Chanda's Secrets (20 page)

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.”

M
Y 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.

I
TRY TO BE CALM.
If I'm to help Mama, I'll need a clear head.

I stand up on the flatbed and look around. The general dealer's is a lot like I remember: its stuccoed walls are chipped and in need of a whitewash. The fluorescents and neon sign are new, though. So are the pockets of light spreading out from behind the store into the distance—firepits planted along streets and in front yards and neighborhoods that didn't exist when Papa was alive.

We came back to Tiro once a year then. We'd get off the truck like I'm doing now and one of my papa-uncles with a buggy would take us to the cattle post. It was fun to play with my cousins again. And to see my older sister Lily—the one who'd stayed behind to marry her boyfriend down the road.

During our visits, we'd find time to trek to Mama's family post too. I was afraid of my Granny and Grampa Thela. Their
arms were always folded and they never smiled. Mama was very particular about how my brothers and I were dressed and how we behaved when we'd visit. We had to be perfect.

My brothers were lucky; they got to go off hunting with my uncles. But me, I had to stay with Mama and my aunties. Granny and Grampa Thela would take us over to Auntie Amanthe's burial stone, where Auntie Lizbet would hobble around serving tea, biscuits, and hard looks. No matter how hungry I was, I tried not to eat. Any crumb that stuck to my lip or fell on my dress got a sharp word.

After Papa and my brothers died, Mama and I only came back to Tiro once. That last time was when Iris was a baby, and Mama was pregnant with Soly. I'm sure Papa's family didn't expect her to stay single forever. But seeing her with another man's child, and pregnant with the child of yet another... well. Mama's marriage to Papa had cost them dearly. These “other men” in her life gave them an excuse to cut us off.

As for Granny and Grampa Thela, they didn't miss us. Mama sent them letters in care of my older sister Lily. Lily read them to Granny and Grampa, and wrote a few words back on their behalf. That's how we found out they'd moved from the cattle post to the village. Tiro had finally gotten electricity, along with standpipes and a health clinic.

My granny, my aunties, and female cousins moved first; my grampa, uncles, and older male cousins joined them on weekends, leaving the cattle to hired herd boys. But the men couldn't stand their own cooking, so in the end they moved to town, too. Each morning before dawn they'd go to the post by cart and bicycle. They still do, along with men from other posts who've made the move.

On the ground now, I drop my bag and stretch. The general dealer ambles over from the circle of drinkers and starts to unload the crates of dry goods that came with me from Bonang. He looks like I remember, only shorter.

“Mr. Kamwendo?”

He squints at me in the dim spill of light from the store. “Yeah?”

“It's me. Chanda Kabelo?”

“My Lord!” He wipes his hands on his work pants. We shake. He's not drunk, but I smell the alcohol on his breath. “You're all grown up. Last time I saw you, you were knee-high to a cricket. Sorry to hear about your step-papa.”

“Thank you.”

“So what brings you to Tiro? Visiting your Granny and Grampa Thela?”

“Not exactly. I've come to see Mama.”

He looks puzzled.