Left at the Mango Tree by Stephanie Siciarz

there in the room with both of them—“magic”—as loudly as if he had. His whole life Gustave hated the terrible word almost as much as Raoul did, if for different reasons, and never more so than now. On Oh, Gustave
wielded
magic, he didn’t succumb to it. But he was beginning to have his doubts in that regard.
    On the other side of Gustave’s indifferent shell, Raoul heard it too—“magic”—and although he didn’t believe Gustave’s assertion about Edda, although he didn’t understand the exact relationship between Gustave and the terrible word, a hint of Gustave’s doubts reached Raoul’s nose, a faint scent, but terrible enough to send Raoul home in a fog of worried disappointment and pity (was it?), resignedly aware that this particular night had held no answers for him.
    As he opened the jagged gate of thick twigs to take his leave, he heard Gustave’s voice behind him.“Raoul! Listen, if you change your mind...”
    Raoul hollered over his shoulder, “Call me ‘Mr. Orlean’!”
    Poor Gustave.
    Inside his head, yet one more detail came
un
-ticked.

    In his bedroom, Raoul sat at the desk by the window, where he usually read. The walk from Gustave’s house had cleared his head, but it hadn’t changed his mind. He wasn’t a smuggler, or about to become one, and he still needed answers, or at least one answer as clear as a nose on a face. Why had he let Gustave off so easily? Wasit the wine? He didn’t really believe Gustave knew nothing about the baby, did he? And yet...
    And yet.
    Another fly hatched right then, still small enough that when Raoul shook his head—no, there’s more to this than Gustave’s telling—he shook it away. Perhaps somebody had seen Gustave creep into the house while Wilbur delivered the mail or dozed on the porch. Perhaps Gustave had bragged of his coup. Just possibly there was a witness, or someone who had heard something. Raoul would have to advertise to find out.
    He pulled a lined sheet of paper from the desk drawer and sharpened a pencil. Staring out into the night, he composed the words with silent lips, his eyes fixed on the moon. She had followed him home, watching and winking, and now as he bent his head to write, she splashed her light over the desk and the paper before him. The impertinent moon, full and high and blue, a promise of the gifts wrapped up in the still, dark sky.

6
    W hen Raoul’s ad finally appeared in the paper, it caused quite a stir on the island, as you might imagine. It had the unfortunate effect of getting people talking, about all the wrong things. No one dared implicate Gustave—most were as content as ever to simply accept that he’d had a hand (or worse) in the matter—and no one had any information to share about
me
. Not a witness came forth.
    The islanders did have plenty to say about some of the
other
Orleans, my mother to start. She was far too kind and gentle for them to accuse her outright, but their suspicions niggled and eventually made themselves heard. Mainly, though, they talked about Raoul. All of Oh was sure my grandfather was losing his mind. While Raoul was sure he wasn’t, he did know he was stressed (and to think that at that point not a pineapple as yet had disappeared). So as was his usual, he sought solace at the Belly. Alas, there wasn’t much there to be found, as you’ll see.
    I know I’m jumping around a bit, in place as well as time. Stories on Oh are rarely straightforward. The wind has a way of tossing them about and mixing them up—and our lives along with them—so that often we find ourselves right where we started andsorting our way back to where we’ve already been. Like the tide that claws its way inland every time it’s dragged back to sea.
    Just now the wind is blowing us back to the Belly with Raoul. The ad has caused its trouble, Edda’s name is on the tip of every tongue, and half the island (at least) thinks Raoul is wholly mad. For
his
part, all he wants is a quiet evening and a