Free The Farming of Bones by Edwidge Danticat Page A

Beatriz.
    “How kind of you to visit us so early, Señorita Beatriz,” Juana said as a greeting.
    “Thank you,” answered Beatriz, looking annoyed that Juana had disturbed her conversation with Papi.
    “The señora did not have a restful night, with both the children waking at different hours,” Juana announced. “It seems they already have dissimilar temperaments, those children.”
    “Do you have my tea?” Papi coughed as though he were drowning.
    “The tea is boiling,” Juana said. “It must stew; you need it for that cough.” Juana turned back to Beatriz. “Would you like a taste of my good strong coffee, Señorita Beatriz, some that my sisters sent for me from my birthplace only yesterday?”
    “Whatever pleases you, Juana,” Beatriz said.
    “Come, Amabelle.” Juana grabbed my hand and dragged me back to the pantry where she busied herself making everyone’s morning meal. Luis stood in a corner eating quickly before starting his day’s work.
    “Take this.” Juana handed me two boiled yuccas in a large bowl. “Build up your strength. This day will be full of comings and goings for us.”
    I ate while she lined up the cups and saucers on a tray for Papi and Beatriz.
    “Take your time with your food, Amabelle,” she commanded.
    Luis wiped his hands on his pants when he was done eating. He squeezed Juana’s behind as he headed out.
    “Don’t forget the goat meat you must take as a gift to Doña Eva from Señor Pico,” Juana reminded him.
    When I came back into the parlor, Beatriz was bending over the radio with Papi as he turned the large dials to get a sound. The radio remained voiceless. He conceded defeat and turned it off.
    “What are you writing there?” Beatriz asked, peeking into Papi’s notebook.
    “I’m trying to write what I recall of my life,” Papi said, closing the notebook. He cleared a space for me to put the tray in front of him, tore a piece from the bread on my tray, and crammed it into his mouth.
    “Papi, can I see what you have written?” Beatriz asked.
    “I’m writing only for my grandchildren,” Papi replied. “I feel like a bird who’s flown over two mountains without looking at the valley in the center. I don’t know what I will or won’t retain in a few more years. Even now there are many things that took place yesterday I don’t remember.”
    “Your grandchildren were born yesterday. I know you have not forgotten this, have you?” Beatriz teased, sliding her cup and saucer off the tray. The smell of Juana’s coffee scented the entire parlor, like smoke from a green-wood fire.
    I put the tray down on a side table near the radio and started walking back to the pantry.
    “Stay, Amabelle,” Papi said. “I may need you to warm my tea again.”
    “You’ve had a colorful life,” Beatriz said to Papi.
    “What do you know of my life?” Papi sipped his tea as he waited for her reply.
    “I know what Valencia has told me,” she said.
    “Valencia knows only what I tell her, and for an adoring child a foothill can seem like a mountain if her father’s painting the picture.”
    “So you didn’t like being an officer in the Spanish army, is that so?” Beatriz asked.
    “This was almost forty years ago,” Papi said. “Spain was at war then too, a splendid little war, fighting for colonies with Los Estados Unidos. I fled from bloody battles to come here, the great battles of El Caney and San Juan Hill. But even if things were peaceful, I still would have left my country.”
    “Do you like it here?” Beatriz asked.
    “I married here. I’ve raised my daughter here and now my grandchildren—”
    “But does it please you, honestly?”
    “Why do you ask so many questions?”
    “I read in La Nacion that there are women fighting in the International Brigade in Spain,” Beatriz said, twisting her long caramel-colored braid.
    “Is that what you see in your dreams at night, visions of the International Brigade?” Papi puckered his lips and moved his