Fly Away Home (4 page)

Zak put up his hands. “I said
if
Sipho went we could visit.”

Sipho smiled broadly at his brother.

“You can go,” said Monica quietly.

Sipho turned his smile on her, but it was not as broad this time. “Thanks, Mom.”

She heard the nervousness in his voice and reached across the table for his hand. Now that the decision had been reached she had to make an effort to bolster his courage.

“It will be an experience you'll remember for the rest of your life.”

Monica hoped and prayed that his memories would only be happy.

O
n Saturday morning, Francina awoke to the sound of rain falling, and hoped that Zukisa would call off their visit to her aunt in Cape Town. She did not want to leave the warmth of her bed, where Hercules lay as still as a post with the heavy down duvet pulled up to his ears. Francina would never get used to rain in winter. It just didn't seem right. How could the rest of the country get rain in summer and only a small part along the southwestern tip get rain in winter? She hurriedly wrapped herself in the thick cotton dressing gown she had made, while her feet found the fluffy slippers Zukisa and Hercules had given her on her last birthday, and then she left the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

“Good morning, Mom.”

Zukisa was already dressed in a corduroy skirt, thick tights and a sweater knitted by Mrs. Shabalala. The sleeves were a little long, the body a little short, but Francina would never have thought of pointing out these faults to her mother-in-law when the creation had been a labor of love.

“I've made porridge, but I didn't want to start the eggs until you and Dad were both up.”

Zukisa did not need to mention her aunt. She was ready and eager to depart for Cape Town.

“Should we phone your family to warn them we're coming?”

Zukisa blushed. “I already did. My aunt said to come anytime.”

“I'll wake your father then.”

Entering her bedroom, Francina felt trepidation, which she tried to brush away by remembering that it was perfectly normal for a good girl such as Zukisa to want to visit her sick aunt. As a Zulu, Francina understood the pull of blood ties. She didn't often dwell on the fact that Zukisa was not her biological daughter, except for times like these when she experienced an irrational fear that the situation could rob her of the girl.

While Hercules dressed, Francina ate the porridge Zukisa had prepared. Mrs. Shabalala emerged in her dressing gown and joined them at the dining room table with a sigh.

“Bad dream?” asked Francina.

Mrs. Shabalala shook her head. “I wish Mama Dlamini hadn't given me such a big slice of cake last night. I didn't sleep well because of it.”

Francina wanted to tell her mother-in-law that she didn't have to eat the whole slice, but instead she just smiled. It was difficult for a woman continually trying to lose weight to be close friends with the owner of the best restaurant in town. As two of only a small group of Zulus in Lady Helen, it was obvious that Mrs. Shabalala and Mama Dlamini would become friends, but Francina sometimes wondered if her mother-in-law would make an effort to see her friend every day if the visit didn't include cake and pie. Mrs. Shabalala's marketing always ended with a stop at Mama Dlamini's to catch up on the day's news. Whatever weight Mrs. Shabalala lost through honestly valiant attempts at dieting never stayed off.

“Do you want to come with us to Cape Town, Gogo?” asked Zukisa, using the Zulu term for grandmother.

“I can't. I have to help out at Mama Dlamini's. She's…” Mrs. Shabalala gave a sheepish smile and didn't finish her sentence.

Francina was able to read people, despite her lost eye, and she could tell that her mother-in-law wished that her tongue had not slipped and mentioned Mama Dlamini.

“Why does she need extra help at the café?” she asked casually.

“Oh, it's going to be busy today.”

“Is something special going on in town that I don't know about?”

Mrs. Shabalala concentrated on stirring two tablespoons of brown sugar into her porridge.

“Is there something on at the amphitheater today?” Francina persisted.

“Promise you won't tell anyone,” said Mrs. Shabalala, looking directly at her.

Francina thought of the irony of needing to keep a secret about Mama Dlamini, who was the town's most efficient reporter of everyone's personal news. “What's Mama Dlamini up to then?” she asked.

Mrs. Shabalala lowered her voice as though there might be someone listening at the second floor window. “She's moonlighting as a chef at the golf resort.”

This was news Francina did not expect. “She's working for Mr. Yang, the fraudster who tried to have everyone evicted from their homes in Sandpiper Drift so he could build another golf course? I thought he was in prison.”

“He just got out. His sentence was shortened for good behavior.”

“I wonder if Monica knows,” said Francina.

Monica, who had helped uncover the fraud that had almost caused the residents of the small neighborhood on the inland edge of the lagoon to lose their homes, had been banned from the golf resort for life. A hostile standoff had existed between the residents of Lady Helen and the resort management ever since Mr. Yang went to prison. Even the two residents of Lady Helen who had washed dishes at the resort and acted as the town's spies had been too disgusted to return. What on earth was Mama Dlamini doing fraternizing with the enemy?

“If she performs well she'll be made head chef of the five star restaurant,” said Mrs. Shabalala, answering her daughter-in-law's unspoken question.

“I see,” said Francina, when, in fact, she didn't.

“You of all people should understand what that might mean to a woman who grew up poor in a village in KwaZulu-Natal.”

There were still mornings Francina wanted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn't dreaming when she saw the shadow cast on the shiny floor of her shop by the gold lettering of the name on the window. But her mother-in-law's observation was only partly astute, because Jabulani Dressmakers was more than enough for Francina, and the café should have been enough for Mama Dlamini. If the woman became head chef at the resort, where would she set her sights next? On cooking for the president? Francina was in favor of ambition if the goal was self-improvement, but runaway ambition was dangerous. And it appeared that Mama Dlamini was afflicted with the dangerous kind. How could Francina not tell Monica?

 

The flat-topped mountain rising above Cape Town, with its veil of soft white clouds, never failed to impress Francina. Johannesburg had its flat-topped golden mine dumps, but the sight of them had depressed Francina whenever she'd returned from a visit to her beloved province of KwaZulu-Natal. Johannesburg had been her address for more than twenty years, and yet it had never been home. She had resided there to earn a living, because there weren't any jobs close to her village. Her situation had not been different from that of thousands of men who had left their families in the villages to go to Johannesburg to work underground in the gold mines.

It was not natural for men to live in dormitories, separated from their wives for eleven months of the year. Johannesburg was full of girls who had forgotten the lessons their mothers had taught them back in the villages, who did not think twice about going out with another woman's husband. A girl could be seduced by a man who offered a distraction from a life of drudgery pushing a broom down deserted office corridors. How different things might have been if people did not have to leave home to find employment. How many individuals might have been saved from this terrible disease, this pandemic that was stealing more than eight hundred people a day, most in the prime of life?

Hercules said that one day this would all be a chapter in a history textbook, the type of textbook that he used in his classes, teaching his pupils. People didn't realize, he claimed, that they were a part of history in the making, and that the course of history could be changed. If Francina gave Hercules half a chance, he could go on for hours about how this war could have been avoided if only so-and-so had done this instead of that, or the citizens of that country could have been living like kings if only they'd realized sooner that their such-and-such head of state was leading them toward starvation. But to change the path of history, Francina believed, required strong leaders, and no matter where in the world you looked nowadays you could not find ones like the Zulu kings of the past.

Francina smiled at her daughter, who had sat in silence for most of the way to Cape Town, thinking no doubt of her sick aunt. Today might hold a major shift of direction in the history of Francina's own little family. Would she be able to change the course of events, or would the ties she had to her daughter be insignificant compared with the ties of blood?

Cape Town no longer seemed the innocent city where Francina and her family had whiled away happy hours wandering through museums and browsing at outdoor markets. Now it threatened to be forever remembered as the site where the family that Francina had waited half her life for had slipped from her grasp. Johannesburg would seem joyful in comparison. She squeezed her daughter's knee. Zukisa's worried smile only made Francina more uneasy.

The area where Zukisa's aunt lived was undergoing a halfhearted renovation. The blocks of government-subsidized flats were being given coats of fresh paint, teams of municipal workers were attacking the graffiti that lay over the neighborhood like cobwebs, and potholes were being patched. The local government's efforts had been spurred by vocal residents who, sick and tired of the gang activity in the area, had vowed to take the law into their own hands if the authorities didn't act. In other sections of the city, similar groups had burned down houses where suspected drug dealers lived, and so, wanting to avoid such actions, the authorities had promised more frequent police patrols and had thrown in the renovation as an act of good faith.

Hercules parked next to the stairwell that led to Zukisa's aunt's flat. Extra police patrols or not, Francina knew that he would worry about his car until the visit was over.

Zukisa led the way, taking the stairs two at a time. She had already knocked on her aunt's door by the time Francina caught up. From inside came the sound of a blaring television. Zukisa's aunt's grandsons would never do well at school with the amount of television they watched.

Zukisa knocked louder. Still there was no answer. Hercules tried the door. It was unlocked. Francina reminded herself to scold those boys. Imagine leaving the front door unlocked in a neighborhood such as this. Francina and Hercules looked at their daughter. It was her decision whether to enter the flat uninvited. Zukisa pushed open the door.

What Francina noticed first was the smell. Zukisa led them into the kitchen and closed the open cupboard doors. In the sink, a pile of dishes was stacked precariously on top of a roasting pan filled with rancid fat, the source of the stench. Francina rolled up her sleeves and began removing the dirty dishes so she could fill the sink with hot water. Hercules gave her a rueful smile, recognizing this as the first of many contributions his wife would make today, and then followed Zukisa into the living room.

After putting the rancid fat into a plastic bag and sealing it, Francina quickly realized that the roasting pan and dishes would not come clean without a long soak in soapy water. When the sink had filled with hot water, she dried her hands on her dress, since the dish towel was crusted with old food, and hurried to join her daughter and husband.

She found them in the living room, attending to the youngest of Zukisa's aunt's grandchildren, five-year-old Fundiswa. The little girl was eating peanut butter out of a jar with a spoon and watching men wearing only tight pants and masks fight each other in a ring surrounded by thousands of screeching fans. Francina picked up the seat cushions from the floor and put them back on the couch. Zukisa had ascertained from Fundiswa that the boys had not returned since going out the previous night, and that her aunt was sleeping. From the child's delight at seeing Zukisa, it was obvious that the little girl spent a lot of time on her own.

Zukisa looked at her mother, the question clear in her eyes. Francina nodded and followed her toward her aunt's bedroom. Zukisa did not want to be alone when she opened the door.

When Francina saw the figure of Zukisa's aunt asleep on the bed, she was reminded of her father lying in a hospital bed next to a window with a view of the ocean that he never saw. Illness, she had learned, made people seem shrunken, like children again. The last and only time Francina had seen Zukisa's aunt, terror that the woman would not allow Zukisa to be formally adopted had filled her. But although Zukisa's aunt had given the appearance of a strong, gruff lady, underneath she was like every woman trying to make it alone in the world with too little money and too many responsibilities. She had agreed to Francina becoming Zukisa's adoptive mother.

“Hello, Auntie,” said Zukisa, touching her arm gently.

Her aunt awoke, saw Francina, and for an instant seemed confused.

“My mother and father brought me to see you,” explained Zukisa.

The wonderment of hearing herself called “mother” had not dimmed over the past years, and Francina doubted it ever would.

Zukisa's aunt coughed and the wheezing sound made Francina wince. Zukisa shot Francina a look of helplessness.

“It's my heart,” whispered the ill woman. “The doctor called it congestive heart failure.”

Francina had never heard of this disease, but judging from the tone of her voice and the pallor of her face, it was serious. Serious enough to warrant full-time care. Full-time care from a girl who already knew firsthand the commitment and endurance that would be required. Full-time care from a girl who should be at school.