by Lorin Grace
“Bring me back a water, please.”
Kyle saluted and left the office, heading for the kitchen first to see Tanner’s progress. He would check on the painting last.
At least Marci hadn’t mentioned “Eske ou ta vle marye avèk mwen?” because for the first time in a long time, the question had crossed his mind. But it was far too soon to talk marriage.
“Ladies, we did it. I am declaring the painting phase complete.” Araceli cleaned off her brush.
“Are you sure? There are still yards and yards of walls.”
“Careful—I still have some paint, and there are no children around to witness.” Araceli air painted a mustache on Madison.
Kate dropped her paintbrush in the water basin. “It looks amazing. I’ll admit I thought Jade was right when she told you the mural was a dumb idea last February. I am glad I got assigned to your team.”
“I’m glad you two were on my team too. I can’t wait to get the clipboards up and see the kids display their first art pieces.”
Madison used a hammer to replace the lid on a can of green paint. “How are you going to put the boards on the cement wall?”
“I have a glue for cement. My roommates and I tested five different kinds on the walls of the tornado shelter of the house I live in. Not sure how we will use the clipboards in the shelter. We haven’t used the room since my sophomore year.”
“You get tornadoes up in Indiana?” asked Kate.
“Not as often as Oklahoma or Texas, but one came through about four years ago and ripped out several houses. Fortunately there were no deaths. We have had minor ones since then.” Araceli pulled the painter’s tape from the walls.
Kate joined her in removing the tape. “How long does the glue take to dry?”
“It takes twelve hours to be completely solid, but after a minute of holding the board in place, it usually stays. The big problem will be keeping the kids from playing with them today. Although they do seem to listen to André’s directions.”
Madison put her hands on her hips. “I think your biggest problem won’t be the children. It will be whoever vandalized the project last time.”
Once they finished cleaning up, Araceli got the glue and caulk guns from storage. Madison and Kate matched the decorated clipboards with the frames on the wall. They set up an assembly line of sorts, taking turns applying the glue to the wall and then holding each clipboard in place for sixty seconds. They were only a third of the way through when the unmistakable cacophony of seventy children returning from school filled the building.
Araceli bit her lip. Could the children help with this part? André came up the ramp with several children. Araceli hurried to intercept them.
“It is imperative you don’t touch the clipboards on the walls until tomorrow after school. The glue needs to dry.”
André translated.
The children nodded their understanding.
“I could use some strong and patient helpers. Once the glue is on the clipboards, the boards must be held in place for one full minute.” Araceli pointed to Madison, who was in the process of doing what she described. “Sixty seconds seems like ten minutes when holding the boards in place, so you must be very patient. Also, you must tell me if any glue gets on you as soon as possible.”
André translated, and five boys raised their hands. “Miss Araceli, these boys want to help. Most of the girls want to go sew since it’s the last day before they get to have a fashion show. And I told the younger ones this job was not for them.”
“Thanks, André. Go change out of your uniforms, boys, and I’ll see you back in a minute. Remember, please, please don’t touch the boards on the wall.”
Tia raised her hand. “I will make signs in English, French, and Haitian. ‘Danger: No Touching.’ Will that help?”
“Great idea! Merci.” Araceli gave the girl a smile. They’d had a few short conversations over the last few days, but this was the first time she had volunteered.
With the help of the boys and another caulk gun and glue, they were able to get through more boards.
Kate took out her bandanna and wiped her face. “I feel like I am melting today.”
Araceli reached for her water bottle. “I miss the breeze that has been here each afternoon. André, where did it go?”
The boy shrugged. “You are not used to Haiti. This is not even hot.”
“I grew up in Texas, but heat is different here without air-conditioning.” Kate fanned herself with a clipboard.
“I’m sure we can survive. Back to work, ladies.” Araceli aimed her caulk gun at the wall and applied glue to the next square.
Some of the children who had been watching left the room. They returned a few minutes later with two battery-powered floor fans.
“My heroes!” Madison clapped her hands.
Araceli thanked each of them, glad the French and Haitian words for thank you sounded nearly identical.
Kyle came up the stairs, then walked over to a clipboard and raised a hand to touch it. Several children yelled, “No, Mr. Kyle!” in unison, then explained in all three languages how he couldn’t touch the boards. He held up his hands in surrender and reassured them he understood before coming to where Araceli stood. “I understand a fate worse than missing ten dinners awaits me if I touch a board.”
“I made no such threat, but I am happy to know they took me seriously.”
“Do you need any help?”
“Sure. I hope you are a patient man. Holding these boards in place for an entire minute is not as easy as it sounds.”
André shook out his hands. “She is telling the truth. I thought it was another joke when she said it was a hard job.”
Araceli gave him a smile. “And you are all doing an excellent job. And the fans the others brought in is making it easier.”
“Pouvons-nous chanter?” asked one of the boys.
“Of course you may sing. It will help the time pass more quickly. And I would like to learn some of your songs,” Araceli answered back in French. Far more of the children understood the language, as it was required in school.
“Be careful which songs you choose. Not all of the songs you know are appropriate for a nice lady like Miss Araceli to learn.” Kyle looked at each boy in turn.
“No worries, Mr. Kyle. We only teach her the nice songs.”
By the time they finished, Araceli had learned several songs. And taught them a French song a few of the children had heard before.
As she put away the glue and caulk guns, Araceli hummed one of the tunes. She was tired, sweaty, and happy. She jumped when the storeroom door shut behind her.
Kyle handed her a roll of tape. “Don’t lose this.”
She took the other side of the spool, but Kyle didn’t release his side. Instead, he used it to pull her toward him.
“What are you doing?”
“I haven’t had a chance to talk to you since this morning.”
“We were talking out there.”
“That isn’t what I mean. And besides, we haven’t been doing spectacularly at our fake-dating thing. And I figured a minute or two in the storage closet would give them something to wonder about.” He released his side of the tape.
Araceli rolled her eyes. “You are incorrigible.”
“And you are adorable when you are happy. But I would be careful about humming that song. It is about a mermaid luring a man away. If you sing the tune to me, I might follow you to the depths of the sea.”
“I thought the song was about a whale.”
“The whale saves the man. Even if he doesn’t want to be saved.” Kyle kissed her cheek and left the room.
Araceli stood frozen. What was she supposed to think?
nineteen
Roosters crowed, and th
e eastern sky lightened enough to outline the trees. Kyle handed Araceli a granola bar, a mango, and a water bottle. They met the driver at the gate. The group going to Labadee wouldn’t be leaving for another hour. Neither would the men working on the kitchen repairs.
By avoiding early morning traffic, Kyle hoped to shorten the four-hour trip to Marigot, which was less than one hundred kilometers away. Seven hours in a car with Araceli. Now, if he could start a conversation.
They drove through the city. Businesses had not yet opened, leaving the road open for delivery trucks and various embassy vehicles. Only a handful of tap taps ran. Bags of garbage awaited pickup next to the ever-present cinder-block walls.
Araceli broke the silence. “Why Haiti? I mean, of all the charitable work your family does or could do, you spend so much time here and keep your spending, which could be considerable, to a minimum to help just one place.”
“Other charities work in Haiti with a broader spectrum and even more money, but Haiti is personal to my mother. Before she inherited Grandma’s position as head of the family charities, her heart was in Haiti because of a pen pal she wrote in the seventh grade. Once she convinced Dad to marry her—a long story—she insisted they honeymoon in Haiti. At the time, Baby Doc was still in power, so the situation was worse than what it is today. Anyway, Mom couldn’t find her friend. But what she did find . . . well, you can guess. She took part of her inheritance and founded the Evans Foundation, separate from Grandfather’s charities. She started by just making donations but learned the money rarely made it to the orphans. So she initiated a more hands-on approach. Since the foundation doesn’t bear my grandfather’s name, most people don’t make the connection. We try to keep it that way and maintain a low profile when we are down here. Having a different last name helps. People at the embassy want us to have bodyguards when we are here, but that would make us stand out. As it is, very few people know where we are on the Forbes lists.”
“Is that why Marci didn’t want Jade and Chelsea to take her photo?”
“Pretty much. With social media, our lives are not as private as we would like. Marci chose to go to a public high school, so she tries to stay out of the spotlight.”
“I understand your mother’s passion for the country. After this week, I want to do more, though I don’t know how. For a while now I have felt like I chose a worthless major. In a month and a half, I graduate, and then what? It isn’t like painting helps people.”
Kyle reached for Araceli’s hand and ran his thumb over her knuckles while he thought of an answer. The first one through his mind didn’t sound rational. If Araceli was by his side, they could do so much together. “Did you see those children’s faces this week? Art made a difference for them. Not only that, but children who have gone through trauma can often express themselves in art. Have you heard of art therapy?”
“My old roommate Mandy suggested it, but I’d need to take so many classes before I could even start grad school, and I am not sure I am ready to commit three more years of my life to school. Writing has never been my forte, and frankly, it scares me.” The last part came out in a whisper as she turned to the window.
Kyle continued to run his thumb over her knuckles. “Maybe there are other paths to your goal. I don’t think the children care about a degree.” He turned her hand over and started tracing her palm.
As he hoped, Araceli turned back toward him. “Do you have any ideas?”
“Maybe. I’ll let you know if I have anything concrete. So, what drew you to art?”
The next couple of hours flew by as they talked about subjects ranging from art to childhood pranks to favorite bands. It was the most pleasant drive Kyle had ever taken.
The school was not what Araceli expected. The walls reminded her of industrial wood pallets. Trees on the far side of the school were visible through the three-inch gaps between the slats. Araceli followed Kyle to the open doorway. Children dressed in mismatched red-and-blue uniforms sat on rough wooden benches. A teacher stood in front of a weathered blackboard teaching a lesson in French. She knew from their earlier conversation that the teacher made eighty dollars a month—a sum the mothers of the children sacrificed and scrimped to pay. Before they could create too much of a distraction, they stepped back.
Kyle motioned for her to follow him over to a chicken coop that looked better constructed than the school.
Kyle shook his head. “The school turned in a grant request for more chickens.”
“Surely they need more money.”
“I see why our board member fell in love with this school and the mothers who are so dedicated to keeping it open.” A few women gathered at the edge of the schoolyard. Kyle took Araceli’s hand and walked over to them.
He started the introductions in Haitian, but one of the women interrupted him in English.
“You speak good Creole, but they asked me to translate.”
“What if I speak in Creole, and if I get something wrong you can correct me?”
The women conversed, and Kyle joined in. Araceli tried to follow the conversation, but so few of the words mirrored French it was impossible to make heads or tails of what they were saying. She chose to study the children while she waited. Did they understand the difference education could make in their lives? Or did they view school as something they had to endure? Araceli was still contemplating the matter when Kyle joined her.
“Spying on them?”
“Observing.”
“The children will have a break in a few minutes, then we can meet them. I brought some pencils to hand out and some extra eggs from the hunt, with stickers. Can you help me put the two together quickly?”
Araceli followed Kyle to the car, where he pulled out a duffel and set it on the hood.
“There are twenty-three children. I think I have about fifty eggs.”
They quickly filled the eggs with stickers and some hard candies. The pencils came in a conglomeration of colors, the type purchased for school or birthday parties. She finished folding the ends of the last cardboard egg as the children exited the schoolhouse.
As Kyle spoke with them, Araceli made a vow to learn Haitian so she could understand what the big smiles meant. Kyle pointed to her, and the children clapped.
The mother who’d translated before leaned over. “Your husband says you will give each child two eggs and that he is giving us fifteen chickens now and fifteen in the fall.”
Araceli turned to correct the woman but noticing the tears in her eyes decided to let the misconception go. The children gathered around as Araceli handed out the eggs while Kyle let each one choose two pencils from his stash. Several of the children hugged her around the waist. Each told her mèsi, which, being so close to merci, was easy enough to understand.
All too soon they were saying their good-byes and getting back in the car.
“I’ve never seen a woman cry over chickens before,” said Araceli.
“I wanted to give them ten times what they asked for when we drove up and I saw the condition of their school. All they asked for was money for more chickens. They could have asked for so much more. I also told them I would like to pay for the teachers for this month and next. It is an interesting balance. These women have learned to fish, so to speak, but they need a stocked pond.”
She pondered the analogy. “Makes sense. I wish I understood more Creole. I want to speak with the children.”
“That I can help with.” Kyle pointed out his window. “Lanmè: ocean.”
Araceli repeated the word, and they played the game all the way to Jacmel, where they stopped for lunch. Before going into the restaurant, they stopped at a little store. Kyle picked up a couple of chocolate bars. “Askanya chocolate. From bean to bar, the entire process happens here.”
“You sound like a commercial.”
“Wait until you tast
e it.”
Araceli reached for a bar, but Kyle kept them out of reach. “After lunch.” They entered a tiny restaurant.
When Kyle finished the last bite on his plate, he asked, “Did you wear your swimsuit?”
“Yes, are you finally going to tell me why? Lanmè?”
“No, someplace far better. We will need to walk, but it is worth every step.”
“I’m fine with hiking.” She held out her hand. “Chocolate?”
Kyle gave her a bar and took her hand and led her out of the restaurant. “Then let’s see if Kervens found any new shortcuts.”
The dirt parking lot marked the head of the trail—and was as far as the four-wheel-drive SUV could take them, having already crossed the Jacmel river and several kilometers of unpaved roads. A guide waited to help them along the trail for one hundred gourde each.
“I thought you said this was a difficult hike.” Araceli walked beside him.
“Don’t be deceived. But like most difficult things, it will be worth it.” The trail was uncrowded, giving Kyle hope they would have the same once they reached the pools. Soon the climb became steeper and more treacherous, the guide helping them over a couple sections.
Araceli took Kyle’s hand to steady herself as she scrambled over a rock. “I believe you now.”
They came to the first of the three basin ponds. Last time he’d visited here, the rains had turned the pools murky. Today they were clear.
“What is this place?”
“Bassin Cheval, actually the first of three pools and waterfalls making up Bassin Bleu. This one is the shallowest. I hope you are not afraid of swimming or doing a bit of rappelling.” Kyle held out his hand to steady Araceli as she descended a particularly steep spot. He bit his tongue about what lay ahead of them.
“That is an interesting combination.” She gave him a skeptical look.
They hiked around to the second pool, Bassin Palmiste. Only three other people were there with a guide in one of the picnic areas. They stopped to take a photo.
