THE REST OF THE DAY IS STRANGE. When I pretend Mama’s inside resting, everything seems normal. But when I think of her on a bus hundreds of miles away, my insides ache to bursting.
I have to talk to Iris. About her behavior. About her wild talk at the cemetery. But what do I say? What would Mama say? I don’t know. I can’t think. This is crazy. Lately I’ve done all the work around the house. But Mama was here in case I made a mistake. Without her, even the simplest chores seem enormous. I’m almost afraid I can’t boil water. What’ll I do if something important goes wrong?
Before supper, Mrs. Tafa drops over with a chicken pie. She tries to act light-hearted, but it’s like she’s bringing food to a burial feast.
“What did Mama tell you in the truck?” I ask.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” she says and hurries off.
The pie is good, but none of us eats much. After sundown, I put Iris and Soly to bed and tell them the story about the impala and the baboon. Then I go outside and sit on the ground, propping my back against the side of the house. The stars are clear. Most nights I think how beautiful they are. Tonight they just look cold and far away.
The loneliness makes it hard to breathe. I try to get up, but my knees won’t let me. I wish the earth would swallow me up. It’s now, when everything feels so completely hopeless, that I realize I’m not alone. A stork is peering at me from beside the wheelbarrow. Its white feathers glow in the moonlight.
I can’t believe my eyes. Storks sleep at night. And they don’t come into town. They stay near water where they can feed on fish. How far has this one traveled? At this time of year, the likeliest spots are the marshes around the Kawkee dam. But they’re miles away!
I whisper greetings. “Dumêla, mma moleane.”
The stork tilts its neck. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was smiling.
“What brings you here?”
The stork cocks its head to one side.
“Are you a good-luck angel?” As I hear the words come out of my mouth, I feel foolish. I’m too old for make-believe. But the stork doesn’t care. It takes two steps toward me and pauses, its leg in the air, while it considers a third.
We stare at each other. Time disappears. I feel the world turn calm. My shoulders melt. I close my eyes. I see Mama, big the way she used to be. Her arms cradle me. I hear the sound of her laughter, rich and round. My heart glows with her warmth.
When I wake, the stork is gone. It doesn’t matter. The joy of my dream flickers inside me like fireflies. I smile, rub my eyes, and stretch. Then I go inside, taking care to tiptoe so I won’t wake my babies. My babies—that’s what they’ve become, my brother and sister. At the door to the bedroom I hear them whispering to each other under their sheet. I stay very still and listen.
“Chanda’s papa’s dead,” Iris is saying. “Your papa, too. But my papa’s alive.”
My heart stops. Iris knows about Isaac Pheto, but she’s never talked about him. Tonight’s different. “My papa’s alive,” she whispers again to Soly. “If everybody dies, I’m going to live with him.”
“How do you know he’d want you?” Soly whispers back.
“He tells me. He has a great big house and he says I can have any room I want. Just for me.”
“Liar. You never even see him.”
“I do too.”
“Where?”
“At kindergarten. He visits all the time and takes me for rides in his big yellow car. He buys me ice cream. He flies an airplane. He’s very rich. He’s the biggest boss at the mine.”
“So why doesn’t he ever come here?” Soly challenges.
“Because of Mama. She ran away with your papa. But your papa died, so ‘ha ha’ on her.”
“That’s mean.”
“So what?”
Soly gets very quiet. “Iris... if everybody dies and you leave with your papa... what’ll happen to me?”
“How should I know?”
Soly begins to sniffle. “Take me with you?”
“We’ll see. But only if you stop peeing the bed.”
I stick my head in. “Is everything all right?”
Soly’s about to say something, but Iris kicks him under the sheet. “We’re fine. Soly’s just lonesome.”
“Me too,” I say. I wait, hoping they’ll say more, but they don’t. “’Night then. I’ll be coming in to bed soon.”
“Night.”
The minute I’m gone, Iris whispers to Soly: “Keep your mouth shut about what I said, or I’ll tell my papa and you’ll be all alone forever.”
NEXT DAY AFTER DOING THE BREAKFAST DISHES, I walk Soly over to Mrs. Tafa’s hedge. She told Mama she’d look after him in the morning while Iris and I are in school. She offered to look after Iris in the afternoon too, but on account of Iris’s imaginary friend, I’ve decided to stay home to watch her.
Soly’s been very quiet this morning. I think about what Iris told him. On the way to the hedge I make him stop, and pretend to wipe some dirt from his nose. “In case anybody ever tells you different,” I say, “you’ll never be alone. Mama loves you and she’ll be home soon. Mrs. Tafa loves you and she’s right next door. I love you and I’m not going anywhere.”
A pause. Soly looks up. He grins shyly: “Except to school.”
“Except to school.”
“And except to the standpipe.”
“And except to the standpipe.”
“And except to—”
I knuckle his head and pass him over the hedge to the waiting arms of Mrs. Tafa. Then I go back, pack my schoolbooks in my carrier, and adjust Iris’s combs.
“My braids are too tight,” she whines.
“Want me to make them tighter?” I give the combs a little twist and she shuts up.
I walk her to kindergarten, rolling my bike between us. Iris acts like I don’t exist. When we near the playground, I say: “Soly was very upset last night. Were you making up stories?”
“None of your business.”
“Everything’s my business.”
“You’re not Mama!” she taunts.
“Yes, I am,” I say. “While she’s away, I make the rules. That’s rule number one. Rule number two: Be nice to Soly. Rule number three: Be home right after school. No excuses.”
“Make me.” She tosses her head and runs over to a group of friends.
I want to yank her back by the hair. But then what? If she runs off laughing, I’ll look like a fool. But if I do nothing I’ll be a fool. I see her skipping. I do nothing. I’m a coward.
The early bell rings. I’m nearly late for my own school. I take a quick look for her teacher, Mrs. Ndori. Maybe I can ask her to keep a special eye out. I check at the office. She hasn’t arrived yet. I can’t wait. Maybe it wouldn’t have done any good anyway. Mrs. Ndori went into teaching when her husband died. She has a heart of gold, that’s about it. Her students run wild. There’s a rumor she drinks.
I get to class just in time. My hardest subjects—math, physics, and chemistry—are in the morning. The ones I’m good at—English, history, and geography—are in the afternoon when I’ll be home. Skipping shouldn’t be a problem.
At lunch, I knock on the staff room door.
I’m not sure what my teachers have heard about the weekend commotion. If they gossip about students like we gossip about them, they’ve probably heard plenty. Thankfully, they don’t let on.
I tell them I have to be away. They’re sympathetic, but concerned. “So many students only plan to miss a week or two,” Mr. Selalame says. “Then it turns into a month. Then they drop out. You’re so close to graduating, Chanda. So close to a scholarship. Take care. I worry about you.”
“Well, don’t. I won’t let you down. I have dreams, remember?”
There aren’t enough textbooks for me to have my own, but there’s a copy of each one in the library. I promise to come early and do the readings before morning class. Also to do all the assignments at home. If there are special tests and exams, well, hopefully Mama will be back by then.
Mr. Selalame gives me a bookmark with a picture of a ripe sun rising over the plains. “If you need any extensions, just ask.”
The talk with my teachers takes longer than expected. As I bike past the elementary school, I see morning classes are already out. I pedal fast, expecting to catch up with Iris, but she’s nowhere to be seen. I get a horrible feeling. The second I’m home, I drop my bike and race in the door.
“Iris?”
She’s not inside.
“Iris??”
Did I push her too hard?
“Iris???”
Did she run away? Have I messed up? I barrel outside in a panic.
Mrs. Tafa waves at me from across the hedge. “Chanda, yoo hoo. Iris is over here. She and Soly are having a bowl of seswa.”
I hop the hedge. Iris is sitting on the ground beside Mrs. Tafa’s lawn chair, munching happily. “You’re late,” Iris says.
“I had to talk to my teachers.”
“Oh,” she replies smugly. “I didn’t think excuses were allowed.”
My insides boil. But what makes it worse—Mrs. Tafa laughs. “What a sharp one,” she hoots. “Quick as a whip.”
Iris bats her eyes and snuggles closer to Mrs. Tafa.
“By the way,” Mrs. Tafa continues, “your mama called from the general dealer’s to say she arrived in Tiro safe and sound.”
“When’ll she be calling next?”
“She didn’t say. But don’t you worry. I’ll pass on any messages.”
“Thanks, but I’d like to talk to her myself.”
Mrs. Tafa considers my request. “Well, if you’re home,” she says.
I walk Iris to school for the rest of the week, but keep missing Mrs. Ndori. I finally bump into her on the playground Friday morning. “I’ve been away sick with a cold,” she apologizes, blowing her nose. “The teacher in the next classroom has watched the children, though. I’m sure everything’s been fine.”
“I hope so,” I say. “But I’m not here about that.” I explain how Iris has been difficult lately and hand her a piece of paper with my name, and Mrs. Tafa’s phone number. “Could you please call me if you notice anything unusual?”
Mrs. Ndori squints at the paper. She seems a bit confused. “Certainly,” she says, and sneezes. She wipes her nose and crumples the paper into her jacket pocket along with a wad of tissues. A stray soccer ball bonks her on the back of the head. “Boys!” she hollers and storms off to scold a crowd of children pointing at her and laughing.
Sunday, Iris and Soly watch Mr. Tafa fix the thatching on his tenants’ roofs, while Mrs. Tafa and I do the cemetery tour. She tells me funny stories from our days at the mine. Without Mama here to laugh it’s not the same. I sit quietly while her stories turn to her son Emmanuel.
“Such a clever boy. When he was little, he tried to teach Meeshak and me how to read, so we could read him bedtime stories. We never got the knack of it. Not like your mama. Oh my, so gifted. All those brains. I don’t know where he got them from.” Mrs. Tafa wipes her eyes with her hankie. “There’s so much dust around here.”
She drives me to the Macholo gravesite. For the second week in a row, Esther’s nowhere to be seen. I know Mrs. Tafa’s dying to lecture me about Esther being a bad influence, but she doesn’t. Why is she being so nice? It makes me nervous.
“It’s been a week. Mama should be back by now,” I say.
“Child, the more you want to hurry life up, the slower it gets.” Mrs. Tafa braces herself and hits the accelerator.
After supper, I sit out front and listen to the music blasting from the Lesoles’ boom box down the road. Mr. Lesole’s on an extended leave from the safari camp and he’s making the most of it. Mrs. Tafa comes over to the hedge.
I imagine she’ll say what she always says: “Those Lesoles and their street parties. They should keep it down once in awhile, so folks can make music someplace else.”
“You should get yourself down there, girl. No sense you dragging about like a cart with no wheels.” She sees me hesitate. “Go on now. I’ll watch the children. You have yourself some fun. You don’t want folks thinking there’s a problem here, do you?”
She’s right. When folks think there’s a problem, they talk. I put on my cheeriest face, and head down the road. Before I know it, I’m at the Lesoles, surrounded by laughter and dance. “Dumêla!” Mrs. Lesole calls out, bouncing over to embrace me.
“Dumêla!” Mr. Lesole pipes as well. “We hear your mama’s up north.”
“Yes,” I shout over the music. “She’s gone to help my big sister with her new baby.”
“Good for her,” Mrs. Lesole shouts back. “New mamas need all the help they can get.” She gives her husband an affectionate elbow.
“Your mama’s so lucky! All that fresh country air!” Mr. Lesole adds heartily.
Their next-door neighbor comes up to show off his new kite. He’s made a long, shiny tail out of pop-can tabs. We all admire it, and then I mingle through a crowd of friendly neighbors. It’s like that day with Jonah never happened.
At last it’s time to go. By the open gate I find Mr. Nylo sitting in a wheelbarrow with a bag of freshly collected rags. He gives me an excited wave. “I hear everything’s fine with your mama,” he says. “Mrs. Tafa’s passed the word.”
“Yes!” I exclaim. “Everything’s fine!” As I head home, music ringing in my ears, dances tickling my toes, I almost believe it.
If only she’d call.
I’m not the only one waiting for Mama to call. Before supper on Monday, Soly’s sitting at the side of the road. He’s been going there to wait for Mama ever since she left.
I watch him from the window. He sits patiently. Then a butterfly will flutter by and he’ll chase it. Or he’ll squat down and stare at an anthill or do a somersault. Or make up a song.
That’s what he’s doing now as I sneak up behind him. It’s a simple song: “Oh, I’m waiting, I’m waiting, I’m waiting, I’m waiting, I’m sitting here waiting for Mama, just sitting here waiting for Mama, just sitting here waiting, and waiting, and waiting...”
Hearing his thin, tiny voice waver in the breeze overwhelms me. Soly catches me listening. He stops singing, and stares at the ground as if he’s been doing something bad.
“What’s the matter?” I sit beside him.
A pause. Then he says in a quiet voice, “I was singing.”
“I know. It was nice.”
“It was?”
I nod.
His forehead wrinkles up with questions. “You mean it’s all right to sing...to play...to have fun...with Mama gone?”
“Yes.” I squeeze him. “Mama wants us to be happy.”
Another pause. “Chanda...why hasn’t she called again?”
“Maybe she doesn’t have anything to say.”
Soly stares at his toes. “Do you think she misses us?”
“Of course she misses us. Just like we miss her.” I kiss his forehead. “Don’t worry. No news is good news.”
Soly tries to smile, but he can’t. He doesn’t believe me. Why should he? I don’t believe me either.
WAITING FOR MAMA IS STRANGE. Sometimes I fill with hope. Other times, like tonight, I lie in bed sweating with terror.
Soly is right. Mama should have called again. What’s wrong? Is her sickness worse?
Her AIDS, I mean. Why can’t I say the truth even now? Who am I trying to fool? How long before she dies? How long before we’re alone? What then?
I see Jonah’s face. I flash with hate. He gave it to her. I know it. I hope he’s dead in some ditch. Stinking. Rotting.
No. That’s awful. Anyway, why think the worst? Mama hasn’t been tested. I don’t know anything for sure. Maybe she has AIDS. But maybe not.
“Mama doesn’t have AIDS. Mama doesn’t have AIDS.” I say it over and over. But I don’t believe it. Instead, I get a more terrible thought: What if Mama has AIDS, but not from Jonah? What if she gave it to him?
No! I hit myself. But the idea won’t go away. It itches and itches.
I calm down. I tell myself not to be stupid. If Mama didn’t get AIDS from Jonah, then from who? From nobody, that’s who.
Then I think of Mr. Dube. He was a widower for a long time. Did he spend all those nights alone? Or was there a trip to a boxcar? A stroll to hooker park?
No. Mr. Dube was nice.
So what? Nobody’s perfect. People make mistakes. They do things they shouldn’t. That they normally wouldn’t. That they wish they hadn’t.
I start to sweat. If Mr. Dube gave Mama AIDS—then what about their baby? What about Soly?
No! If Soly had the virus, he would have died before Sara! Wouldn’t he?
Maybe not. By the time Sara was born, Mama would’ve had it longer. Sara could’ve been born sicker.
Oh no, an even worse thought: What if Mama didn’t get sick from Jonah or from Mr. Dube? What if she got sick from Isaac Pheto?
Then what about their baby? What about Iris?
My heart stops. What about me?
I think of what Isaac did to me. The times he did it. I thought that was my one big secret. But what if there’s another secret? What if Isaac gave me AIDS?
ABCD-CD-CD-CDEG-GF-FG—I can’t even remember the alphabet.
I get up, walk around, go back to bed. Get up, walk around, go back to bed. Get up, walk around, go back to bed. All the while, reciting, reciting, reciting—but instead of letters I’m reciting every cold I ever had. Every fever. Every headache. Every diarrhea. I think of all the times I couldn’t sleep, the times I sweated in the middle of the night. Was it normal? Or symptoms?
Please God, help me. Tell me I’m all okay. Tell me. But He doesn’t. I’m swallowed up by silence.
The torture goes on till I’m too tired to be frightened. My head hits the pillow, and I fall into a world of other nightmares.
I dream I’m at the junkyard. I’m not sure how I got here. All I know is I’m alone, it’s night, and I’m lost in a maze of tires and broken pots piled to the sky.
“Chanda?” a voice calls. It’s a ghost voice, light as air.
“Who are you?”
It doesn’t say. It just keeps calling me. “Chanda? Chanda?” It leads me through the maze to the abandoned well. “Help me, Chanda,” the voice floats up from down below. “Please? Help me?”
I’m rolling over in bed, half awake now, the dream voice still in my ears. “Chanda?” A light tapping on the window shutters.
I sit up. Dreams can take us into the future. This one comes from right now. “Esther?” I whisper.
There’s a whimpering. I run to the front door, undo the bolt, and open it. Esther comes around the corner of the house. She stays in the shadows, out of the light of the moon: “Stay back. Don’t look at me.”
“What’s happened?”
A moan so horrible I think the earth will open up. I run to her, but she holds up her hand. “No. It isn’t safe.”
I catch a glimpse. I pull back. “Esther...” I say, as calmly as I can. “Esther, come inside.”
“I can’t. Your mama...”
“She’s not here. You have to come inside.”
She follows me in. Soly and Iris have woken up. I tell them to stay in their room. I draw the bedroom curtain and light the lamp. Esther collapses to the floor. She’s battered, swollen, and half-naked. Her halter top and mini-skirt are ripped. Caked in dirt, dried blood, and pus. Her face is slashed. Stitches run from her forehead over her nose and down to her throat.
“We have to get you to a hospital.”
“I’ve already been. The doctors were busy. A nurse sewed me up. She said I was lucky I didn’t lose an eye. But there’ll be scars.” A terrible sob.
“They should have given you a bed.”
“There weren’t any. Besides, I’m just a whore.”
“No, you’re not. You’re my friend. My best friend.”
Esther buries her face in her hands and cries.
I put on a pair of the rubber gloves I got from Nurse Viser, and bring over the breakfast water. There’s some antiseptic in a bottle under the sink. I bring that, too, as well as a few clean rags, my housecoat, and a blanket. I help Esther out of her torn clothes. There’re bruises everywhere. Even behind her ears and on her back. I dab antiseptic on the nicks and cuts the nurse overlooked.
“Chanda... Chanda, I never thought this would happen. To other people maybe. Not to me. I’m such a fool.” She starts to shiver. I get her into my housecoat.
“Shh, shh,” I say. “You don’t have to explain.”
Esther wipes her eyes. “I do. I need to. You’re the only one I can tell.” She’s shaking now. I bundle her in the blanket and rock her. Her words pour out in little gasps. “It was a slow night. A trick at the mall, one in the park, that’s it. Then, ten o’clock, a limo pulls up, tinted windows and everything. The driver says, ‘There’s a party at the Safari Club. Twenty bucks plus tips, you interested?’
“I say, ‘Sure.’ I open the door to the back seat. Two men in masks are inside waiting for me. I try to run, but the driver’s behind me. He grabs me, shoves me in. One of the men says, ‘Scream and you die.’ The other ties a pillowcase over my head.
“We drive and drive. We stop I don’t know where, a garage maybe. I hear other men circle the car. The door opens. I’m dragged out. Held down. And then they all come at me. It goes on and on. They whistle and laugh. The last one says, ‘I got AIDS from a whore. Now I’m giving it to you.’ They toss me in the car trunk. I’m sure I’m going to die. Next thing I know, I’m in a ditch. A masked man rips the pillowcase off my head. ‘Remember me when you look in the mirror,’ he says. He slashes my face. They drive away.”
Esther and I huddle together, very still, for a long time.
“The cops found me,” she says at last. “All the way to the hospital, they asked questions. I didn’t have any answers. I only saw the driver. It was night. He was in shadow. The limo was just a limo. I don’t even know where they took me.” She chokes. “The cops didn’t care about that part anyway. They wanted to know why I was out so late: ‘You a whore?’ they asked. Like I deserved it.”
“Nobody deserves this,” I say. “Nobody.”
“Tell that to my auntie. After the hospital, the cops took me to her place. She said it was my own fault, I was a slut and I’d burn in hell. Then she kicked me out. I went to the shed. Put my stuff in a bag. Biked here, I don’t know how. My bag’s at the side of the house.”
Esther’s overcome. She gulps breath after breath. “Chanda...” she says, “Chanda, I have nowhere to go.”
“Yes, you do,” I say, holding her tight. “You have here. You have right here.”
I PUT ESTHER IN MAMA’S ROOM, exchanging Mama’s mattress for my own. Soly’s fallen back to sleep, but as I make the switch I catch Iris peeking at me from under the sheet. How much did she hear? How much did she understand?
“So she’s staying,” Iris whispers.
I nod. Iris groans and rolls over.
I go back to Mama’s room and tuck Esther in.
“I’m never going to sleep again,” she says. But she does. Her breathing’s heavy. Her body twitches. I hope her dreams take her to a happier place.
Mine don’t. When I finally get to bed, I dream I’m back at the junkyard. Voices call to me from the abandoned well. Mama. Sara. Iris. Soly. Esther. “Help us, Chanda, help us,” they cry. I lean over the lip of the well. “I can’t,” I cry. “I don’t know how.” A wind blows me over the side. I’m falling. Falling and falling and—out of nowhere a giant white bird, my magic stork, swoops down and catches me in its bill. It holds me safe and flies me into the sky. I see storm clouds in the distance. “Where are we going?” I ask. “What lies ahead?” But before the stork can answer I find myself sitting up in bed, wide awake.
Esther’s still asleep when Soly and Iris come to breakfast.
Soly pads to the table scratching his bum. “Is it true Esther’s staying with us?”
“Yes.” I glance at Iris. “News travels fast.”
Iris stirs her porridge with a know-it-all smile. “Tell Soly why she’s staying.”
“Esther had an accident,” I lie. “She fell off her bike onto some glass. She was stuck in a toolshed at her auntie’s. This is a better place for her to heal.”
“Tell Soly the real reason.”
“That is the real reason,” I say evenly. (At least it’s half-true, I think. And half-true is more true than most things around this place.)
Soly rubs his eyes. “How long will she be here?”
“As long as she wants.”
“Does Mama know?” Iris asks innocently.
“She will,” I whisper. “She won’t mind either. Even if she did, she’d be polite. She likes guests to feel welcome. Unlike one little brat I could mention.”
Iris ignores me. “Soly,” she smiles sweetly, “would you like my porridge? It’s got bugs.”
“Don’t listen to her. She’s lying.”
“I am not.”
Soly puts down his spoon.
After we clear the dishes, I walk him to Mrs. Tafa’s hedge. She’s waiting with open arms. “Guess what?” Soly whoops as I pass him across. “Esther’s living at our place!”
Mrs. Tafa nearly drops him on the cactus. (I wish she had.) “Esther Macholo?”
“Un-hunh,” he nods happily. “She fell off her bike and now she’s staying in Mama’s bedroom.”
Mrs. Tafa arches an eyebrow. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No,” I say. “Esther’s having a rough time. If it’s all right, when I get home, I’d like to use your phone to call the general dealer in Tiro. You know, to let Mama know.”
“You don’t want to be upsetting your mama.”
“This won’t upset her.”
Mrs. Tafa cranes her neck as though I’m an idiot.
“Anyway,” I say nervously, “I have to run. I promised my teachers I’d get to school early. I have to do a makeup test in physics, hand in an English essay, and, well, good-bye.”
Mrs. Tafa’s about to stop me, but Soly tugs at her dress. “Mrs. Tafa,” he says, “can I get a glass of lemonade? My porridge had bugs.”
I drop Iris off at kindergarten. This morning I didn’t have time to think. Now that I’m alone, I’m drowning in nightmares. Real ones.
What’ll I do if Esther gets sick? Or if Iris runs away? Or if Mama dies? Or if Auntie Lizbet swoops in? Or if I have AIDS?
WHAT’LL I DO IF I HAVE AIDS???
I have to talk to someone. Who? Mr. Selalame! When I get to school I’ll talk to Mr. Selalame—he’ll know what to do.
Mr. Selalame! Yes! I pedal fast.
Mr. Selalame! No! He’s a teacher. He’ll have to write a report. What if it leaks out? I’ll be the AIDS girl with the AIDS mama and the AIDS friend. What if the city finds out? What if they take Soly and Iris away? Would they? Could they? I don’t know.
I forget about school. I head to the hospital. I give my name to reception and ask for Nurse Viser. Eventually she sticks her head out. She waves me in.
“We sent a caseworker to your place,” she says, perched on the edge of her desk. “The worker says your patient disappeared.”
“Jonah, yes,” I say. “He’s gone. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry I wasted your time. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry—”
“Whoa, girl, whoa!” Nurse Viser laughs a mama-laugh and puts her hands on my shoulders. “Forget being sorry. That’s not why you’re here. How can I help you?”
“I have a friend who has a friend who may have the AIDS virus,” I blurt out. I tell her Esther’s story without saying her name. “If my friend’s friend has the virus, should my friend and her brother and sister wear rubber gloves around her?”
“Not if she’s all patched up.”
“Good. My friend wanted to make sure her brother and sister were safe.”
“They’re safe,” Nurse Viser says. “HIV/AIDS only spreads through blood, semen, and fecal matter. But you already know that, don’t you?” She fixes me with a firm gaze. “What’s the real reason you’re here?”
I stare at the linoleum, thinking about Isaac Pheto. Nurse Viser watches me for what seems like forever. Finally I take a deep breath. I say: “I have another friend. She was raped when she was a girl, but she’s still healthy. The man who raped her is still healthy, too. So she’s all right, isn’t she? She doesn’t have AIDS, does she?”
Nurse Viser puts down her clipboard. “I don’t know,” she says. “The virus can hide in the body for years.”
I suck in a cry. Nurse Viser takes my hand. The alphabet runs through my head as she says—“Would your friend like to be tested?”
“No,” I whisper. “She’s too scared.”
“I understand,” she whispers back. “Taking the test is scary. But living in fear is worse. At least if your friend takes the test, she’ll know.”
That’s the problem,” I say. “If she tests positive, she’ll know she’s going to die.”
“Maybe not. Each year new drugs are discovered. People live longer.”
“In the West.” I bite my lip. “My friend can’t afford those drugs. Nobody can.”
“In Botswana they have a national drug program. We’ll get one too, one day.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You’re right,” she says, “I don’t know it. But I believe it. There’s some things you have to believe, Chanda. It’s the only way to keep going.” She holds my head in her hands like Mama used to do. “In the meantime, if your friend tests positive, she can put her name in a lottery for experimental drug trials. Or on a list to get treatment from a relief agency.”
“In a lottery—on a list—that’s not enough.”
“It’s better than nothing.”
“But my friend... my friend...” My voice chokes. “You know I’m not talking about a friend, don’t you? You know I’m talking about me.”
She nods.
All of a sudden tears are pouring down my cheeks. I’m crying. In public. I’ve let Mama down, but I can’t stop. Nurse Viser hands me a tissue. I wipe my eyes. “Please don’t tell anybody.”
“You’re my patient. This is between us.” Nurse Viser pauses. She tilts her head, choosing her words carefully. “Have you heard about the Thabo Welcome Centre?”
“No.” I shake my head hard. “No. No, I haven’t.” But I have. Who hasn’t? The Thabo Welcome Centre is down the side road from the Section Ten Community Clinic. It’s run by Banyana Kaone, this weird old woman everybody calls the AIDS Lady. There’s always stories in the papers about her handing out condoms in supermarkets and parks. “The life you save may be your own!” she says. “If you don’t care about yourself, care about your partner.” She’s right. All the same, I keep as far away from the Welcome Centre as I can. If people think you go there, they say you have the sickness.
Nurse Viser raises an eyebrow. “If you take the HIV/AIDS test,” she says gently, “let’s hope it comes back negative. But if it doesn’t, the Welcome Centre is a wonderful place.”
I cover my ears. “I don’t want to hear this.”
“Chanda, if you test positive, you’ll need support. The Centre has a counselor ...”
“I don’t care. If I have the AIDS virus, I don’t want anyone to know. Besides, I can’t test positive. I’ve got too many people to look after.”
“Either you have the virus or you don’t,” Nurse Viser says firmly. “Fear doesn’t change the truth.”
“Stop it! Stop!” I twist the tissue into a ball and jump to my feet. “I know I should get tested. All right? But I won’t! I can’t! I just can’t!”
I turn and run, tripping over my chair as I race out the door.
I BIKE HOME, MY INSIDES IN A KNOT. I tell myself not to think about AIDS or testing. I have to focus on Mrs. Tafa. I have to fight for her phone. I have to fight for Esther. I have to stay calm.
I wheel up to Mrs. Tafa’s yard. Soly’s making a circle of pebbles around her lawn chair. He jumps up when I come through the gate.
“See my magic circle?” he asks. “I’m doing it just like Mr. Tafa showed me. Whoever sits in the throne gets to make a wish.”
“Well, it works,” Mrs. Tafa announces. “I was wishing Chanda’d be back so we could have a little talk, and here she is.”
“Hooray,” Soly bubbles. “Mr. Tafa says my magic circle can protect against evil spirits, too!”
“Maybe you should make one for Chanda,” Mrs. Tafa says, giving me a sharp look.
“All right,” Soly says. “But I have to finish this one first.”
“You do that.”
Soly smiles proudly and starts laying more pebbles as Mrs. Tafa hoists herself up and motions me into her house. She shuts the door behind us and whirls on me with the wrath of God. “You should be ashamed of yourself, taking in that Esther Macholo. Don’t think I don’t know what that tramp’s been up to.”
“I don’t care what you know,” I say. “Esther’s in trouble. She’s my friend.”
“You think your mama wants her babies living with a whore?”
“What Esther’s done, she’s done for her family. Keeping a family together whatever it takes—that’s something Mama understands.”
“Don’t mention your mama and that little bitch in the same breath,” Mrs. Tafa thunders. “Esther Macholo can sleep with the pigs, for all I care. But she’s not sleeping next door to me. Either you kick her out or I do.”
My guts clench. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tafa. I’m not kicking her out. She’s staying right where she is, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to use your phone to let Mama know.”
Mrs. Tafa hoots. “Nothing I can do about it? As long as that slut’s under your roof, you’ll never use my phone. You’ll never speak to your mama again.”
“Oh, yes, I will,” I hear myself say. “I’ll speak to her one way or another. When I do, I’ll—I’ll—I’ll tell her you made me whore for the money to use a pay phone!”
Mrs. Tafa wobbles backwards. “What?”
“You heard me. I’ll tell the whole neighborhood!”
She clutches her chest. “That tramp’s under your roof one night, and listen to your filth! It’s the devil talking!” She points to her phone. “Go ahead then, Jezebel. Use it, if it means so much to you. Use it and be damned.” She runs outside.
I panic: What did I just say? Never mind, I tell myself, it was worth it to see the old goat twitch. I’m shaking as the operator makes the connection to Tiro. The general dealer answers on the fourth ring. There’s laughter in the background. I picture a group of men sitting by an old Coca-Cola cooler playing cards and smoking.
“Yeah?” says the dealer with a hearty voice.
“Mr. Kamwendo?”
“That’s me.”
“It’s Chanda Kabelo. Remember me?”
“Yeah. Your granny and grampa are the Thelas. You called a while back when your sister passed.”
“Yes, and, well, as you probably know, my mama’s visiting Granny and Grampa, and, well, could you please give her a message?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Tell her everything’s going well and we all miss her and to please call, I have to talk to her.”
I hear a clunk as if he’s put the receiver down on the counter. Then I hear him talking to a customer and a cash register opening. There’s the sound of a little bell and a screen door opening and banging shut.
“Hello?” I say. I hear the receiver bounce on the floor and some swearing. “Hello? Are you still there?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“So you got my message?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell Mama to make sure to speak to me. Not the neighbor lady.”
“Sure thing.”
I want to ask him if he’s seen her, if she’s well, if everything’s okay. I want to ask him so much. But if I do, maybe he’ll wonder why I’m asking. Maybe he’ll know something’s wrong. Maybe he’ll spread things. So I don’t ask anything. I just say: “Thank you.”
I hang up. An emptiness swallows me. A second ago I was talking to someone only a five-minute walk from Mama. I was that close to her. And now she’s hundreds of miles away again.
And I don’t know how she is.
And I don’t know why she hasn’t called.
And I’m afraid to find out.
BY LATE AFTERNOON, Esther’s swelling is worse. By nighttime, she’s unrecognizable. Iris and Soly say hello through the curtain, but she doesn’t want anyone but me to see her.
She stays behind the curtain until the middle of the week. I bring her food, but she doesn’t eat much even when I spoonfeed it. I leave her a potty and empty it in the outhouse at sunset and daybreak.
Around about Thursday, Esther makes her first steps into the living area. Tiny steps, like an old woman. I hold her by the elbow to keep her from falling down. I also hide the hand mirror by the front door so she won’t see what she looks like. It doesn’t matter. She can tell by the stares she gets from Soly and Iris.
Back in her room, Esther touches the sides of her head. It hurts her to lift her hands and elbows, but it hurts her even more to imagine what she can’t see. “I’m ugly,” she weeps. “I wish they’d killed me.”
I ignore the last part. “It’s just a little swelling,” I say. “It’ll come down.” I hope so. Her head’s full of lumps, like a bag stuffed with marula nuts. There’s a puckering around the stitches. I pat them clean with a cotton towel and boiled water, but it doesn’t make a difference.
Meanwhile, things with Mrs. Tafa are really tense. She keeps babysitting Soly, but she ignores me. The morning after our fight, she stayed out of sight when I lifted him over the hedge.
When I got back at lunch, she was in her lawn chair. I hollered hello. She pretended to be sleeping. I hollered again. She turned her back.
“Mrs. Tafa,” I said, “thanks for letting me use your phone yesterday. I’m sorry I was rude.”
She got up and walked into her house. Since then we haven’t said a word to each other. It’s gotten so uncomfortable, I try not to be outside at the same time as her. She’ll never forgive me. Not until I get rid of Esther. And I won’t do that, ever.
Mealtimes are the worst. Mrs. Tafa manages to get Iris and Soly into her house right beforehand and spoils them with treats. At first they claimed they couldn’t hear me calling them. So I started ringing a cowbell. That worked on Soly. Not Iris.
The first time she refused to come, I said, “Soly, is Mrs. Tafa keeping Iris inside her place?”
His little eyes got big as moons. “If I tell, they’ll be mad at me.”
“Well, if you don’t tell, I’ll be mad at you.”
“I know. So what am I supposed to do?”
I didn’t know what to answer. I just told him to wash his hands and come to the table. Around about the time we were cleaning up, the Little Herself strolled in, eager to let Soly know about the candies he missed.
“Iris,” I said, “Mama put me in charge. From now on, you come when I call.”
“I’ll come when I want,” she taunted. “Maybe I won’t even come at all.”
“Iris—”
She stuck out her tongue, put her hands over her ears and ran around the table yelling at the top of her lungs. I wrestled her to the ground. Sat on her. “You’re going to listen to me, Iris.”
“Leave me alone. This isn’t my real home. You aren’t my real sister. I hate you.”
I hate you? I thought I was going to die. I went limp. Iris pushed me off and ran outside.
“You should lock her up in her room,” said Esther.
“She’d just get out. Then she’d go to Mrs. Tafa. Next thing you know she’d be staying there.” I buried my face in my hands. “Why does she hate me?”
“She doesn’t hate you.”
I want to ask Mrs. Tafa to back me up. But she won’t. She wants to be the boss. And she has treats to give. I can’t compete.
I can’t eat much anymore, either. Or sleep. What if Mama never comes back? What if something happens to her when she does? Will Mrs. Tafa take over? Will she steal my family? How can I stop her?
I wander into the yard in the middle of the night and sit at the side of the house, praying my magic stork will appear. “Please, mma moleane, visit me again. Bring me another dream-vision of Mama.” Of course it doesn’t. I knew it wouldn’t. There’s no such thing as magic. The stork I saw was just a stork. It lives by the Kawkee dam. It came here by accident. It’ll never come again.
The weekend passes. Mrs. Tafa does the cemetery tour without me. There’s still no word from Mama. It’s been two weeks since she left. A week since I phoned. Why hasn’t she called back?
I want to bang on Mrs. Tafa’s door and yell: “Mama’s phoned, hasn’t she? She wouldn’t leave us like this. Not all alone without a word.”
But if I bang on her door, what difference would it make? Mrs. Tafa wouldn’t tell me. Even if she did, I wouldn’t believe her.
I live with this terrible not-knowing into the next week. Then, Tuesday afternoon, something happens. Something so terrible Mama’s sure to come home.
TUESDAY MORNING I TELL IRIS AND SOLY I’ll be late for lunch. “I have to stay at school to do a makeup test for English,” I say. “But don’t worry. Esther will be here. There’s soup left over from last night. She’ll give you a bowl.”
“Who cares about your soup?” Iris says. “We’ll be at Mrs. Tafa’s. Mrs. Tafa has figs. Mrs. Tafa has cookies. Mrs. Tafa has everything.”
“Iris, I don’t have time to argue.”
“Good. ’Cause I don’t have time to listen.” She takes off for school.
I lift Soly over Mrs. Tafa’s hedge, and catch up to Iris on my bike. Actually, I don’t quite catch up; I stay two blocks behind her. For the past week, she’s refused to walk with me. If I don’t stay back, she squats on the ground and refuses to budge.
Where’s the Iris who loved me? She’s gone. I’m a failure.
We near the kindergarten playground. Iris runs into one of the Sibanda kids and little Lena Gambe. I let her walk the rest of the way with them. There’s so much to do before class. I haven’t read anything in ages and I have that English test. Mr. Selalame would give me another extension, but I’m too embarrassed to ask. He’s been too good to me.
I get to the library before the bell and try to concentrate. I can’t. All I can think is: Why is everything such a struggle? Why do I fight with Mrs. Tafa? Maybe it’s good that Iris and Soly are getting treats I can’t afford. And it’s good they get to see so much of Mr. Tafa. Maybe I’m just jealous. Maybe I’m just selfish. Maybe I’m the problem.
The whole morning is like that: My body’s in school, but my mind is somewhere else. At lunch, Mr. Selalame sits behind his desk marking while I write the test. Or try to. I stare at the questions like an idiot. My mind is a blank. I write a couple of words, and scribble them out. I fill in the holes in the a’s, o’s, d’s, and p’s.
It’s no use. My eyes fill. I pull myself to my feet.
Mr. Selalame looks up from his work. “What’s the matter?”
“Everything!” I head to the door, bumping into desks.
“Chanda, wait. Talk to me.”
I want to! I want to tell him about Mama, Esther, Mrs. Tafa, Iris—how I’m so scared I can’t breathe, and I don’t know what to do. But all I can say is, “I let you down. I promised to do my work and I can’t. I can’t do anything.”
Before Mr. Selalame can stop me, I’m out the door.
When I get home, Soly’s in the front yard. He’s blowing bits of chicken down off his hands, watching them float in the air.
“Did you have your soup?” I ask.
He nods.
He shakes his head.
I go inside. Esther’s at the table. “Have you seen Iris?”
“No,” she says. “I think she’s at Mrs. Tafa’s.”
I know I should check, but I can’t face Mrs. Tafa. Not to mention Iris with a mouth full of figs. I curl up on my mattress and cover my head with a pillow.
Next thing I know, I hear screaming and crying, a banging at the door. I leap to my feet as Mrs. Tafa barges into the house. She’s shaking hysterically. “Chanda, come quick,” she cries. “There’s been an accident at the junkyard.”
There’s a huge crowd by the time we arrive. Clusters of neighbors and strangers bunch near the road between the ambulance and the police cars. Some crane their necks for a better look at the action at the rear of the property. Others huddle amongst themselves. I hear bits of things like, “It should never have happened,” “Such a tragedy,” and “So young, so young.”
Mrs. Tafa and I stumble through piles of old tires, paint cans, scraps of barbed wire. The crowd gets thicker the closer we get to the abandoned well. “Out of the way!” Mrs. Tafa yells. “Family coming through.” She elbows ahead with one arm while pulling me behind with the other.
Police are keeping people back. They’ve cordoned the area around the well, stringing rope to a couple of upturned wagons and the rusted hulk of an old car. “Chanda Kabelo, sister of the little girl,” Mrs. Tafa says. A policeman lets us under the rope and takes us aside.
“All we know is what we’ve got from Ezekiel Sibanda and Lena Gambe. You know them?”
I nod. Lena and Ezekiel go to school with Iris. I see Ezekiel close by with his parents. His papa’s holding him. His mama’s wailing on the ground.
“They’re pretty shaken up,” the cop continues. “Each time they tell what happened it’s a little different. But this is how we’ve pieced it together.” He clears his throat. I brace myself and listen.
It seems that Ezekiel, Lena, and Iris didn’t stay at school this morning. Mrs. Ndori was sick. Again. As soon as she took the attendance, she lay down in a corner. Ezekiel, Lena, and Iris took off. This has been happening a lot, the last month.
The three of them came to the junkyard, where they met Ezekiel’s little brother Paulo, the one who wears juice cartons for shoes. Ezekiel had sneaked some shake-shake from the family shebeen. Pretty soon they were all drunk.
Iris tottered to the well. She balanced over the lip, calling, “Hello, down there.” When the others wanted to know what she was doing, she said her baby sister Sara lived at the bottom. Ezekiel and Lena didn’t believe her, but little Paulo did. He said he wanted to see her.
Ezekiel found an old bucket on a chain. Paulo got in. Ezekiel, Lena, and Iris started to lower him down the well. Except the chain wasn’t long enough to reach the bottom. They tried to pull him back up, but they didn’t have the strength. They called for help. Nobody heard.
Lena panicked and let go. The extra weight was too much for Iris and Ezekiel. The chain slipped. The bucket banged against the stone walls. Paulo fell out. He screamed till he hit the bottom with a thud. The kids called to him, but there was no answer.
Iris said it was all her fault, she was going to climb down and bring him back up. Ezekiel said she was drunk and stupid and she’d just get herself killed. He and Lena ran off for a grownup. When they returned with the neighborhood, Iris had disappeared.
I see the empty cartons of shake-shake on the ground. I run to the well. No one could survive a drop like that. I don’t care. I call down: “Iris? Iris?”
I’m sobbing as Mrs. Tafa starts to pull me away. And then I hear a sound. A whimpering, like in my dream. “Chanda?... Chanda?” But the voice isn’t coming from down the well-hole. It’s coming from inside an oil bin a stone’s throw away. The bin is on its side. Garbage bags spill from its mouth. I watch as the bags are pushed away—as a little body crawls out of its hiding place.
Iris!
Mrs. Tafa kneels down to scoop her up, but Iris runs past her and into my arms. “Chanda, Chanda. I’m sorry. I’ll never be bad again. Please don’t hate me. Please. I’m so scared.”
I hold her tight. “It’s okay,” I say. “I love you. It’s okay.”
A fire truck roars up to the junkyard. Three firemen break through the crowd. Their leader rappels down the inside of the well. The other two aim flashlights down to help him see.
There’s a pause. Then the fireman calls out: “I’ve got him. It’s a miracle. He’s unconscious. But he’s alive!”
The crowd cheers as Paulo is raised to the surface. Still, miracles don’t just happen. There’s a reason Paulo didn’t die. Something cushioned his fall. That something is why the fireman throws up. It’s why the police tell everyone to move farther away. It’s why the firemen return to the well-hole and rappel down again. This time, all three of them.
What they bring back to the light is a nightmare. Something bent and twisted. Dried out of shape. Draped in rotting cloth. At first, people don’t know what it is. But I do.
I’d recognize Jonah’s striped bandanna anywhere.
JONAH’S BODY IS TAKEN TO THE CITY MORGUE.
Iris is fine, except for a little rawness where the chain slid through her hands. After she’s checked over, Mrs. Tafa and I get her back home. The whole way, Mrs. Tafa sings hymns of joy, babbles about miracles, and rants that the city of Bonang should fence up all its junkyards. Apparently the two of us are talking again. Lucky me.
I put Iris to bed to sleep off the shake-shake. Then while Esther watches over her and Soly, I go to see Mrs. Tafa. She’s already on her lawn chair soothing her nerves with a lemonade.
“I need to call Mama,” I say.
“What for?”
“To let her know about Jonah. She’ll want to make the arrangements.”
Mrs. Tafa sucks the last drops of lemonade up her straw. “That man is no concern of hers. The sonofabitch left, remember? Good riddance, may he rest in peace, or you’d be up to your ears in expenses.” I’m about to argue, but Mrs. Tafa doesn’t want to fight. She waves me toward the house. “You know where it is.”
I thank her, phone Tiro, and tell the general dealer my step-papa’s passed. “Can you get my mama to call home right away?”
“Yeah.”
Heading home, I ask Mrs. Tafa to holler as soon as there’s a ring: “I’ll be outside working in the garden.”
I till the earth for fresh vegetable rows. I water and weed. Before I know it, it’s suppertime. And Mama hasn’t called. It doesn’t make sense. Jonah is dead. She’d have called if she could. What’s wrong? Before I can find out, Auntie Ruth drives up with her boyfriend. He stays in the Corvette listening to the radio while she greets me at the end of the bean rows.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” I say.
“Jonah. Yes. Thank you. That’s why I’m here. Is your mama around?”
“She’s visiting relatives in Tiro.”
“Oh.” She searches my eyes. “She’s well, I hope?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“Good.” A pause. “Let her know I’ve claimed the body.”
A weight lifts from my heart. “Thank you.”
Auntie Ruth’s eyes fill. “Jonah did terrible things at the end. But he wasn’t a bad man. He just made mistakes, that’s all. He didn’t mean any harm. He loved your mama.”
“Yes. I guess.” It doesn’t seem right to argue.
“I’m sorry about the wagon. I’m sorry I abandoned him. I’m sorry for everything.” Her boyfriend honks the horn. “I have to go. The laying-over is tomorrow. The burial: the day after, seven o’clock, the new cemetery, Phase 6. I didn’t want for things to be rushed. It’s just, Mr. Bateman gave us a discount.”
“That’s all right, I’ll let Mama know.”
“It’s not all right. I’m so ashamed. A coffin’s been rented for the laying-over, but they’re going to bury Jonah in a feedsack.”
Her boyfriend honks the horn again.
“I heard you,” Auntie Ruth yells. She turns back. “After what he did at our place, the others wanted to leave him at the morgue. I refused. No matter what, I wasn’t going to let my baby brother be tossed in the pauper pit. But this, this isn’t much better.” Her knees give way. I catch her.
“Auntie Ruth, I’ll get the money for a coffin. I’ll find a way. Don’t worry.”
“God bless you. God bless you.”
Her boyfriend rests his arm on the horn.
“All the best to your mama,” she says, scrambling backwards to the Corvette. “I hope she can come. There were good times. I hope people remember the good times.” She’s into the car. Before she can close the door, it tears off in a cloud of dust.
Mrs. Tafa lets me phone Tiro about the funeral arrangements.
“It’s me again,” I say to the general dealer. “Chanda Kabelo?”
“Yeah?”
“About my last message, did you get it to Mama?”
“Yeah.”
“What did she say?”
“Dunno. Left it with your auntie.”
My heart sinks. “Auntie Lizbet?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, here’s a new message. This time, please give it to Mama personally. Tell her that Auntie Ruth has made the arrangements. Jonah’s laying-over’s tomorrow night, with the burial right after. She’ll have to take the morning bus home or she’ll miss everything. Did you get that?”
“Yeah.”
“Please, tell her right away?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
I hang up. Mrs. Tafa’s been pretending to dust the shrine to Emmanuel on her side table. “Don’t get your hopes up,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“Your mama won’t be coming.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
“Well, you’re wrong. Mama will be here. If you don’t know that, you don’t know anything.”
Next morning early, I bike to Bateman’s to get Jonah a burial coffin. Despite my promise to Auntie Ruth, there’s nothing I can afford. Mr. Bateman takes pity. He shows me a pine box that looks like a packing crate. Says he’ll sell it to me at half price on account of the bottom boards are warped. “But with the body overtop, no one will know the difference.” He agrees to let me pay in instalments: “Your family honors its debts.”
Back home, I wait with Iris and Soly for the truck from Tiro. It drives by, but Mama isn’t on it. This was her only chance to get here on time. She’ll miss Jonah’s funeral. Where is she? Why isn’t she here? A terrible thought. Maybe she didn’t get the message. Maybe I should have called and called until the general dealer got her on the line. Maybe, like always, it’s all my fault.
Mrs. Tafa’s in her yard. Normally she’d cock her head with a cheery, “What did I tell you?” Today, though, not a single mean word. Why is she being nice? I should be happy. Instead I feel sick to my stomach.
AFTER SUPPER, I PACK A CHANGE OF CLOTHES in a knapsack and get ready to leave for the laying-over; Esther will babysit overnight while I’m away. The sun’s down; the air is cooling off. I’m pulling on a light jacket when Mrs. Tafa waltzes up to the door. “I thought you might like a ride,” she says. “Your Auntie Ruth’s is pretty far to be biking at night.”
I can’t believe my ears. After all the awful things Mrs. Tafa’s said about Jonah, she’s going to his laying-over? She sees the wonder in my eyes. “Funerals are for the living,” she says. “Your Auntie Ruth’s a nice woman. She’ll appreciate a crowd.”
On the way over, Mrs. Tafa tells tales from various laying-overs, some funny, some sad. She remembers Sara’s, and laughs at how I got Jonah’s sisters to chase down his brothers when they ran off for shake-shakes with Mary. When I don’t laugh back, she turns on the radio to the Bible station. A preacher says: “The Lord never gives us more than we can bear.” I think of Mama. I think of Esther. I want to smash his face in.
Another twenty minutes and we arrive at Auntie Ruth’s. It’s in a section like mine: mud huts, two-room prefabs, and cement block homes jumbled up together. Because the funeral’s on the cheap, there’s no tent for the overnighters. Instead, Auntie Ruth has had her brothers run a tarp along the roof on the right side of her house. One end stretches across to the top of the outhouse, the other end to the top of the shed. It’s secured by cement blocks.
A few people drift around, though not any I recognize. They must be friends of Auntie Ruth’s. She runs over and introduces Mrs. Tafa and me. “You remember when I babysat Jonah’s little ones a few months back?” she tells folks. “Well, this is their big sister, Chanda, and a close friend of the family, Rose Tafa.”
Mrs. Tafa discovers an old acquaintance from around the mine. “It’s a terrible thing, Jonah’s accident,” says her friend. “Falling down a well, like that. The poor man never had a chance.”
That’s what I hear all night: how Jonah’s death was an accident. An accident? Were they blind? I want to laugh or scream. But I think of Auntie Ruth and I don’t.
Around about midnight Mrs. Tafa’s back gives out. She leaves me with a sleeping bag and a promise that she’ll return to take me to the burial. True enough, we night guests wake at dawn to the sound of her truck backfiring in from the main road.
Before leaving for the cemetery, we file through Auntie Ruth’s to pay our respects to Jonah. The packing crate is closed. Auntie Ruth has wrapped it in a silver polyester sheet that covers the warps and knotholes in the boards.
The service at the cemetery is simple. There’s not a huge crowd, but it’s big enough not to be embarrassing. I look for Mary. I don’t see her. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her in awhile. The coffin is lowered into the ground. There disappears someone else I’ll never see again. Life is strange.
I get into Mrs. Tafa’s truck and we return to Auntie Ruth’s for the burial feast. Auntie had been afraid she’d be shamed for want of food. But last night her brothers gave in and got a leg of beef—and bags of carrots, potatoes, and bread appeared from under her neighbor’s shawls. Auntie Ruth is loved.
The ride home is very quiet. For a change, Mrs. Tafa drives under the speed limit. She tries to liven things up, but I just stare out the window. Every so often I feel her itching to read my mind.
“What’s the matter?” she says at last.
“Mama should have been here,” I say. “She’d have wanted to be.”
“You did what you could.” Mrs. Tafa reaches into her purse and pulls out a napkin containing a chunk of beef wrapped in bread—a treat she took from the feast. “Besides, there’s no reason to think she should have been here. Or would’ve wanted to be.”
“She loved him. He was a papa to Iris and Soly.”
“Was.” Mrs. Tafa chews deliberately. “He was also a cheating no-account drunk who shamed her and broke her heart. His accident doesn’t change a thing.”
“‘Accident’?” I snort under my breath.
“Yes, ‘accident,’” Mrs. Tafa says. “What else would you call it?”
“I’d call it suicide or murder.”
Mrs. Tafa nearly crashes into the ditch. She brakes and faces me. “What are you talking about?”
“I know there won’t be an investigation,” I say calmly, “but we both know the truth. Jonah threw himself down that well—or got thrown down that well—because he had AIDS.”
“Don’t say that. If Jonah had the bug, folks’ll be saying your mama has it too.”
“I’ll bet they already do.”
“Did, maybe, once upon a time. But not since I fetched Mrs. Gulubane. Because of her, they say your mama has a bewitchment. And Jonah’s had an accident. That’s the truth they want to believe. It’s the truth you should want to believe too.”
“Well, I don’t. Mama’s in trouble.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Then why hasn’t she called?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Just because.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
I take a deep breath and throw open the door of the truck. “Thank you, Mrs. Tafa, I can walk home from here.”
“Chanda, there’s things you don’t understand.”
“Maybe. But I understand this. Mama needs me. When I get home, I’m packing my bags. I’m going to Tiro.”
“How?” she snorts. “You don’t have the money for bus fare.”
“I’ll hitchhike.”
“Are you crazy? A young girl alone on the road? You don’t have to be a whore to be raped.”
I walk down the road, Mrs. Tafa idling after me. She calls through the open window: “Chanda—what makes you think your mama wants to see you?”
I look straight ahead and keep walking. “Why wouldn’t she?” I start to run, but she sticks to me like flypaper.
“Maybe your mama never expected to come home. Maybe she meant her good-bye to be forever.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I? I made her a promise, Chanda. I can’t let you go to Tiro.”
“Try and stop me.”
MY HEAD SWIMS AS I RACE INTO THE FRONT YARD. Mrs. Tafa brakes hard and runs after me. Esther is inside with Soly and Iris. Mouths open, they watch me slam the door, bolt it, press my back against it. Outside, Mrs. Tafa bangs away with her fist, demanding to be let in.
I cover my ears and scream, “Go Away Go Away Go Away Go Away!!!”
Soly cries. Esther holds him. Iris runs into the bedroom and hides under the cover. At last Mrs. Tafa is exhausted. I hear her panting. Then she says, “Fine. Go ahead. Break your mama’s heart. Break your own heart while you’re at it.” Through the slats of the shutters I see her heave her way to the gate. She pauses to wipe her forehead with the back of her arm, then disappears from sight.
I’m bunched up on the floor. Esther and Soly kneel beside me. “It’s all right, Chanda,” Soly says solemnly. “We love you.”
I give him a big hug and a kiss. Then I get him to bed, and tell him and Iris a story. Pretty soon they’re cuddled up napping. Or at least I think they’re napping. In case their ears are open, I motion Esther out back. We crouch behind the outhouse, and I tell her what happened on the ride home.
“I have to get to Mama. But what’ll I do about Iris and Soly?”
“Don’t worry,” Esther says. “I’ll take care of them. After what happened at the junkyard, Iris won’t be going far. And if worst comes to worst, well, there’s Mrs. Tafa. Even if she’s mad at you, she won’t let anything happen to them.”
I nod. “Then I better pack. It’s almost noon. If I’m going to hitchhike, I want as much light as possible.”
“Don’t hitchhike,” Esther says. “It isn’t safe.”
“I haven’t got a choice.”
“Yes, you do.” She pats my hand. “Wait here.”
Esther gets up and goes inside. A minute later she comes back carrying an old cardboard shoebox tied up with string. She sits beside me and opens it carefully, as if it’s the most precious thing in the world. It is. Under several copies of her parents’ funeral programs, and their obituary clippings from the local newspaper, are two envelopes stuffed with savings.
“There’s ninety-eight dollars, plus some money from here,” she says. “Auntie used to come into my shed and steal. I caught her a few times. Once she said she was only taking what was hers for looking after me. Another time, she said she was taking it for God, so I wouldn’t go to hell. Anyway, I used to leave some around where she’d find it, and hid the rest in this box. It was money to bring my brothers and sister back together. But it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. Better you should have it.”
I look at the money—more than enough to get me to Tiro and bring Mama home. Then I look at the scars on Esther’s face.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t take this.”
Esther seems to shrink. “Why? Because it’s whore money?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“You saved my life,” Esther continues. “If you hadn’t taken me in, I’d be dead. I need to say thank you. Please let me.”
And I do. I take the money, and I pack, and I get on the truck to Tiro. I don’t call ahead. I don’t give anyone the chance to say, “Don’t come.” I just get on the truck and wave good-bye. “Don’t worry,” I call out, watching my little ones disappear in Esther’s arms. “I’ll be back soon. I’ll be back with Mama.”
Is it a sin I took the money? Is it a sin I’m on this truck? I don’t know. Even worse, I don’t care. I don’t have time to worry about right and wrong. All I have time to worry about is Mama.
We pass through hours of country. Here and there a village. The sun sets. Headlights pick up jungle, abandoned huts, an elephant, a few cleared lots. I think about what Mrs. Tafa said. That Mama never expected to come home. That her good-bye was meant to be forever. Mrs. Tafa is Mama’s best friend. Did Mama tell her a secret?
I knew she was sick with AIDS. But I’d tried not to think about how sick. Now, as the truck rattles through the night, it comes to me clear as day. Mama is more than sick. Mama is dying. Maybe she’s already dead.
I whisper the words aloud. I whisper them as if they’re a secret—a secret I’ve been keeping even from myself. I begin to perspire, but I don’t cry. My mind is too full: Mama hates Tiro. She said we’d never live there. So why did she go there to die? Why not stay home, with me and Soly and Iris? Was it the AIDS? Did she think we’d be ashamed? That we wouldn’t love her anymore?
“Mama,” I whisper, “please hear me. If you’re still alive, I make you a promise. You’re not going to die in Tiro. I’m going to bring you home. I love you. We all do. Always. No matter what.”
It’s eleven o’clock. We leave the highway. Soon we’re at the edge of the village. We pull up to the general dealer’s. On the left, there’s a gas tank; on the right, a handful of men sitting around smoking cigarettes and drinking. A single bare light bulb hangs above the door. A neon beer sign flickers in the window.
In a few minutes I’ll see Mama. Or know what’s happened to her.
Dear God, if you’re out there, please help me.
We rumble to a halt, the air thick with shadows. Alive with questions.