Edwidge Danticat - The Dew Breaker

The pain in his midsection had subsided, so he decided to get up and continue walking. There were many paths to his aunt’s house, and seeing the lone saguaro had convinced him that he was on one of them.

He soon found himself entering a village, where a girl was pounding a pestle in a mortar, forming a small crater in the ground beneath the mortar as a group of younger children watched.

The girl stopped her pounding as soon as she saw him, causing the other children to turn their almost identical brown faces toward him.

“Bonjou, cousins,” he said, remembering the childhood greeting his aunt had taught him. When he was a boy, in spite of the loss of his parents, he had thought himself part of a massive family, every child his cousin and every adult his aunt or uncle.

“Bonjou,” the children replied.

“Ki jan w ye?” the oldest girl added, distinguishing herself. How are you?

“Could I have some water, please?” he said to her, determining that she was indeed the one in charge.

The girl turned her pestle over to the next-oldest child and ran into the limestone house as he dropped his backpack on the ground and collapsed on the front gallery. The ground felt chilly against his bare legs, as though he’d stumbled into a cold stream with his shorts and T-shirt on.

As one of the younger boys ran off behind the house, the other children settled down on the ground next to 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. “Mèsi.” 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, konpè?” 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 Estème,” he replied. “She lives in Beau Jour.”

The old man removed the pipe from his mouth and reached up to scratch his beard.

“Estina Estème? The same Estina Estème 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 Dorméus were cousins. Who was your father?”

“My father was Maxo Jean Dorméus,” 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 Estème.”

Estina Estème 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 Estème’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.”