her ticket. Why would I send my sister back to that country with a baby girl and no father, no family?” She turns halfway around, but she doesn’t look at me. She stares at the wall. “It’s her fault, you know. She should’ve stayed.”
“But Matant, she’s not stuck in Haiti. She’s stuck in a jail, in a place called New Jersey. How is that her fault? She wanted to come here to be with you. She knew you were sick. All that coughing, and you were complaining that the twins were out of control. She was coming to help.”
“No. She finally came to her senses, that’s what.” She slowly gets up from the bed. It’s as if every move she makes hurts her body.
“I’m not done yet,” I say, still with the comb in my hand. Only half her head is in braids.
“Yes, you are.”
“Matant Jo,” I say. “Bad Leg at the corner, he’s not just a crazy man. He is Papa Legba and he is opening doors and big, big gates. I will show you. I promise.”
She turns to me. “Child, this is Detroit. Ain’t no Papa Legba hanging out on corners. Only dealers and junkies. You don’t know shit. But don’t worry. You’ll figure it out.”
My whole body sinks onto her bed, still with her comb in my hand and with the scent of cigarette smoke, alcohol, sweat, pain, and grief on the tips of my fingers.
MARJORIE & VALERIE’S STORY
When I was fifteen and my little sister was thirteen, a whole new world opened up to us. Not in the way that the world opened up to Chantal when a fancy private high school offered her a full scholarship. Not in the way that Princess put all her dresses and skirts into trash bags and started dressing like the son I never had. And not in the way that the world opened up to Primadonna when she threatened to run away with her new boyfriend if I didn’t let her go on dates with him.
Our world opened up because a long-time dictator was thrown out of Haiti. This dictator was the heavy boot on our skinny necks. Our dear parents in heaven never knew a world without Jean-Claude “Baby Doc” Duvalier and his father, Fran?ois Duvalier. We thought there would be freedom and democracy, and that money would start flowing into the country like a long-awaited rainstorm.
But when the dictator and his fancy wife left, everything broke. There was no order, no peace.
But as thirteen-and fifteen-year-old girls, with no mother and father to watch over us, our bodies were like poor countries—there was always a dictator trying to rule over us.
We were hired to work in the house of a well-known businessman. And he would watch us while we worked. We let him look. Eyes are only dull blades, but hands are as sharp as broken glass. Eventually, he touched me, and I was cut. That day, I screamed for my sister. She then screamed for his wife.
We had to leave his house that night. We wanted to leave the whole country.
Valerie and I joined the crowds that gathered by the shores of Cité Soleil waiting for a boat to Miami. We gave our money to the captain—a skinny fisherman with missing teeth. We folded ourselves between a woman with too many bags and a man holding a crying baby. Valerie offered to hold the baby when the waters got too rough. The woman had to throw her bags overboard when water started to fill the boat. Our precious things were soaked, and there were cries and screams. Everyone cursed and prayed and shouted as our legs became wet and cold.