husband’s dream house might soon be underwater. She andLaurent might wake up one night floating in their bed, might have to climb on top of their roof to wait for the current to die down. Silently pondering all this, Gaëlle put her hands on the back of her widening hips. Might she even have to give birth in a tree?
“It’s terrible,” Claire Narcis declared in a now thunderous voice so that she’d be heard above all the others and above the pounding rain. “With all the heat and rain this year, we’ll either melt or be washed away,” she added, as though interpreting each layer of worry on Gaëlle’s face.
Gaëlle continued to measure Claire’s order, adding a few more yards as degi, in gratitude, and leaving it to the others taking shelter in the shop to continue the discussion.
“These frogs dying earlier this year weren’t a good sign either.” Suzanne Boncy, the octogenarian florist and a Miss Haiti during the Second World War, was the only one participating in the discussion in French rather than Creole. All the voices now came booming out, almost deafening in the shop’s small space, competing with hers.
“Not all bad the frogs died,” Elie, the town’s best car mechanic butted in. “Knew a crazy woman once. Would catch small frogs by the river, throw them in her mouth. Smaller and more colorful they are, more poison frogs have in them. Woman died from this, everyone said so. Better for the children and for crazy people the frogs are not around.”
Madame Boncy reached into the side pocket of her billowing pink dress and pulled out a folded copy of the town’s one-page weekly newspaper. She pointed to a story about thedead frogs and, for those who couldn’t read, explained erpétologie, or the study of reptiles and amphibians, including frogs. The article in the paper had been written by a herpetologist who had come all the way from Paris to uncover the reasons for the frogs’ dying. According to Madame Boncy, the herpetologist had stated that, given his studies of the condition of the frog carcasses and the dirt and water samples he’d taken of their environment, and given the climate and blistering temperatures in Ville Rose that summer, the frogs had probably died from a fungal disease caused by the hotter-than-usual weather.
The rain was winding down, and soon it was sunny outside again. The people who’d come into the fabric shop to seek shelter were now making their way back into the street. The bells of Sainte Rose de Lima chimed the noon hour and the camions and other public transportation vehicles began circulating again, splashing muddy water everywhere.
“Mèsi, Claire,” Gaëlle said as she handed her the package.
Claire’s eyes were once again lowered, her shoulders slouched. “Fòk nou voye je youn sou lòt,” she said before walking out. “We must look after each other,”
The next few mornings were dazzling, filled with splinters of daylight that, all over the house, crisscrossed the mahogany floors. These were the types of mornings—quiet, sun-soaked—that evaporated all of Gaëlle’s fears about the outcome for the baby, even about living in the path of dangerous waters.
One of those mornings, a few weeks later, Gaëlle wasplanning to work with Laurent in the shop for the day and he was waiting for her in the car. She detested wearing muumuus, but at this point she had no choice.
The passenger seat had grown small for her as her belly had expanded. Though Laurent was already inside the car, looking pensively down the stone pathway leading toward the road, the passenger side door was locked. Before she was pregnant, she might have hopped over the open top, but no more.
He unlocked the door, then held out his hand and helped her squeeze her body into the seat. He reached back and placed his hand on her lap, tapping it gently, as was his habit, as though following a beat.
Before he could put the key in the ignition, she said, “I want the baby to be named
“It’s terrible,” Claire Narcis declared in a now thunderous voice so that she’d be heard above all the others and above the pounding rain. “With all the heat and rain this year, we’ll either melt or be washed away,” she added, as though interpreting each layer of worry on Gaëlle’s face.
Gaëlle continued to measure Claire’s order, adding a few more yards as degi, in gratitude, and leaving it to the others taking shelter in the shop to continue the discussion.
“These frogs dying earlier this year weren’t a good sign either.” Suzanne Boncy, the octogenarian florist and a Miss Haiti during the Second World War, was the only one participating in the discussion in French rather than Creole. All the voices now came booming out, almost deafening in the shop’s small space, competing with hers.
“Not all bad the frogs died,” Elie, the town’s best car mechanic butted in. “Knew a crazy woman once. Would catch small frogs by the river, throw them in her mouth. Smaller and more colorful they are, more poison frogs have in them. Woman died from this, everyone said so. Better for the children and for crazy people the frogs are not around.”
Madame Boncy reached into the side pocket of her billowing pink dress and pulled out a folded copy of the town’s one-page weekly newspaper. She pointed to a story about thedead frogs and, for those who couldn’t read, explained erpétologie, or the study of reptiles and amphibians, including frogs. The article in the paper had been written by a herpetologist who had come all the way from Paris to uncover the reasons for the frogs’ dying. According to Madame Boncy, the herpetologist had stated that, given his studies of the condition of the frog carcasses and the dirt and water samples he’d taken of their environment, and given the climate and blistering temperatures in Ville Rose that summer, the frogs had probably died from a fungal disease caused by the hotter-than-usual weather.
The rain was winding down, and soon it was sunny outside again. The people who’d come into the fabric shop to seek shelter were now making their way back into the street. The bells of Sainte Rose de Lima chimed the noon hour and the camions and other public transportation vehicles began circulating again, splashing muddy water everywhere.
“Mèsi, Claire,” Gaëlle said as she handed her the package.
Claire’s eyes were once again lowered, her shoulders slouched. “Fòk nou voye je youn sou lòt,” she said before walking out. “We must look after each other,”
The next few mornings were dazzling, filled with splinters of daylight that, all over the house, crisscrossed the mahogany floors. These were the types of mornings—quiet, sun-soaked—that evaporated all of Gaëlle’s fears about the outcome for the baby, even about living in the path of dangerous waters.
One of those mornings, a few weeks later, Gaëlle wasplanning to work with Laurent in the shop for the day and he was waiting for her in the car. She detested wearing muumuus, but at this point she had no choice.
The passenger seat had grown small for her as her belly had expanded. Though Laurent was already inside the car, looking pensively down the stone pathway leading toward the road, the passenger side door was locked. Before she was pregnant, she might have hopped over the open top, but no more.
He unlocked the door, then held out his hand and helped her squeeze her body into the seat. He reached back and placed his hand on her lap, tapping it gently, as was his habit, as though following a beat.
Before he could put the key in the ignition, she said, “I want the baby to be named
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