Part 7 (2/2)

”I am asking, just in case I do.”

”Do you?”

”Yes.”

”Who is it?” she asked.

I was afraid to tell her right away.

”Nothing has happened yet,” I said.

”I would hope not,” she said. ”Who is it?”

She waited for me to speak, but I wanted to hold on to my secret just a bit longer.

”Let me tell you a few things,” she said. ”You have to get yourself a man who will do something for you. He can't be a vagabond. I won't have it.”

”He is not a vagabond.”

”How do you know? Do you think he will walk up to you and say, 'Hi, I am a vagabond'?”

I trust- ”You are already lost,” she said. ”You tell me you trust him and I know you are already lost. What's his name?”

Henry was the first name I could think of.

”Henry what?”

I thought hard for a last name for my Henry.

”Henry Je ne sais sais quoi.” quoi.”

”Don't you dare play with me.”

”I was just joking,” I said. ”I know his last name. It is Henry Napoleon.”

”Of the Leogane Napoleons?” My mother closed her eyes as though there was a long family registry in her brain.

The Leogane Napoleons? Why had I chosen them? There were more ill.u.s.trious Haitian families. I could see my mother's mind working very quickly. Were they rich? Poor? Black? Mulatto? Were they of peasant stock? Literate? Professionals?

”I want to meet him,” she said.

”He is not here.” I thought quickly. ”He went back to Haiti after graduation.”

”is he coming back?”

”I don't know.”

”I want to meet his parents. It's always proper for the parents to talk first. That way if there's been any indiscretion, we can have a family meeting and arrange things together. It's always good to know the parents.”

”The parents are in Haiti with him.”

”Are they ever coming back?”

”I don't know.”

”Find out. I want to meet them when they get back.”

I leaned over and kissed her cheek to show her that I appreciated her trying to be a good mother. I wanted to tell her that I loved her, but the words would not roll off my tongue. I had to be more careful now that my mother knew I had a love interest. I cooked all her favorite meals and had them ready for her when she got home. I even used the mortar and pestle to crush onions and spices to add those special flavors she liked. I got A and Bs in chemistry and tried to hide my chagrin whenever Joseph was on a gig in another part of the country.

My mother waited very patiently for Henry Napoleon of the Leogane Napoleons to come back from Haiti. Every time she asked about him, she took advantage of the moment to give me some general advice.

”It is really hard for the new-generation girls,” she began. ”You will have to choose between the really old-fas.h.i.+oned Haitians and the new-generation Haitians. The old-fas.h.i.+oned ones are not exactly prize fruits. They make you cook plantains and rice and beans and never let you feed them lasagna. The problem with the new generation is that a lot of them have lost their sense of obligation to the family's honor. Rather than become doctors and engineers, they want to drive taxicabs to make quick cash.”

My mother had somehow learned from someone at work that the Leogane Napoleons were a poor but hardworking clan. She said that in Haiti if your mother was a coal seller and you became a doctor, people would still look down on you knowing where you came from. But in America, they like success stories. The worse off you were, the higher your praise. Henry's mother had sold coal in Haiti, but now her son was going to be a doctor. Henry's was a success story.

Joseph was away for a month. He sent me postcards and letters from the road. Each day I rushed to the mailbox, making sure I got them before my mother did. I put his jazz-legend posters on my walls and stared at them day and night.

Whenever my mother was home, I would stay up all night just waiting for her to have a nightmare. Shortly after she fell asleep, I would hear her screaming for someone to leave her alone. I would run over and shake her as she thrashed about. Her reaction was always the same. When she saw my face, she looked even more frightened.

”Jesus Marie Joseph.” She would cover her eyes with her hands. ”Sophie, you've saved my life.”

Chapter 11.

His first night back home, I went to hear Joseph play. My mother was working. I took a chance. I put on a tight-fitting yellow dress that I had hidden under my mattress. Joseph wore a tuxedo with a tie and c.u.mberbund made of African kente cloth.

”You look like you're all grown up,” he said.

”A lot of time has gone by,” I said.

”What's time to you and me?”

”Out of sight, out of mind.”

”Not your sight and not my mind.”

He always knew all the right things to say.

In the car, he told me about how all the towns looked alike after a while when he was traveling and how he kept thinking about me and feeling guilty about my mother, because he was wanting to steal me away from her.

The whole evening was like one daydream. I had never imagined myself in a place like the Note. There was a large dance floor with pink and yellow lights twinkling from the ceiling. That night Joseph played the tenor saxophone. There was a whimpering sound to it, like a mourning cry.

<script>