Throwing Down Both Gauntlets: Pt 2

 Thank you for reading the second chapter of Throwing Down Both Gauntlets. The name comes from the adage "throwing down the gauntlet" which means ready for a figurative fight. Throwing Down Both Gauntlets is to denote the intensity of Bronte's determination in the face of unimaginable odds. My research on life in Haiti has bred respect in me for its people. I read "But isn't Haiti Dangerous?" a blog by two charity workers who live there, and it drastically altered what I expected to find in this learning and writing process, and what I was willing to look for. I hope you'll take the time to read it too. It is posted on the Polysha Foundation's Facebook page as well, so you can look for it and other goodies there, too. Enjoy! :)

Throwing Down Both Gauntlets,
Continued . . .
           The pain was welling up again, and Bronte fought down the tears, Not NOW! She shouted within herself, I cannot show weakness now. No way, not at all. She took slow, deep breaths of the putrid air. Some vagabonds had evidently relieved themselves near here. Something had also died nearby, by the odor of it. The stench was terrible, and Bronte was frightened. She remembered the eight precious faces staring at her after dinner last night, raising no questions, no doubts. They were all completely convinced she could do as she said. She had to keep going, she had to.

          And she would.

          Suddenly, a large, calloused hand grabbed her arm, startling her. She turned, gasping, and saw a tall, kind-faced man smiling down at her. He was of average build, except for his height, and looked about forty or so. He had a birthmark, an indentation running down one side of his face, shaped like the blade of a scythe. He wore a white shirt and faded green trousers. “Let me walk with you, ma'am,” he said, “It isn't good to be out here alone. What is your name?”

          “Bronte,” she replied, returning his smile, “I am going to look for work in the factories.”

          “Well, hello Bronte. My name is Patrick. I know of two or three people that are said to be looking for seamstresses. Can you sew?”
           “Yes! Certainly!” She reached up to fix her kerchief. The wind had suddenly come up and attempted to blow it right off of her head.

           “I am looking for job openings myself. I work at Permashelter, but there is talk of a layoff, very soon.” Bronte was moved for him. Seydou had been beside himself when there was talk of a layoff at his company. He had barely slept for weeks. It was always hard on all the men and their families to hear such news. Sometimes not knowing was even worse than knowing that you were going to loose your job.
           “Oh! I am sorry to hear that." Bronte put her hand to her mouth in distress, "Do you have children?”

           “Yes,” Patrick replied proudly, “Three. Two boys and a girl.”
           “I have four boys and four girls. They all attend school, the ones that are old enough,” Bronte's chest stuck out with pride, “And I am going to keep them there.”
           They began to walk together, toward a clothing factory about twelve more blocks away. Tents were everywhere. At times, they had to excuse themselves and step over individuals reposing on the edge of the street.
           “What part of town do you live in?” Patrick inquired, as they passed the collapsed remains of a large apartment complex.
           “On the North side, between Mon Repos 44 and Mon Repos 42. How about you?”

           “I live on the East side, off of Therlonge and North Dupre. I'm just just a bit to the west of the intersection.”

           “Oh! I know where that is!” Bronte's eyes lit up, “My husband's family used to live near there, just a few blocks out.” The wind was to the back of them now, making her kerchief stick up behind her head and billow strangely. At least it helped speed them along.

           They soon found themselves at the facilities of the Webster, Webster and Cohen Ltd. clothing production plant. Patrick applied for warehouse work in case his position at Permashelter was eliminated. The pay wouldn't be as much, but if worse came to worse, it would be much better than nothing. Bronte applied to be a seamstress. Her experience would put her legal minimum pay-rate at about 25 Gourdes, or $0.75 USD, per hour. A meager salary, to say the least, but a start.

           “I hope your job at Permashelter proves to be steady,” she said sincerely, adjusting her kerchief again as they exited the building together.

           “And I wish you the best of luck in your seamstress work,” Patrick responded emphatically. “By the way, did you embroider that beautiful orchid on your blouse yourself?”

           “Yes,” she blushed, “I finished it a few weeks ago.”

           “You are remarkably skilled!” Patrick's eyes were wide, “If you would, please write down your address. I will tell the people in my church about your abilities. Maybe someone will know where you can pick up some extra work.”

           Bronte was so touched, she had to put in considerable effort to control her emotions. “Thank you,” she said again, keeping most of the tremble out of her voice.

           Patrick's smile was comforting. Bronte was very thankful she had found a new friend.

* * *

          It had been an eventful day. On the way home, Bronte had stopped at a couple of other clothing companies and applied. She had an interview scheduled, three days away, at the Yin Yeung Cho Corporation. 

          It was almost time for the other children to come home when Bronte stepped across her threshold with a satisfied sigh. It was wonderful to be home and she looked forward to being surrounded by her children again.The Lamarre's house had no lights. When the sun was up, the house was lit by opening the door, and the kitchen window also gave light to prepare food by. Little Guerda's hair was all in braids, courtesy of Fredeline's exceptional skill. Ritha's hair was, at the moment, amusing. One side was in braids, some of which were tied together in preparation for an elaborate up-do, like her younger sister had. Some of the braids were shaking loose from their bonds, making a big, bouncy lump on the side of her head which flopped about as she ran and jumped and danced around the little house. The other side of her hair had several sections separated and brushed straight out in preparation for braiding. Because of gravity and Ritha's rambunctiousness, though, these were now looking quite wilted. All except for one that is – it stuck straight out the side of her smiley little head like a tenacious black spike. Fredeline was waving a towel frantically at the cook stove.

          “What's wrong?” Bronte inquired.

          “The grease caught fire,” Fredeline replied, beating at the oven with the towel. 

          Bronte darted over to her dear friend's side so quickly it seemed she had wings and flew there. The fire was almost out already. It had not spread far. Bronte turned her attention back to Guerda and Ritha. Just then, Fredeline's son, Toussaint, started crying loudly. 

          “What's the matter, little Toussaint?” Bronte asked in her most indulgent, cutesy voice, slowing her words for greater effect. Little eighteen month old Toussaint continued to wail as if he had not heard anything. Bronte picked him up and held him. After a few moments, he calmed down. Toussaint had short, fuzzy hair that had taken unusually long to come in, and large eyes that were usually bright with joy and interest. He wore an orange shirt and nothing else.

          Fredeline came back from the oven, wiping her hands. “The fire's out,” she said, sounding tired.

* * *

          Over dinner, which today consisted of rice and a few vegetables, Fredeline and Bronte did most of the talking. They were discussing how to grow various crops together in the small strip of very poor soil the Lamarre's had by their house. They discussed the feasibility of different crops: apricots, avocado, banana, cantaloupe, plantain, pomegranate, potato, pumpkin, cassava, beans, guava, papaya, Plate de Haiti Tomato, and yam. Fredeline said it was ok to put the little garden in near the tree. “You need pigeon peas, badly. The soil here is in such bad shape, like mine was. They put something into the soil, called nitrogen, and this can heal the soil so it can grow food for you better. You can grow them with the beans, and it will help the soil and maybe even grow the beans better. If you get the vine-type of Plate de Haiti Tomato, it can climb the beans and the peas.”

          “Is there anything I can do to help?” Emanuel asked, “I'm strong, I can lift things, even if it's heavy.”

          “We will need your strength, Emanuel, a lot. Especially in the beginning. I will explain your situation to some of my friends, and we will bring you a strong shovel, a pick if we can get one. The ground has to be broken to let seeds in.

           “The soil can barely feed the tree. Look at it.” Elsie said, sounding mildly frustrated.

           “The tree will begin to do better when the soil gets better. The Peas will make the soil better. It takes time. You will get a crop the first year, but not a big one and it may not be good to eat it, if chemicals from the cars on the street have gotten on it. The peas will take the chemicals out over the winter months. When we do it like that, we call it a cover crop. Cover crops heal the soil by taking out the evil things in it and putting in good things.”

           “What can I do to help?” Elsie asked, as tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. This started a cacophony of the same inquiry from the most of the other children, which in turn brought wails of discontent from little Guerda. Bronte took Guerda outside to calm her, trusting Fredeline to be able to delegate tasks, since she was the only one who had a clue what they were going to be doing.

          She looked out across the narrow street, crowded with small, saggy houses and tents, and the intermittent brick ruins standing out garishly among them. She wondered how this new life she had to make would work. At times, it seemed crazy to hope, but hope was what kept the world of good people turning. Evil of every sort grew out of giving up, and Bronte was determined never to do that.