The Beautiful Anthology Read Online Free PDF Page A

opening her mouth wide so we can see all her white teeth and her tongue, the end of her tongue, a small red bulb wobbling in the dark vault beneath her palate. She looks at me seriously. “No more candy for you, mademoiselle. You’re so beautiful – you don’t want to become a toothless dan rachòt .”
    Mother cooked all afternoon, and the fragrance of roasting ham, garlic, and other spices, the family milling around, laughing and talking, makes it like Christmas. My sister Patricia and I switch on the tv, fiddle with the knobs and the antenna until the horizontal lines disappear and we can watch Languichatte, the Haitian comedy show. We sink to the floor cross-legged, our eyes on the screen. The sound of laughter mingles with the hissing of steaming kettles, the clink of silverware on plates, and the bell-like tones of glasses touching each other in a salute to peace.
    My mother sighs, warm and filled with contentment. My father groans, for he has eaten too much and dessert is still to come.
     
    The Other Papa is back.
    Hours after the party, Mother, my sister, and I have locked ourselves in my parents’ bedroom because Papa is in a rage.
    “It will be better if you open the door, Tita,” Papa says from behind the door. “I don’t want to force my way in.”
    Patricia puts her hands over her ears, speaking softly to herself, shaking so hard I want to tie her down. Mother begs Papa – through the door – to calm down. The pounding stops for a few minutes or so and then begins again. “Open up, Tita, or so help me God, I’ll break the door down. Tita!” The name seems to belong to someone else, even though it is Papa’s voice calling it. A very angry voice.
    My mother grimaces when she touches her eye, and the skin is turning several different colors. I’m afraid my father will break the door down. He is still out there. He’s back to calling her name. “Tita. Tita. Let me in. Let. Me. In.”
    Pound. Pound. Pound.
    I grab a book and throw it the door. “Go away! I hate you.”
    Mother takes my hand. “Don’t be like that.” Her other hand is on her temple and she’s gazing out at nothing. I see a tear roll down the silhouette of her shadowed cheek.
    Then he begins rattling the doorknob with one hand and banging at the wood with the other. The floor is going to swallow me. The bedroom walls start caving in. The rough spots on the carpet are bloody footprints and dark creatures from the corners of the room bob their huge heads as they weave and glide closer.
    “Open the fucking door,” Papa says.
    “Mom?” I say, touching her shoulder.
    She rubs her face and turns to look at me. “I bet I look a mess,” she says.
    “You’re still pretty,” I whisper. “Even with snot on your nose.”
    “Oh, honey,” she says wetly. She takes us both in her arms, and her face is damp against our cheeks. Her fingers stroke our heads.
    The doorknob turns clockwise, rattles, and quickly turns counterclockwise. Mother wedges a chair under the doorknob. She and I lean with all our might against the door, but we’re losing the battle. There are two of us (my sister is too terrified), but a very angry man is pushing the door from the other side. Papa throws his entire body weight into a running tackle that starts at the other end of the hallway and ends with a splintering ka-blam at the bedroom door.
    Suddenly, our resistance proves too feeble and the door collapses inward, sending Mother and me sprawling, crashing the chair into the wall. Papa falls against the vanity – jeweled chopsticks and flowered pins fly to the ground. In an attempt to steady himself, he knocks over a small mirror and suddenly there is blood everywhere.
    In an instant, Papa is over the rage – just like that. He will say later that the pain brought back lucidity. He sits on the bed, dumbfounded. “What am I doing?”
    My reflection stares at me from the broken mirror on the floor – and for the first time I can see my mother somewhere in