Laugh with the Moon (14 page)

A
fter school, I tell Mrs. Bwanali about my first day of teaching, and during dinner, I tell Dad. “Not only do you look like your mother,” he says, and smiles, “but now you’re acting like her too.” Dad says we should go to the trading center and get a candy bar at the Slow but Sure Shop to celebrate.

“Sounds good to me!” I say, because everyone knows there’s no happy occasion complete without some chocolate. And what better way to help the chocolate go down than a nice bottle of grape Fanta?

Dad and I stand together outside the shop. “Your mother would kill me for giving you so much sugar,” he says. He presses his fingers into the corners of his eyes and shakes his head.

“What’s wrong, Dad?” I ask. But I know what’s wrong. I raise my glass bottle. “To the future. To adventures. To our
family,” I say, because even though Mom isn’t right here with us at the Slow but Sure Shop, who’s to say she’s not somewhere nearby? And even though it’s only Dad and me, maybe two people can be enough for a family after all.

Dad presses his lips together. “To our family,” he says softly, and we clink our bottles together and guzzle them down.

The grape soda is delicious, but I should have predicted I’d need the bathroom seconds after I finish it. Still, why use the pit latrine behind the shops when we’ve got a perfectly good marble seat at our house? Dad and I give Mr. Khumala, the shopkeeper, our empty bottles and get back in the Land Rover.

As if it isn’t strange enough to live in a country where big monkeys walk the roads and girls press their dresses with hot rocks, things turn even weirder tonight as we’re riding back from town.

“Now, tell me,” Dad says as he navigates the bumpy road, “what about that project for Mrs. Middleton?”

I don’t say anything.

“We’ve been here two and a half weeks.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.”

“Better get started, kiddo,” he says. “Mrs. Middleton’s going to want to see something of quality.”

I can only grunt, because I’ve already tried to write a report and a rap, but it’s impossible to find the words to explain what it’s like to drive through Kenmore Square to the airport one day and land on what feels like a whole other planet the next.

Dad hasn’t even pulled all the way into the gravel driveway, but I open the door of the Land Rover anyway. I
need to get away from this conversation almost as much as I need to go to the bathroom. I run in the dark through the yard, and I’m almost at the front door when something slithers around my ankle.

“Ahhh!” I shriek.

“What? What?” Dad comes running.

I’m dizzy with fear. “Ma … mamba!” I shout. I feel the deadly snake on my ankle. I try not to do my business right on its head. That might only make things worse.

“Stay calm,” Dad says. “Walk … slowly … to the …” His voice fades into the background. I step backward. The vicious reptile’s not letting go.

“Stay still,” Dad whispers.

“Can’t!” I croak. I shake my leg furiously to get the hideous cold-blooded hose full of poison off me, when suddenly there’s a noise.

“Huh?” Dad says.

We hear it again.

“Huh?” I say.

For the third time, Dad and I hear the sound: not a venomous hiss but a seriously annoyed cluck.

We look down, and as our eyes adjust to the dark, we see the offender: a chicken! His beady eyes twinkle in the moonlight. His leg is tied to a rope—a rope that feels just like a snake.

“What’re you doing here?” I shriek. “You scared me to death, you stupid thing!”

“You really think it understands English, Clare?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Do you think he speaks Chicken?”

“Possibly Chicken,” Dad says. “Or Chichewa.” He unties the end of the rope from the door handle. “Well, that was a close call,” he says. I turn in circles as Dad untangles my leg from the rope. Then he walks the chicken into the house like it’s a pet dog on a leash.

When Dad flicks the switch, the fluorescent lights buzz. The chicken flaps its wings like mad while I run past him to the bathroom.

By the time I get back to the living room, the chicken has managed to fly onto the brown couch.

“Now, who in the world would leave us a chicken?” I ask, finally chilling out a bit.

Dad hands me the end of the chicken leash. “Must be some type of gift,” he says, and pads away into the kitchen.

I tie one end of the rope to the leg of the coffee table.

“So, what do you think, Clare?” Dad says as he clangs around with the pots and pans. “Sweet and sour? Fried? Betcha Mrs. Bwanali can fix up something terrific tomorrow.”

Well, our new chicken may not speak English, but for sure he understands it. He flies around the sofa frantically. Then he stops cold turkey, cocks his head to the side, and stares straight into my eyes. There’s no doubt about it: this chicken is begging for his life!

Dad marches back into the living room, an enormous knife in his hand. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll take it out back.”

I freeze.

“Gimme the rope, Clare.”

I untie the rope from the leg of the coffee table
reeeaaal sloooow
to give me enough time to think. I need to think.
Think about what to do. But then the rope is untied and there’s no time left to think. Only to act boldly and swiftly, like Wonder Woman confronting the Legion of Doom.

I scoop the poor piece of poultry off the sofa, sprint to my bedroom, and slam the door. I lean against it while the chicken breathes heavily in my hands. In. Out. In. Out. His heart pounds triple-time.
Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom
. The beat of my own heart marches along with his.

“Clare,” Dad calls through the door. “Open up.”

I tell myself not to show fear. Superheroes never do. It’s part of what helps them psych out the enemy. I take a breath, get a grip. “We will
not
eat Fred,” I state firmly.

“Fred?” Dad asks.

My room glows. Through the window screen, I see stars. Not just one, but a million. And all of a sudden, I know that this country does strange stuff to people. It’s made Dad a little more normal. It’s made me rescue a chicken.

“Yes, Fred!” I shout. I never planned this fate, but now here I am, Chicken Rescue Girl. I look at Fred. His brown feathers are silky soft. His life is literally in my hands.

Before I begin negotiations, I close my eyes and wish on a star that Fred will have a long and happy life. “Repeat after me,” I say.

My father doesn’t answer.

“I will never touch a feather on this chicken’s head,” I say louder, in case he’s having trouble hearing through the door. While I wait for Dad to give his solemn oath to respect Fred’s life, I look into Fred’s beady eyes. He looks like a scared little baby, even though I’m pretty sure he’s all grown up.

Fred clucks.

I rub my cheek against his feathers.

Fred squawks.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “For a second I was thinking you were a dog or something. But listen up, Fred.” His little head cocks to the side. “I won’t leave you. Ever!” I tell him.

I hear Dad sigh. It’s one of those loud, exaggerated sighs that means your opponent is finally giving up. “We did it,” I whisper to Fred.

Right on cue, Dad says, “Okay, okay. I won’t kill it. Promise. We’ll keep it around as a … a …”

For all of Dad’s faults, one thing he doesn’t do is lie, so I fearlessly set Fred down and open the bedroom door. “Say hello to our new pet chicken!” I say.

“Moni,”
Dad mumbles before he goes into the kitchen and heats up the
nsima, ndiwo
, and beans that Mrs. Bwanali left on the stove for our dinner again. Meanwhile, Chicken Rescue Girl, aka me, walks Fred around the house to give him a little exercise. We prance right past Dad to the screened-in veranda, where the sound of crickets and bullfrogs is so loud that it’s insane.

“You can sleep here in the fresh air,” I tell Fred. He flies onto the puffy green chair. “Try not to scratch up the furniture.”

It’s completely obvious: Fred feels right at home. Maybe too much at home. “You cannot make chicken poop on the chair!” I say.

Dad peeks into the veranda from the kitchen. “I sure hope you’re not expecting Fred to make lizard poop,” he says.

“Very funny,” I say, and he tosses me a rag.

After I clean up the poop, I wash my hands three times with soap. Then I get the empty cardboard box Dad used to pack his medical books for the trip here. By the time I get back to the veranda, though, Fred has done it again.

I point to the poop. Fred cocks his head to the side and blinks guiltily.

“Smelly!” Dad says, and tosses me another rag.

Fred and I exchange a worried look. We both know his life is on the line. “You need to get yourself potty-trained ASAP if you know what’s good for you,” I whisper. Then I lift my feathered friend and put him down inside the box. “Your very own pit latrine,” I say. “From now on, you need to do it here.”

In the morning, I’ve just put on my school uniform when I get an idea: I tie my bright purple scarf with blue stars around my waist. After all, if I’m going to be a teacher, I can’t wear the exact same uniform as all my students.

Once I’m dressed, I check on Fred. That’s when I get a big surprise: an egg is lying in the corner of the green chair. It’s a perfect, tan-colored oval egg, exactly like you’d see on a TV commercial. I reach over and pick it up. It’s still warm. “Wow, Fred!” I say. “You’re a girl!”

Fred clucks.

I peek in the box. Fred did good! “Nice work,” I tell her. Then I take the egg to the kitchen, where Mrs. Bwanali is cleaning the counters and Dad is sitting at the table reading and shoveling toast into his mouth. I hold
out my hand to show him the egg. “Glad you didn’t slice and dice her?” I ask.

“Mmmm,” he says, and closes the medical book he’s reading.

Of course, Mrs. Bwanali is more impressed by the finer things in life. “A more beautiful dress,” she says, spinning me around to check out my accessory. “Now not another second! Show Mrs. Bwanali the egg.”

I hold it up for her to examine.

She throws the rag onto her shoulder, takes the egg out of my hand, and turns it around as if it is also a girl in a dress. “This egg is a beautiful egg. A beautiful egg that shines. It is an egg like a queen. If this egg is a person, this egg dress in fine clothes. This egg have shoes.”

I don’t know what to say, but then again, even if I did, I wouldn’t have a prayer of getting a word in edgewise with all the yolky compliments Mrs. Bwanali is frying up. “You may eat this egg for breakfast or give this egg to a school friend,” she says. “Remember, Clare, always keep your hen warm.”

“Her name is Fred.”

“Fred,” Mrs. Bwanali says. “I like this American name. This hen, Fred, may like to sleep under the bed, you know. The temperature is good there.” Mrs. Bwanali is full of advice about how to get Fred to produce enough eggs to share with Memory, Innocent, Saidi, Patuma, and Winnie. “Talk to Fred. Tell her what you do, what you like. Ask Fred question about her day. A happy hen is a prize more great than gold!”

I sit down at the table and Mrs. Bwanali serves me
white tea, toast with jam, and the freshest, most delicious egg I’ve ever tasted while I guess who the chicken is from. “I think it’s from you!” I say.

Mrs. Bwanali is tickled. “My girl, Clare, think Mrs. Bwanali is a queen,” she tells Dad. “She think Mrs. Bwanali have chicken to give here and chicken to give there.” This really cracks her up. “I tell you what, my girl,” she says. “If I do get a chicken to keep, I give it to Fred. Then Fred have chicken friend. Everyone need a friend. Even a chicken.”

D
uring morning assembly, as I sing along to the national anthem, students from other classes whisper about my new dress. I feel like I’ve walked right out of one of those fashion magazines Marcella reads all the time.

After assembly, I cross the field to the standard one room, throw back my shoulders, and step inside. I position myself center stage and wait for my audience to file in and take their seats on the floor. With my new and improved uniform, I definitely feel more like a teacher than yesterday. I clear my throat. “Good morning!” I say, and 176 students reply, “Good morning, madam.”