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85 Exile’s Home When he woke it was to the smell of almonds floating in the sea. His father had laid him on the outer wall of el Morro, his suit coat folded under his head, a round stone pressing into the small of his back. At first, the mango piragua his father had bought him was sweet and cold in the deep pocket of his stomach, then the sun rose higher, and Ernest’s head was suddenly drenched with cool sweat, and once again, as had happened often in the last few weeks, Ernest fell to his knees, the insides of his arms pressed hard against his ribs, his stomach letting go: an orange gush of liquid streaming from his mouth. Now his father took his wet handkerchief and wiped Ernest’s hands. He felt his father move away, yellow heat penetrating the darkness of his eyelids. He opened his eyes: the bright blue sky, a few puffy clouds. The light didn’t hurt anymore, and he could feel his hair drying from the breeze. Changó lifted his head and slid underneath him, resting Ernest’s head on his lap. Out across the bay billowing fumes rose from gray smokestacks , and down below Ernest saw tightly built houses with thin tin roofs, their water urns and troughs lined with silver and blue, clotheslines connecting each house with flags of red and green, black and white, a flutter of cloth in the breeze. A balding dog ran down an alleyway, its bits of white fur matted and mottled with pink, chasing a little boy running with a stick, clouds of red dust dancing between them. Changó raised Ernest’s head and slid from underneath him. He lifted Ernest to his feet. He held Ernest around the waist, pointing with his other arm across the bay. The Bacardi plant. He released Ernest, stood below the wall in front of him. He pulled Ernest closer and embraced him. He whispered: You be okay, Ernestito. Don’t be sad. 86 Ernest looked at his father, but he had his face turned down. The breeze surged above the wall, deafening his ears, and he caught the scent of sugar cane boiling. When the breeze stopped, he heard, Maybe one day we come back. Changó wiped his face with the back of his hand, then quickly turned to Ernest. He tucked Ernest’s shirt back in, tucking all the front wrinkles deep into his pants. He loosened Ernest’s tie and pulled it from around his neck. Carefully, he folded the tie in a square, tucking it inside the breast pocket of his suit coat. He lifted Ernest down from the wall. He took out his comb, softly combing back Ernest’s hair. Look, Ernest said, pointing out across the bay, out off the island to the deeper sea. A bank of silver clouds seemed to cut the blue sky in half, and the sea below was no longer blue but turned black. The sea’s surface shook, and Ernest could see silver curtains of rain swaying and falling from the clouds. Ernest thought of how wet and cool the sea must be out there, the sea itself wet with rain. Ernest lifted his father’s hand and softly kissed his palm. His father let go of his hand. There were no sounds, only small tears softly running down his brown cheeks, catching, then falling from his father’s chin. Ernest wanted to tell him, Maybe one day you’ll come back. Changó didn’t look sad or angry; he had a far-off, frightened look in his eyes. He thought his father seemed unsure, perhaps afraid because they were going to Michigan, because he would see Ernest’s mother for the first time in nine months. His father wiped his eyes. He gently rubbed Ernest’s cheek with his thumb, his tears warm on his face. He took him by the waist, lifting him onto the wall. You so skinny. Your mom won’t know you. Changó laughed for a moment, then his voice caught with phlegm. He spit. One day, Ernest, you might do something and not know. Changó opened his mouth, as if out of breath, then shut it. He looked at Ernest and said, But I will take you home. He pulled from his suit pocket a small, dark-green bundle tied with white string. He gave the bundle to Ernest, turned away, and walked to the edge of the...

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