God Loves Haiti (9780062348142) Read Online Free PDF Page B

cement—don’t laugh; you don’t know how strong my mother was—I walked out of the house through a small hole of light where the front door used to be.
    Why are you telling me all this, little boy? Alain said. I feel bad for you. I really do, but, as you can see, I got my own problems.
    The pain in Alain’s legs had sizzled up his back and neck and grown sharp and overwhelming once his adrenaline shock had worn off. Alain felt that the boy’s lament was distracting him from the more fun preoccupation of suckling the black rage and pain exploding in his head, blurring his vision and emptying his usual glass-half-fulldisposition. He was angry with God for allowing nature to strike Haiti with such tragedy. The blasphemy felt good. It crept hrough Alain’s physical pain like water moving through a living room from an overflowing toilet. He was determined to not let this angelic little orphan dull his rage.
    The boy hadn’t moved an inch. He just stared at Alain with kindness.
    Leave me alone, Alain said. I got my own problems.
    The boy pretended not to hear him and continued his story. I crawled through the debris that blocked my front door, the boy said. The dark tunnel seemed to be the only way out of the house. I felt like I was in a Kirikou story. I crawled through the tunnel until I got to the street. There wasn’t much street left, as the house across the street, one of the biggest in Fort National, had collapsed into a pile of rubble onto the street as well. Every house on our block had done the same.
    I don’t know what to tell you, son.
    There was white dust everywhere. The goudou-goudou sound disappeared. The sounds I heard on the street were of people crying. They were crying for help. They were buried, they said. Could someone help please? they screamed. Some of the people crying were kids. I recognized the voices of some of my friends. Their voices were brightest and went silent quickest.
    How did you end up here? Alain said. What’s your name anyway?
    Xavier. A crowd of survivors swept me up as they clambered up and down and through the mountain of debris that had replaced the street. They were quiet. They were hurt. They shuffled more than walked. Like zombies are said to. They scared me. But I joined their stream and followed. I didn’t want to be alone. The man leading them said he would find us help. His name was Philippe. He found us this park. We walked only two blocks or so. I’m not sure. I can’t count too well yet. The wounded were too hurt to walk or be carried any further. So we stopped here.
    So this crippled crew is supposed to take care of you? Where are your other relatives?
    I only had a grandmother and a sister besides my mother. She was a baby. They were sleeping in the room that collapsed on my mother. The roof may have caved in on them before bringing the house down on my mother. Somehow sparing me.
    Somehow sparing you. I got spared too. Ain’t we a pair of pretty motherfuckers. Look at us. I can’t walk and you’re naked with no family. I tell you, the dead are the lucky ones.
    Don’t say that.
    They don’t have to deal with this mess. Look around you, boy. The dead won’t get to see the city, the palace, and their brothers and sisters looking so broken.
    Don’t say that!
    The child’s shriek startled Alain and, seemingly, all ofbeleaguered Port-au-Prince, even the somnolent pigeons. The cry shattered the stiff air and mournful atmosphere of the park. The dazed crowd from Fort National around Alain and Xavier consisted of traumatized and wounded people who sat so still with wide, vacant eyes you could hardly separate the living from the dead. The child’s scream almost stirred them. Almost.
    I’m sorry, Alain said to the child, opening his arm, the good one, the one that didn’t feel like it wanted to secede from his body. The boy hugged him.
    As if out of thin air, three humanitarian aid