matter to fight.
—Lord Alfred Tennyson
Iris!”
Whenever I heard that tone in Mom’s voice, I knew she meant business. I rushed up the stairs and tried to think why I was being summoned. Maybe Madame Glissant told her I didn’t turn in my book report on time, or she may have found out I ate a slice of cake before dinner, or that I went to bed last night without brushing my teeth.
“I called Dr. Connelly today,” she said as soon as I entered the dining room. “What exactly did he say about Haiti that upset you?” She sat down at the head of the table, across from Dad and next to my godfather Latham, who had come over for dinner. I stood there with my arms hanging loosely, unable to move or to speak, feeling like I was in front of a jury. Dad pulled back a chair next to him and invited me to sit.
My heartbeat accelerated as I realized the seriousness of the situation. I was unsure of why I had accused Dr. Connelly of saying Haitians were devil worshipers, other than the fact that I didn’t want to go back to his office. I had thought a simple twist of the truth would go unnoticed and would allow me to have my way, just because I despised how his questions made me feel. I dreaded the soul-searching process that meant thinking about a past that I wanted to forget. My eyes traveled from Mom to Dad, then to Latham, trying to decide which of the three could be a possible ally. Their impassive faces revealed nothing.
I heard Mom say, “We’re concerned about what you told us that Dr. Connelly said.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I responded, as I tried to think of a way to get out of this situation.
“Let’s begin with your telling me again what Dr. Connelly said that offended you,” Dad suggested.
“I don’t remember his exact words. Something about Haitians being devil worshippers,” I blurted out for the sake of consistency, though I was aware it wasn’t all true.
“What exactly did he say?” Mom insisted. She leaned back and peered at me with a dubious gaze, and waited for an answer.
“I don’t remember,” I said in a faint voice, having noticed the tension showing on her face.
“When your Dad told me what you said happened in his office yesterday, I called Dr. Connelly for clarification. Apparently you have taken his words out of context.”
“I didn’t mean to.” My voice trembled and echoed guilt.
The room grew so quiet I could hear myself breathing. The questioning gaze persisted on their faces until Latham, who had not said a word thus far, spoke.
“Maybe Iris didn’t understand Dr. Connelly’s words.”
“Let’s hope that’s what it was,” Mom said without conviction. Anger suddenly covered her gentle face as she let out a moan of anguish and reached for the coffee pot on the table. Sadness had replaced the usual softness in her eyes. A pearl of tear found its way to the corner of her eye. She got up and left the room without drinking her coffee.
Latham’s eyes sent a message of sympathy. Though maybe it was pity. I’m not sure. Nonetheless, I was grateful that he had come to my aid, as he had so often done in many ways since the day after I arrived in the United States, when he showed up with his arms filled with clothes and toys, announcing that he was my godfather. I vaguely recalled seeing him with the Winstons when they came to Monn Nèg. What I did remember about him was that although he had the same skin color as the people of Monn Nèg, he couldn’t speak Creole. I had smiled broadly when I saw him again, happy to have someone who reminded me of the familiar faces I had left behind.
The conversation we had that night left a hollow feeling in my heart that grew deeper and larger as the days went by. Thinking I had betrayed Mom and Dad, I was embarrassed and tried to avoid them as much as possible. I spent more time in my room, grateful that only two weeks earlier they had given Cynthia and me separate bedrooms. This went on until they summoned me one Saturday afternoon after ballet class.
“We need to talk.” Mom crossed her legs and asked me to sit next to her on the sofa.
“What did I do now?” I asked grumpily.
“I don’t like the tone of your voice, young lady,” Dad cautioned.
I relaxed a bit, hoping the conversation that had not yet begun would soon be over. The fearful, gnawing feeling inside me quickly melted, and I told them I was sorry.
“We would like to know why you’ve been avoiding us,” Mom said.
I wiped my moist hands on my skirt, and felt a throbbing sensation in my heart. I blurted out that I did not want to go back to Dr. Connelly. “I don’t like the way he makes me feel,” I explained.
“That’s still no reason to stain someone’s reputation,” Mom scolded.
Dad leaned toward the coffee table. “That wasn’t very nice of you,” he said, resting reproachful eyes on me.
Tears of redemption rolled down my cheeks; waves of regret grew. A gush of sun penetrated the living room through the sliding windows, and Dad reclined in his seat. “The reason we took you to Dr. Connelly,” he said, “was so that you could understand your frustrations.”
Two weeks later, Dad accompanied Mom to an out-of-town conference, and Latham stayed with Cynthia and me. He picked me up from ballet class and dropped Cynthia at her music school before taking me for a snack.
“I heard Dr. Connelly is disappointed that you wouldn’t go back to see him,” he said, backing up onto the road.
“Mom told me.”
He looked over his shoulder. “I suppose you don’t want to reconsider.”
I turned to face the window. “Talking about these things makes me nervous,” I said in a soft voice.
“What things?”
“Things like my mother and about Haiti.”
“Why should talking about them make you nervous?” He stopped the car at a traffic light and searched my eyes. The light turned green; Latham shifted gears. He drove off the main road and then pulled into the parking lot of a stainless steel and porcelain enamel place with a red neon sign that read, Good Food Diner. We walked into the long and narrow room where customers were seated on stools mounted into the floor; at the end of the blue Formica service counter there were apple pies and cherry pies, chocolate cakes and pound cakes displayed in clear rotating cases. Hamburgers and hot dogs sizzled on a grill; french fries in a basket were lowered into hot boiling oil on a stove against the wall. Latham led me to a booth opposite the counter. I studied the menu, even though I knew I wanted a strawberry ice-cream soda.
“What are you and your daughter having today?” asked a blond waitress with a forced smile. I thought at the time that one of the things I enjoyed about being with Latham was that people didn’t stare at us as they did with my family.
“I heard about a Haitian dance class in the city that you might want to try,” he said, bringing a steaming cup of coffee toward his lips. “Margaret told me you used to love to dance to the sounds of Haitian drums,” he added, as he set the cup on the table. “The class is for adults
