can’t stand my daughter.” Alarm and sadness covered her face as she spoke. She moved closer to Margaret and lowered her voice. “He thinks it’s because of her that I don’t want him. God only knows what that evil man will do to my daughter!”
* * *
That evening, Margaret lay next to John on the oak queen-sized bed in their room in town. She put down the Alfred Métraux book she had been reading and sighed deeply.
“What’s the matter?” John asked, turning down the light from the kerosene lamp on his side of the bed. “Are you still thinking about how to get Hagathe to talk?”
“She spoke about Iris today.” Margaret related the conversation she’d had with Hagathe about a Tonton Macoute and her fear for her daughter. Margaret couldn’t help noticing the horror on her husband’s face. She wiped her face with a wet towel to cool off from the heat and humidity of the late evening and waited for his reaction.
“Poor woman!” John exclaimed. “I wish there was something we could do to help.”
Long after the light had gone out, Margaret thought about Hagathe’s fear and apprehension. An idea slowly emerged. She had to figure out how to present it to her husband and, most importantly, to Hagathe. Although she assumed she could persuade John, she knew enough about the strength of motherhood to think Hagathe might not go along with the plan.
“Are you okay?” John asked, waking up from a light sleep. “You’re still awake.” He struck a match, lit the gas lamp, and wrapped an arm around Margaret’s shoulders.
“Since we’ve been thinking about adopting another child . . .”
John moved his arm away from her shoulders, raised his eyebrows. “You’re not thinking about adopting Iris, are you?”
“You said you wanted to help.”
“That doesn’t mean we have to adopt the child!”
“But we’re thinking about adopting another child.”
“A lot of thinking must go into adopting a five-year-old of a different race who doesn’t even speak English.”
“We could become her guardians and then put her through school.She’s bright enough to catch up with what she missed in preschool.”
“We’ll see.”
“John,” Margaret said in an exasperated voice, “We enjoy being parents and have already bonded with Iris. If you ask me, I’d say that’s a tremendous advantage. At least we know who we’re getting.”
“But Margaret, you do realize that whites who adopt black children are viewed with suspicion.”
“And you think we should care? Didn’t we already agree that what really matters is to find a child in need of a loving home?”
“All I’m saying is that Iris may suffer from lack of cultural identity.”
“Come on, John. We may be the only opportunity she has!”
John blew out the lamp. In the sheer darkness, with his eyes opened or closed, he could see the young Iris’s mesmerizing, tear-filled eyes with an indefinable sparkle to them. No matter how much he tried to erase them from his memory, they were there, forcing their way to the depth of his soul. As minutes and hours went by, his heart softened and he imagined the guilt he would live with if something irreparable were to happen to Iris. By early morning, he had begun to envision himself holding her hand and escorting her to school.
John was tired the next morning after only a few hours of sleep. Yawning and stretching, he watched Margaret brush her hair in front of the distorted mirror. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, “perhaps taking Iris back with us might be a good idea after all.”
Margaret put down the brush and moved toward John. As she wrapped her arms around his neck, she looked into his eyes. “You are truly the best. That’s why I love you so much.”
* * *
Hours later, John and Margaret found Hagathe seated on a low chair with her head bent toward a large straw tray. She was cleaning the rice that was to be cooked that day. “My husband and I have something to ask you,” Margaret said, taking a seat next to her. “I told John about your concerns for Iris and we thought that, if you agree, we could take her with us to the United States. I promise she will be in safe hands and we will make sure she receives a good education.”
“I know it would be hard for you,” John added. “But Iris can spend summer vacations with you. And if you’re not happy with the job we’re doing, you can always take her back.”
“We would treat her like our own.” Margaret spoke slowly, making an effort to enunciate every word even more than she usually did.
John shifted in his seat. “If you want, we can adopt her to get her legal status,” he said, ending a brief silence that had fallen between them.
“I need to talk to my grandmother about it,” was all that Hagathe said.
* * *
Days later, John sat on the porch while Margaret paced the verandah, waiting for Hagathe, who was supposed to pick them up on her way back from buying wholesale merchandise that she would later sell in the market. For the third time, Margaret glanced at her watch and said that maybe Hagathe couldn’t come to town after all. “We should go there now,” she suggested.
Walking along the sugarcane field, they saw a figure lying on the ground. As they came closer, they recognized Hagathe with her panties hanging loosely around an ankle. Margaret gasped, and John shook his head in disbelief before realizing he needed to act quickly. The nerves at his temples pounded, as he felt Hagathe’s pulse. He tied his handkerchief around her head to stop the blood that was flowing from above her neck, then carried her to a nearby stream to dab cool water on her face. “I’m taking her to the main road,” he told his wife. “She’s got to get to a hospital.” He left Margaret with Hagathe while he ran to the church around the corner so he could borrow the Jeep from the priest.
* * *
When Margaret told the women in the village that Hagathe had been attacked and that John had taken her to the nearest hospital, they became hysterical. After they calmed down, Hagathe’s aunt Jésula swept the dirt floor and sprinkled water to keep the dust down. She put dried red beans in a pot to boil. Standing erect, she sighed heavily and shook her head before returning to the kitchen, which was a tent covered with dried palm leaves to shelter it from rain and sun. She fanned the wood fire with a torn straw hat, darkened by smoke and time, until the flames grew taller under the cooking pot.
“Goddamnit!” said a nasal voice that took possession of Jésula’s body.
