Free Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti by Ted Oswald Page B

you have a job to do. How about I catch up with you later and get you a Coke for your birthday?
    She stalled, not wanting to leave him with the hussy. Davidson, I’m sorry you and your mom were fighting. I agree with you complete—
    — We can talk about that later, he interrupted. Go and finish what you’re doing.
    She lingered for a moment, looking at Nathalie out of the corner of her eye. She was torn between making her cousin happy by leaving and making Nathalie unhappy by remaining.
    — Sure. Sounds good, she said, defeated.
    — Ok—I’ll see you later.
    — Bye-bye, Libète. I’ll see you soon. Libète grimaced at Nathalie behind her cousin’s back, and Nathalie gave a smug smile, claiming victory.
If I can’t even keep his attention on my birthday
…
    Libète continued on to the water station, her spirits lightening again. Impasse Chavannes was bustling, busier than her quiet row of homes. People bought, sold, chatted, and laughed on a day where many did not work. She went back and forth as quickly as possible with the three buckets needed for Aunt Estelle to bathe her massive body but almost lost one bucket of water in an accident when Joseph, a small child living a few homes from Libète, shot out in her way while riding a bike for the first time. His young father, Pierre, usually busy unloading freight trucks down at the Croix-des-Bossales market, rushed out to catch him before he got in a collision or toppled over.
    — Sorry, Libète! he shouted, nearly running into her himself.
    — Watch where you’re going! she shouted after them, her bright spirits darkening again.
    With the last bucket turned over, she was free to help herself to another bowl of hot soup. She listened to her Aunt’s warbling soprano, monitoring the progress of her bathing in the curtained off cooking area. Estelle would string a loose tarp to hide herself from onlookers and sing three songs, usually lasting the length of her bathing routine. By the time she reached the middle of the third song, Libète was ready.
    — Libète! Estelle called. I forgot my towel. Bring it to me!
    No answer came.
    — Libète? she bellowed. Libète! Where are you?
    But Libète was gone, snuck out of the house with a mug of soup and a piece of bread hidden underneath her magenta tank top. She rushed to the corner and turned right, passing down another stretch of homes in more disrepair than her own. She moved quickly though not quite approaching a run, appearing suspicious to her neighbors who watched her scurry past. They were neither surprised nor concerned by her behavior, merely shaking their heads and chuckling at the odd girl.
    She made a left-hand turn at the end of the row, turning onto one cement walkway that terminated in a passageway that led through a brick wall into an area often used for play. Instead of the coarse rock and cement found everywhere else, it was paved with smooth concrete, enclosed by tall walls, and painted with colorful cartoon characters and musical instruments.
    As Libète approached the passage, she heard what sounded like laughing, but also shouts of protest.
What’s going on?
she wondered, leaping through the hole in the wall.
    There was a small group of spectators, maybe six children on first glance, standing by while three boys pinned a smaller one in a puddle of brackish water. Libète squinted to see who the victim was but recognized him from his cries for help before laying eyes on him.
    It was Jak.

    Little Libète wakes up in her dark room as if from a bad dream, only to find herself in what seemed another.
    — You’ve slept long enough. Up! Up! her Aunt says, prodding her with a broomstick. It’s a busy day and you’re still lying around as worthless as trash in the street. Unacceptable! Get dressed. Get moving.
    Libète heard her Uncle groan and roll over in the other room.
    She was still shaken by the blood spilt on Impasse Chavannes the night before, the formidable Dimanche, the cruel Touss, and