When it seems hes never coming out, I call my mother at home in Brooklyn.
"Manman, how do you love him?" I whisper into the phone.
My mother is clicking her tongue and tapping her fingers against the mouthpiece again. Her soft tone makes me think I have awakened her from her sleep.
"He tell you?" she asks.
"Yes," I say.
"Is there more?"
"What he told you he want to tell you for long time," she says, "you, his good angel."
It has always amazed me how much my mother and father echo each other, in their speech, their actions, even in their businesses. I wonder how much more alike they could possibly be. But why shouldnt they be alike? Like all parents, they were a society of two, sharing a series of private codes and associations, a past that even if Id been born in the country of their birth, I still wouldnt have known, couldnt have known, thoroughly. I was a part of them. Some might say I belonged to them. But I wasnt them.
"I dont know, Ka." My mother is whispering now, as though theres a chance she might also be overheard by my father. "You and me, we save him. When I meet him, it made him stop hurt the people. This how I see it. He a seed thrown in rock. You, me, we make him take root."
As my mother is speaking, this feeling comes over me that I sometimes have when Im carving, this sensation that my hands dont belong to me at all, that something else besides my brain and muscles is moving my fingers, something bigger and stronger than myself, an invisible puppetmaster over whom I have no control. I feel as though its this same puppetmaster that now forces me to lower the phone and hang up, in midconversation, on my mother.
As soon as I put the phone down, I tell myself that I could continue this particular conversation at will, in a few minutes, a few hours, a few days, even a few years. Whenever Im ready.
My father walks back into the room, his thinning hair wet, his pajamas on. My mother does not call me back. Somehow she must know that she has betrayed me by not sharing my confusion and, on some level, my feeling that my life could have gone on fine without my knowing these types of things about my father.
When I get up the next morning, my fathers already dressed. Hes sitting on the edge of the bed, his head bowed, his face buried in his palms, his forehead shadowed by his fingers. If I were sculpting him at this moment, I would carve a praying mantis, crouching motionless, seeming to pray, while actually waiting to strike.
With his back to me now, my father says, "Will you call that actress and tell her we have it no more, the statue?"
"We were invited to lunch there," I say. "I believe we should go and tell her in person."
He raises his shoulders and shrugs.
"Up to you," he says.
Excerpted from The Dew Breaker by Edwidge Danticat Copyright© 2004 by Edwidge Danticat. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Blood at the Root
"A gripping, timely, and important examination of American racism."
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