Free Making the Hook-Up by Cole Riley Page B

understand. When General Rafael Trujillo ordered all Haitians out of the Dominican Republic, she gathered her few belongings and wrapped them in her skirt. She ran from the overseers, and people throwing stones and marauding soldiers only to find more soldiers on both sides of the river. She found a shallow place and even beneath the moonlight, she could see that the water ran red with blood. The water was icy cold and as she waded in, a body floated past her. She waited, her heart stopping every time she saw the barrel of a soldier’s rifle or heard the heavy footsteps of military boots plodding along damp soil. She heard the screams
of men, women, and children being slaughtered, the thrashing of limbs in water, the silence of death.
    She closed her eyes and thought about her childhood, the sound of her mother singing, the smell of fresh laundry, her father’s paintings. She didn’t notice when a large man slipped into the water. She couldn’t scream when he tapped her shoulder. She wanted to tell him to go away—that two were easier to spot than one, but she looked into his eyes and saw her fear mirrored there. As she lay in the water shivering, the small part of her heart still remaining opened up, and she wrapped her arms around this stranger. For hours, but perhaps it was only minutes, they lay there holding each other until she could feel his heart beating against hers, every breath of his followed by one of hers until she was certain that they were breathing for each other.
    She did not protest when she felt his cold lips pressed against hers. She opened her mouth and felt respite at the warmth she found in his. His large hands unbuttoned her blouse, covered her breasts. They lifted her skirt, and turned her onto her back and held her as he entered her swiftly. He buried his face in her neck. She buried her face in his shoulder. With each thrust, the coarse fabric of his shirt scraped her cheek. She felt a tightening between her thighs. His chest seemed to hollow as he sobbed silently. Even after they came, he remained inside her. He remained inside her until young shafts of morning light gave witness to the carnage around them. Only then, did he withdraw and steal home, as silently as he had crept into the water.
    She saw him again, later that day. His name was Jean-Marc. He was neither handsome nor ugly but from his demeanor, she decided that he was a good man. At first, they pretended not to recognize each other, but then he smiled a sad little smile, and again, her heart opened up. He reached for her hand and
she brushed his fingertips with hers. He took her to get warm clothing, a bit of food. She would have married him, my grandmother told me, but he was killed three weeks later as he snuck back into the Dominican Republic to find his younger sister. When she found out that my grandfather had died, she wanted to cry, she wanted to scream, throw herself in the river but instead, she found work as a maid with a well-to-do family. She gave birth to my mother. She finally did cry when she saw her daughter, an exact likeness of the man she knew but for a moment. And then, she hoped to never cry again. Instead, she lived as close to the river as her heart would allow, and talked to the waters as if they held the spirit of Jean-Marc.
    There are no pictures of my grandfather. Sometimes, when I think of my grandmother’s story, I imagine him, tall and strong, proud. I imagine the times he and my grandmother should have had, and when I do this, I cry the tears my grandmother cannot. There is no explanation for this. It is as if my grandmother’s grief skipped a generation and now resides in me. And her grief is a burden I did not ask for, but one I bear. The tears I cry for her, for Jean-Marc are yet another thing Todd cannot understand. He knows the story, as he was there when my grandmother told us her saga and I believe that he truly mourns the tragedy, but he mourns it the way he mourns other