{"product_id":"the-farming-of-bones-isbn-9781616953492","title":"The Farming of Bones","description":"\u003cp\u003eIt is 1937 and Amabelle Désir, a young Haitian woman living in the Dominican Republic, has built herself a life as the servant and companion of the wife of a wealthy colonel. She and Sebastien, a cane worker, are deeply in love and plan to marry. But Amabelle's  world collapses when a wave of genocidal violence, driven by Dominican dictator Rafael Trujillo, leads to the slaughter of Haitian workers. Amabelle and Sebastien are separated, and she desperately flees the tide of violence for a Haiti she barely remembers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Already acknowledged as a classic, this harrowing story of love and survival—from one of the most important voices of her generation—is an unforgettable memorial to the victims of the Parsley Massacre and a testimony to the power of human memory.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003c\/u\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cu\u003eThe Farming of Bones\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Notable Book\u003cbr\u003eALA Booklist Editor’s Choice\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"One of the Best Books of the Year\"—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Heartrending.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Walter Mosely,\u003c\/b\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A powerful, haunting novel ... every chapter cuts deep, and you feel it.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eTime \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Danticat ... is a brilliant storyteller. Her language is simple, gorgeous, and enticing. Her perfect pacing and seamless narrative ... make each character’s destiny seem inexorable.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eTime Out New York\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[With] hallucinatory vigor and a sense of mission ... Danticat capably evokes the shock with which a small personal world is disrupted by military mayhem.... \u003ci\u003eThe Farming of Bones \u003c\/i\u003eoffers ample confirmation of Edwidge Danticat’s considerable talents.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A passionate story ... Richly textured, deeply personal details particularize each of Danticat’s characters and give poignancy to their lives. Often, her tales take on the quality of a legend.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Seattle Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A beautiful and tragic book ... Danticat startles and enraptures readers once again with \u003ci\u003eThe Farming of Bones\u003c\/i\u003e, a novel so mature in its exposition, so captivating in its spirit that it perpetually astonishes the reader in every remarkable chapter.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Orlando Sentinel\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Danticat ... infuses the dreamlike prose of her earlier works with a politicized resonance in her second novel. ... An eyeopening and delicately written testimonial to the ‘nameless and faceless’ who died in a historically overlooked conflict.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Because the larger themes of trauma and collective memory are in the hands of a gifted fiction writer, the novel cannot be summarized by casual reference to genocidal fact. Indeed, some of the most interesting writers today—Toni Morrison in \u003ci\u003eParadise\u003c\/i\u003e, Caryl Phillips in \u003ci\u003eCambridge\u003c\/i\u003e—are blending history and fiction, imparting information, in the manner of nineteenth century novelists, without seeming to.... A beautifully conceived work, with monumental themes.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Nation\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Steely, nuanced ... it’s a testament to Danticat’s skill that Amabelle’s musical, sorrowing voice never falters.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A surprisingly subtle and wise book.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“An admirable, even brilliant, work by an author of tremendous talent ... a story that will haunt both the mind and the soul.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Denver Post\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Exquisite ... Passionate and heartrending, Bones lingers in the consciousness like an unforgettable nightmare.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“An erotic, devastating tale ... Danticat ... lets us feel the pain and hope of Amabelle’s journey, using language that’s poetic and understated all at once.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eMadamoiselle\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A beautiful book. Danticat’s writing is superb, drifting easily from the visionary and ecstatic to the bare and simple notice of things as they are.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Sunday Oregonian\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Stunning both as revelation of a forgotten atrocity and as demonstration of narrative craft.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Cleveland Plain-Dealer\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Danticat gives us fully realized characters who endure their lives with dignity, a sensuously atmospheric setting and a perfectly paced narrative written in prose that is lushly poetic and erotic, specifically detailed ... and starkly realistic. While this novel is deeply sad, it is infused with Danticat’s fierce need to bear witness.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eEdwidge Danticat\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of numerous books, including \u003ci\u003eBrother, I’m Dying\u003c\/i\u003e, which won the National Book Critics Circle Award and was a National Book Award finalist; \u003ci\u003eBreath, Eyes, Memory\u003c\/i\u003e, an Oprah Book Club selection; \u003ci\u003eKrik? Krak!\u003c\/i\u003e, a National Book Award finalist; and \u003ci\u003eThe Dew Breaker\u003c\/i\u003e, winner of the inaugural Story Prize. The recipient of a MacArthur Fellowship, she has been published in \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e, and elsewhere. \u003ci\u003eThe Farming of Bones\u003c\/i\u003e won an American Book Award for fiction in 1999.\u003c\/p\u003e1\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHis name is Sebastien Onius.\u003cbr\u003e   He comes most nights to put an end to my nightmare, the\u003cbr\u003eone I have all the time, of my parents drowning. While my\u003cbr\u003ebody is struggling against sleep, fighting itself to awaken, he\u003cbr\u003ewhispers for me to “lie still while I take you back.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Back where?” I ask without feeling my lips moving.\u003cbr\u003e   He says, “I will take you back into the cave across the river.”\u003cbr\u003e   I lurch at him and stumble, trying to rise. He levels my balance\u003cbr\u003ewith the tips of his long but curled fingers, each of them\u003cbr\u003ealive on its own as they crawl towards me. I grab his body,\u003cbr\u003emy head barely reaching the center of his chest. He is lavishly\u003cbr\u003ehandsome by the dim light of my castor oil lamp, even though\u003cbr\u003ethe cane stalks have ripped apart most of the skin on his shiny\u003cbr\u003eblack face, leaving him with crisscrossed trails of furrowed\u003cbr\u003escars. His arms are as wide as one of my bare thighs. They are\u003cbr\u003esteel, hardened by four years of sugarcane harvests.\u003cbr\u003e   “Look at you,” he says, taking my face into one of his\u003cbr\u003espacious bowl-shaped hands, where the palms have lost their\u003cbr\u003elifelines to the machetes that cut the cane. “You are glowing\u003cbr\u003elike a Christmas lantern, even with this skin that is the color\u003cbr\u003eof driftwood ashes in the rain.”\u003cbr\u003e    “Do not say those things to me,” I mumble, the shadows of\u003cbr\u003esleep fighting me still. “This type of talk makes me feel naked.”\u003cbr\u003e   He runs his hand up and down my back. His rough callused\u003cbr\u003epalms nip and chafe my skin, while the string of yellow\u003cbr\u003ecoffee beans on his bracelet rolls over and caresses the tender\u003cbr\u003eplaces along my spine.\u003cbr\u003e   “Take off your nightdress,” he suggests, “and be naked for\u003cbr\u003etrue. When you are uncovered, you will know that you are fully\u003cbr\u003eawake and I can simply look at you and be happy.” Then he slips\u003cbr\u003eacross to the other side of the room and watches every movement\u003cbr\u003eof flesh as I shed my clothes. He is in a corner, away from\u003cbr\u003ethe lamp, a shadowed place where he sees me better than I see\u003cbr\u003ehim. “It is good for you to learn and trust that I am near you\u003cbr\u003eeven when you can’t place the balls of your eyes on me,” he says.\u003cbr\u003e   This makes me laugh and laugh loud, too loud for the middle\u003cbr\u003eof the night. Now I am fully disrobed and fully awake. I\u003cbr\u003estumble quickly into his arms with my nightdress at my ankles.\u003cbr\u003eThin as he says I am, I am afraid to fold in two and disappear.\u003cbr\u003eI’m afraid to be shy, distant, and cold. I am afraid I cease to\u003cbr\u003eexist when he’s not there. I’m like one of those sea stones that\u003cbr\u003esucks its colors inside and loses its translucence once it’s taken\u003cbr\u003eout into the sun, out of the froth of the waves. When he’s not\u003cbr\u003ethere, I’m afraid I know no one and no one knows me.\u003cbr\u003e   “Your clothes cover more than your skin,” he says. “You\u003cbr\u003ebecome this uniform they make for you. Now you are only\u003cbr\u003eyou, just the flesh.”\u003cbr\u003e   It’s either be in a nightmare or be nowhere at all. Or otherwise\u003cbr\u003esimply float inside these remembrances, grieving for who\u003cbr\u003eI was, and even more for what I’ve become. But all this when\u003cbr\u003ehe’s not there.\u003cbr\u003e    “Look at your perfect little face,” he says, “your perfect\u003cbr\u003elittle shape, your perfect little body, a woman child with deep\u003cbr\u003eblack skin, all the shades of black in you, what we see and\u003cbr\u003ewhat we don’t see, the good and the bad.”\u003cbr\u003e   He touches me like one brush of a single feather, perhaps\u003cbr\u003efearing, too, that I might vanish.\u003cbr\u003e   “Everything in your face is as it should be,” he says, “your\u003cbr\u003enose where it should be.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Oh, wi, it would have been sad,” I say, “if my nose had\u003cbr\u003ebeen placed at the bottom of my feet.”\u003cbr\u003e   This time he is the one who laughs. Up close, his laughter\u003cbr\u003ecrumples his face, his shoulders rise and fall in an uneven\u003cbr\u003erhythm. I’m never sure whether he is only laughing or also crying\u003cbr\u003eat the same time, even though I have never seen him cry.\u003cbr\u003e   I fall back asleep, draped over him. In the morning, before\u003cbr\u003ethe first lemongrass-scented ray of sunlight, he is gone. But I\u003cbr\u003ecan still feel his presence there, in the small square of my room.\u003cbr\u003eI can smell his sweat, which is as thick as sugarcane juice when\u003cbr\u003ehe’s worked too much. I can still feel his lips, the eggplantviolet\u003cbr\u003egums that taste of greasy goat milk boiled to candied\u003cbr\u003esweetness with mustard-colored potatoes. I feel my cheeks rising\u003cbr\u003eto his dense-as-toenails fingernails, the hollow beneath my\u003cbr\u003echeekbones, where the bracelet nicked me and left a perfectly\u003cbr\u003ecrescent-moon-shaped drop of dried blood. I feel the wet lines\u003cbr\u003ein my back where his tongue gently traced the life-giving veins\u003cbr\u003eto the chine, the faint handprints on my waist where he held on\u003cbr\u003etoo tight, perhaps during some moment when he felt me slipping.\u003cbr\u003eAnd I can still count his breaths and how sometimes they\u003cbr\u003eraced much faster than the beating of his heart.\u003cbr\u003e   When I was a child, I used to spend hours playing with my\u003cbr\u003eshadow, something that my father warned could give me\u003cbr\u003enightmares, nightmares like seeing voices twirl in a hurricane\u003cbr\u003eof rainbow colors and hearing the odd shapes of things\u003cbr\u003erise up and speak to define themselves. Playing with my\u003cbr\u003eshadow made me, an only child, feel less alone. Whenever I\u003cbr\u003ehad playmates, they were never quite real or present for me.\u003cbr\u003eI considered them only replacements for my shadow. There\u003cbr\u003ewere many shadows, too, in the life I had beyond childhood.\u003cbr\u003eAt times Sebastien Onius guarded me from the shadows. At\u003cbr\u003eother times he was one of them.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e2\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eBirths and deaths were my parents’ work. I never thought I\u003cbr\u003ewould help at a birth myself until the screams rang through\u003cbr\u003ethe valley that morning, one voice like a thousand glasses\u003cbr\u003ebreaking. I was sitting in the yard, on the grass, sewing the\u003cbr\u003elast button on a new indigo-colored shirt I was making for\u003cbr\u003eSebastien when I heard. Dropping the sewing basket, I ran\u003cbr\u003ethrough the house, to the señora’s bedroom.\u003cbr\u003e   Señora Valencia was lying on her bed, her skin raining\u003cbr\u003esweat and the bottom part of her dress soaking in baby fluid.\u003cbr\u003e   Her water had broken.\u003cbr\u003e   As I lifted her legs to remove the sheets, Don Ignacio,\u003cbr\u003eSeñora Valencia’s father—we called him Papi—charged into\u003cbr\u003ethe room. Standing over her, he tugged at his butterfly-shaped\u003cbr\u003emustache with one age-mottled hand and patted her damp\u003cbr\u003eforehead with the other.\u003cbr\u003e   “¡Ay no!” the señora shouted through her clenched grinding\u003cbr\u003eteeth. “It’s too soon. Not for two months yet.”\u003cbr\u003e   Papi and I both took a few steps away when we saw the\u003cbr\u003eblood-speckled flow streaming from between his daughter’s legs.\u003cbr\u003e   “I will go fetch the doctor,” he said. His hidelike skin\u003cbr\u003einstantly paled to the color of warm eggshells.\u003cbr\u003e   As he rushed out the door, he shoved me back towards the\u003cbr\u003eseñora’s bed, as if to say with that abrupt gesture that the situation\u003cbr\u003ebeing what it was, he had no other choice but to trust\u003cbr\u003ehis only child’s life to my inept hands.\u003cbr\u003e   Thankfully, after Papi left, the señora was still for a\u003cbr\u003emoment. Her pain seemed to have subsided a bit. Drowning\u003cbr\u003ein the depths of the mattress, she took a few breaths of relief.\u003cbr\u003e   We sat for a while with her fingers clinging to mine, like\u003cbr\u003ewhen we were girls and we both slept in the same room.\u003cbr\u003eEven though she was supposed to sleep in her own canopy\u003cbr\u003ebed and I was to sleep on a smaller cot across from hers,\u003cbr\u003eshe would invite me onto her bed after her father had gone\u003cbr\u003eto sleep and the two of us would jump up and down on\u003cbr\u003ethe mattress, play with our shadows, and pretend we were\u003cbr\u003efour happy girls, forcing the housemaid—Juana—to come\u003cbr\u003ein and threaten to wake Papi who would give us a deeper\u003cbr\u003edesire for slumber with a spanking.\u003cbr\u003e   “Amabelle, is the baby’s bed ready?” With her hand\u003cbr\u003estill grasping mine, Señora Valencia glanced at the cradle,\u003cbr\u003esqueezed between the louvered patio doors and her favorite\u003cbr\u003earmoire deeply carved with giant orchids and hummingbirds\u003cbr\u003ein flight.\u003cbr\u003e   “Everything is prepared, Señora,” I said.\u003cbr\u003e   Even though I wasn’t used to praying, I whispered a few\u003cbr\u003ewords to La Virgen de la Carmen that the doctor would come\u003cbr\u003ebefore the señora was in agony again.\u003cbr\u003e   “I want my husband.” The señora clamped her eyes shut,\u003cbr\u003equietly forcing the tears down her face.\u003cbr\u003e   “We will send for him,” I said. “Tell me how your body\u003cbr\u003efeels.”\u003cbr\u003e   “The pain is less now, but when it comes on strong, it feels\u003cbr\u003elike someone shoves a knife into my back.”\u003cbr\u003e   The baby could be leaning on her back, I thought,\u003cbr\u003eremembering one of my father’s favorite expressions when\u003cbr\u003ehe and my mother were gathering leaves to cram into rum\u003cbr\u003eand firewater bottles before rushing off to a birthing. Without\u003cbr\u003eremembering what those leaves were, I couldn’t lessen\u003cbr\u003ethe señora’s pain. Yes, there was plenty of rum and firewa -\u003cbr\u003eter in the house, but I didn’t want to leave her alone and go\u003cbr\u003eto the pantry to fetch them. Anything could happen in my\u003cbr\u003eabsence, the worst of it being if a lady of her stature had to\u003cbr\u003epush that child out alone, like a field hand suddenly feeling\u003cbr\u003eher labor pains beneath a tent of cane.\u003cbr\u003e   “Amabelle, I am not going to die, am I?” She was shouting\u003cbr\u003eat the top of the soft murmuring voice she’d had since childhood,\u003cbr\u003epanting with renewed distress between her words.\u003cbr\u003e   We were alone in the house now. I had to calm her, to help\u003cbr\u003eher, as she had always counted on me to do, as her father had\u003cbr\u003ealways counted on me to do.\u003cbr\u003e   “Before this, the most pain I ever felt was when a wasp bit\u003cbr\u003ethe back of my hand and made it swell,” she declared.\u003cbr\u003e   “This will pain you more, but not so much more,” I said.\u003cbr\u003e   A soft breeze drifted in through the small gaps in the patio\u003cbr\u003edoors. She reached for the mosquito netting tied above her\u003cbr\u003ehead, seized it, and twisted the cloth.\u003cbr\u003e   Gooseflesh sprouted all over her arms. She grabbed my\u003cbr\u003ewrist so tight that my fingers became numb. “If Doctor\u003cbr\u003eJavier doesn’t come, you’ll have to be the one to do this for\u003cbr\u003eme!” she yelled.\u003cbr\u003e   I yanked my hands from hers and massaged her arms and\u003cbr\u003etaut shoulders to help prepare her body for the birth. “Brace\u003cbr\u003eyourself,” I said. “Save your strength for the baby.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Virgencita!” she shouted at the ceiling as I dragged her\u003cbr\u003ehousedress above her head. “I’m going to think of nothing\u003cbr\u003ebut you, Virgencita, until this pain becomes a child.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Let the air enter and leave your mouth freely,” I suggested.\u003cbr\u003eI remembered my mother saying that it was important that\u003cbr\u003ethe women breathe normally if they wanted to feel less pain.\u003cbr\u003e   “I feel a kind of vertigo,” she said, twitching like live flesh\u003cbr\u003eon fire. Thrashing on the bed, she gulped desperate mouthfuls\u003cbr\u003eof air, even though her face was swelling, the veins throbbing\u003cbr\u003elike a drumbeat along her temples.\u003cbr\u003e   “I will not have my baby like this,” she said, trying to pin\u003cbr\u003eherself to a sunken spot in the middle of the bed. “I will not\u003cbr\u003epermit anyone to walk in and see me bare, naked.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Please, Señora, give this all your attention.”\u003cbr\u003e   “At least you’ll cover my legs if they come?” She grabbed\u003cbr\u003eher belly with both hands to greet another surge of pain.\u003cbr\u003e   I felt the contents of my stomach rise and settle in the middle\u003cbr\u003eof my chest when the baby’s head entered her canal. Still I\u003cbr\u003efelt some relief, even though I know she did not. I told myself,\u003cbr\u003eNow I can see a child will truly come of this agony; this is not\u003cbr\u003eentirely impossible.\u003cbr\u003e   In spite of my hopefulness, the baby stopped coming forward\u003cbr\u003eand lay at the near end of her birth canal, as though\u003cbr\u003eit had suddenly changed its mind and decided not to leave.\u003cbr\u003eNumbed by the pain, the señora did not move, either.\u003cbr\u003e   “Señora, it is time,” I said.\u003cbr\u003e   “Time for what?” she asked, her small rounded teeth hammering\u003cbr\u003eher lower lip.\u003cbr\u003e    “It’s time to push out your child. I see the head. The hair is\u003cbr\u003edark and soft, in ringlets like yours.”\u003cbr\u003eShe pushed with all her might, like an ant trying to move a\u003cbr\u003etree. The head slipped down, filling my open hand.\u003cbr\u003e   “Señora, this child will be yours,” I said to soothe her.\u003cbr\u003e   “You will be its mother for the rest of your days. It will be\u003cbr\u003eyours like watercress belongs to water and river lilies belong\u003cbr\u003eto the river.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Like I belonged to my mother,” she chimed in, catching\u003cbr\u003eher breath.\u003cbr\u003e   “Now you will know for yourself why they say children\u003cbr\u003eare the prize of life.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Be quick!” she commanded. “I want to see it. I want to\u003cbr\u003ehold it. I want to know if it is a girl or a boy.”\u003cbr\u003e   Her forehead creased with anticipation. She tightened\u003cbr\u003eevery muscle and propelled the child’s shoulders forward.\u003cbr\u003eThe infant’s body fell into my arms, covering my house\u003cbr\u003eapron with blood.\u003cbr\u003e   “You have a son.” I proudly raised the child from between\u003cbr\u003eher legs and held him up so she could see.\u003cbr\u003e   The umbilical cord stretched from inside her as I cradled\u003cbr\u003ethe boy child against my chest. I wiped him clean with an\u003cbr\u003eembroidered towel that I’d cut and stitched myself soon after\u003cbr\u003eI’d learned of the conception. I rapped twice on his bottom\u003cbr\u003ebut he did not cry. It was Señora Valencia who cried instead.\u003cbr\u003e   “I always thought it would be a girl,” she said. “Every\u003cbr\u003eSunday when I came out of Mass, all the little boys would\u003cbr\u003ecrowd around my belly as though they were in love with her.”\u003cbr\u003e   Like Señora Valencia, her son was coconut-cream colored,\u003cbr\u003ehis cheeks and forehead the blush pink of water lilies.\u003cbr\u003e    “Is he handsome? Are all his fingers and toes there?” she\u003cbr\u003easked. “I don’t think I heard him cry.”\u003cbr\u003e   “I thought I would leave it to you to strike him again.”\u003cbr\u003e   I felt a sense of great accomplishment as I tore a white ribbon\u003cbr\u003efrom one of the cradle pillows, wrapped it around the\u003cbr\u003eumbilical cord, then used one of the señora’s husband’s shaving\u003cbr\u003eblades to sever the boy from his mother. Señora Valencia was\u003cbr\u003eopening her arms to take him when a yell came. Not from him,\u003cbr\u003ebut from her. A pained squawk from the back of her throat.\u003cbr\u003e   “It starts again!” she screamed.\u003cbr\u003e   “What do you feel, Señora?”\u003cbr\u003e   “The birth pains again.”\u003cbr\u003e   “It is your baby’s old nest, forcing its way out,” I said,\u003cbr\u003eremembering one of my mother’s favorite expressions. \u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ebaby’s old nest took its time coming out. It was like another\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003echild altogether. \u003c\/i\u003e“You have to push once more to be certain it\u003cbr\u003eall leaves you.”\u003cbr\u003e   She pushed even harder than before. Another head of curly\u003cbr\u003eblack hair slid down between her legs, swimming out with the\u003cbr\u003eafterbirth.\u003cbr\u003e   I hurried to put her son down in the cradle and went back\u003cbr\u003eto fetch the other child. I was feeling more experienced now.\u003cbr\u003eReaching in the same way, I pulled out the head. The tiny\u003cbr\u003eshoulders emerged easily, then the scraggly legs.\u003cbr\u003e   The firstborn wailed as I drew another infant from\u003cbr\u003ebetween Señora Valencia’s thighs. A little girl gasped for\u003cbr\u003ebreath, a thin brown veil, like layers of spiderwebs, covering\u003cbr\u003eher face. The umbilical cord had curled itself in a bloody\u003cbr\u003ewreath around her neck, encircling every inch between her\u003cbr\u003echin and shoulders.\u003cbr\u003e   Señora Valencia tore the caul from her daughter’s face with\u003cbr\u003eher fingers. I used the blade to snip the umbilical cord from\u003cbr\u003earound her neck and soon the little girl cried, falling into a\u003cbr\u003echorus with her brother.\u003cbr\u003e   “It’s a curse, isn’t it?” the señora said, taking her daughter\u003cbr\u003einto her arms. “A caul, and the umbilical cord too.”\u003cbr\u003e   She gently blew her breath over her daughter’s closed eyes,\u003cbr\u003eencouraging the child to open them. I took the little boy out\u003cbr\u003eof the cradle now and brought him over to the bed to be near\u003cbr\u003ehis mother and sister. The two babies stopped crying when we\u003cbr\u003erubbed the soles of their feet together.\u003cbr\u003e   Señora Valencia used the clean end of a bedsheet to wipe the\u003cbr\u003eblood off her daughter’s skin. The girl appeared much smaller\u003cbr\u003ethan her twin, less than half his already small size. Even in her\u003cbr\u003emother’s arms, she lay on her side with her tiny legs pulled up\u003cbr\u003eto her belly. Her skin was a deep bronze, between the colors\u003cbr\u003eof nut shells and black salsify.\u003cbr\u003e   Señora Valencia motioned for me to move even closer with\u003cbr\u003eher son.\u003cbr\u003e   “They differ in appearance.” She wanted another opinion.\u003cbr\u003e   “Your son favors your cherimoya milk color,” I said.\u003cbr\u003e   “And my daughter favors you,” she said. “My daughter\u003cbr\u003eis a chameleon. She’s taken your color from the mere sight of\u003cbr\u003eyour face.”\u003cbr\u003e   Her fingers still trembling, she made the sign of the holy\u003cbr\u003ecross from her forehead down to the sweaty cave between\u003cbr\u003eher swollen breasts. It was an especially hot morning. The\u003cbr\u003eair was heavy with the scent of lemongrass and flame trees\u003cbr\u003elosing their morning dew to the sun and with the smell of\u003cbr\u003eall the blood the señora had lost to her children. I refastened\u003cbr\u003ethe closed patio doors, completely shutting out the outside\u003cbr\u003eair.\u003cbr\u003e   “Will you light a candle to La Virgencita, Amabelle? I\u003cbr\u003epromised her I would do this after I gave birth.”\u003cbr\u003e   I lit a white candle and set it on the layette chest beside the\u003cbr\u003ecradle that had been the señora’s own as a child.\u003cbr\u003e   “Do you think the children will love me?” she asked.\u003cbr\u003e   “Don’t you already love them?”\u003cbr\u003e   “I feel as if they’ve always been here.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Do you know what you will name them?”\u003cbr\u003e   “I think I’ll name my daughter Rosalinda Teresa to honor\u003cbr\u003emy mother. I’ll leave it to my husband to name our son. Amabelle,\u003cbr\u003eI’m so happy today. You and me. Look at what we have\u003cbr\u003edone.”\u003cbr\u003e   “It was you, Señora. You did this.”\u003cbr\u003e   “How does my daughter look? How do you find my dusky\u003cbr\u003erose? Does she please you? Do they please you? She’s so small.\u003cbr\u003eTake her, please, and let me hold my son now.”\u003cbr\u003e   We exchanged children. For a moment Rosalinda seemed\u003cbr\u003eto be floating between our hands, in danger of falling. I looked\u003cbr\u003einto her tiny face, still streaked with her mother’s blood, and\u003cbr\u003eI cradled her more tightly in my arms.\u003cbr\u003e   “Amabelle do you think my daughter will always be the\u003cbr\u003ecolor she is now?” Señora Valencia asked. “My poor love,\u003cbr\u003ewhat if she’s mistaken for one of your people?”","brand":"Soho Press","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46299715633381,"sku":"NP9781616953492","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616953492.jpg?v=1767739299","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-farming-of-bones-isbn-9781616953492","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}