From the edificio's fourth-story ledge from which Wifredo's one-and-a-half-year old brother fatally fell 19 years ago, Zora can see the U.S. Naval Base at Guantanamo Bay. Tia Deisy, Wifredo's tia abuela, worked there from 1952 to 1959. Fifteen-years old when she started, a negra de pelo with green eyes and culo apolulu (a fat azz), everyday she'd walk 13 or 14 kilometers to catch a boat to the Base where she watched the naval officers' children. One night, as she was leaving, they accused her of theft, and though she denied it, their hands searched between her legs and inside her blouse for something they knew they wouldn't find. She doesn't describe it as sexual assault, but she never went back.
Tia Deisy still has pictures of the American children in a latch-less tool box amongst wedding, baby, and school pictures of her children, grandchild, nieces, and nephews. Much like Zora's grandmother, who keeps pictures of the children for whom she had worked as a post-slavery mammy atop the upright piano and on the coffee table in her living room in Fairhope, Alabama. Neither of them has seen or corresponded with the aforementioned white children since they stopped working in their houses - Zora has asked.