Laugh with the Moon (22 page)

T
he bullfrogs are croaking up a storm, Fred is pecking at the sunflower seeds, and Dad and I are sipping limeade on the veranda. “Did any of your patients ever admit to giving you Fred?” I ask.

“Nope,” Dad says. “Still a mystery.” He takes a piece of paper out of his pocket. “On a more urgent matter,” he says, unfolding the sheet. “This letter was delivered to the hospital.”

He hands it over:

“Press charges?” I scoop Fred off the floor. “Will I be in …” I can hardly stand to say the words. “Solitary confinement?” The letter shakes in my hand. Everyone knows that prison food is even worse than hospital food. Plus, the uniforms in jail are bound to be uglier than the uniforms at school.

“Don’t worry, Clare. Tell me where Saidi put the mopeds. I’ll drive them back to this Derek fellow,” Dad says.

I suck up the rest of the limeade with the straw—every last drop—before I break the news. “They were stolen,” I admit. “The night we brought Innocent to you, someone swiped them from the hospital parking lot.”

Dad rubs the stubble on his chin. “That does present a bit of a dilemma. I guess in that case I’ll have to buy two brand-new mopeds.”

“You don’t have to bail me out, Dad.”

“It’s a small price to pay. I’m just thankful you’re okay. Really, it’s no problem, kid.”

Maybe it’s not a problem for him, but it is for me. I spend hours trying to think of a plan so that Memory,
Saidi, and I can buy back the mopeds ourselves, and every two minutes I make another suggestion.

“I know! We could sell groundnuts in the trading center.”

“Wouldn’t make enough profit,” Dad says, swirling his straw in his drink.

“We could work in the hospital.”

“Child labor laws, plus too much disease.”

But then Dad suggests that maybe the three of us can volunteer for the hospital without actually going inside it, and he could compensate us for our work. “You know, cooking food for the orphans. Something along those lines.”

In the morning while I’m brushing my teeth, I come up with an even better idea. Dad says he’s going to send a messenger with a note to let Derek know our plan.

Dad insists on driving me to school, even though I really am feeling completely fine. When I get there, I walk down the hill and find Memory hanging out in the schoolyard with Patuma and Winnie. First, I spill the bad news about Derek’s letter. I think we were all praying that he’d forget to track us down, even though in the back of our minds, we knew that sooner or later this day would come. Before Memory’s jaw hits the field grass, I give her some desperately needed encouragement. “Not to worry!” I say. “We can be our own saviors. I have a plan.”

But when I tell her we’re going to paint murals to decorate the hospital wards and cheer up the patients, Memory looks like an evil spirit really has landed on me.

“Never mind,” I say. “It was a stupid idea.” How could I ask her to return to the very same place where her brother
died? My face burns with humiliation. “I’m so stupid! I’ll think of something else. I promise I will. There’s got to be something else we can do to buy—”

Memory throws back her shoulders. “I shall do it,” she says.

“What?” I say. “No.” I grab her hand. “I won’t let you.”

“For Innocent,” she says. “That is what he want, I know. To make other children smile like he do always.”

“Really?” I say.

Memory nods once.

“If you change your mind …”

“Change the mind?” Winnie says. She whispers something to Patuma in Chichewa, and the two of them giggle. “We change from our school dresses to the
chitenje
when we gather the firewood. We change the bathwater. But change the mind? Perhaps the sorcerer might perform such a trick, but Memory, she is not the sorcerer,” Winnie says, and giggles again.

“Anyone can change their mind,” I say. “You decide to do something different. That’s all it means.”

“I decide I shall do this,” Memory says. “I shall do this job. I have the power to change the mind. However, I choose to keep the mind. Now, where is that boy, Saidi?” she says, scouring the soccer field. “We must share the plan with him as well.”

“Saidi shall not return to school,” Winnie says.

“What?” I say.

Memory gasps.

“Just because of what Agnes said about his uniform?” I ask.

Patuma nods.

“Many children leave school due to improper uniform,” Winnie says. “Anyway, Saidi cannot afford secondary school. He only attend school one more year, until he drop out to help pay for the family.” Winnie tells us what Saidi told her: he’s planning to sell his reeds in the trading center all day, every day, and not only on weekends.

We’re livid. None of us girls speak to Agnes the whole day. We won’t let Saidi drop out in the middle of the year. At least he can finish standard eight and graduate from Mzanga Full Primary School. As soon as we’re dismissed, Memory and I collect the books and march over to the trading center to find that boy.

We spot him at a metal folding table in front of the Slow but Sure Shop. A bunch of sticks lies on top of the table, and Saidi’s rusty bike leans against the shop wall behind him.

“
Moni
, Saidi,” Memory says. She pushes the bookmobile into the grocery store to lock up the schoolbooks until morning, when Mr. Khumala arrives early to open the shop.

Saidi smiles and waves.

“Moni,”
I say.

I’m about to launch into my sales pitch to convince Saidi to return to school, when I notice one more thing on the table. One more beautiful, amazing, delicious thing: a bowlful of cheese sticks. I almost cry when I see them. I haven’t tasted one salty, cheesy stick since I
arrived in this country. If there’s anything that can lift my spirits, it’s a handful of these. Sure, they look burned, but everyone knows that beggars can’t be choosers.

“Welcome to my shop,” Saidi says. “Would you like some reeds and thatching grass for your roof? Or perhaps a snack? Snack is free gift. Then you shall want to buy my reeds.” He smiles.

Memory comes back outside, reaches into the bowl, and starts munching away, so I dig in too. The cheese sticks are gritty but good. “Sooo yummy!” I say, and grab another handful.

“The Glorious Blessing from America love Malawi
mphalabungu
,” Saidi says.

“Mphalabungu?”
I say with my mouth full.

“Mphalabungu,”
Memory says. “Small caterpillar from the grassland. Dried and fried!” She pops another handful into her mouth.

I chew a few more times as the news slowly squirms into my brain.

Once it does, I gag, spit, and bolt into the Slow but Sure Shop. I grab a bottle of water off the shelf, slap my
tambala
onto the counter, and run outside to swish and spit those nasty caterpillars onto the ground while Saidi and Memory buckle over laughing.

Memory can hardly catch her breath long enough to tell Saidi he needs to come back to school, and about our plan to replace the mopeds. I can’t speak at all, of course, because I’m too busy trying to get every last bit of those disgusting bugs out of my mouth. As for Saidi, he manages to say, “I shall think on both of these offers with
the greatest seriousness,” before he erupts into hysterics yet again.

The next day after school, Patuma pushes the bookmobile to the Slow but Sure Shop while Memory and I head toward the hospital for our first day on the job.

In less than a mile, we turn off the main road down the narrow path, and it comes back to me—the night we drove here on the mopeds, the last night Innocent was alive. It was dark and I was terrified, but now everything seems so different, so calm. I glance at Memory. Her eyes are watery. I take her hand, and together we pass between the lush hills that rise like enormous green waves on both sides of the path. Everywhere we look, yellow and orange flowers explode like pom-poms while butterflies circle the thicket.

A branch rustles and Agnes runs down the path straight toward us.

Memory folds her arms across her chest. “What do you require, Agnes?”

“I require a job,” she says, out of breath.

Even though Saidi still hasn’t come back to school, there he is, crouched under a palm tree at the edge of the dirt lot by the hospital. He looks as peaceful and strong as ever. Memory and I glance at each other and smile. Then we wave, and Saidi joins us on the path.

“What goes on?” he asks.

Agnes slips her arm through his. “Come, Saidi. I shall work beside you. I shall be your nurse. Your uniform
fit good. You are handsome like Prince Charming,” she says.

“We’re only working so we can replace the mopeds we took from the Chomp and Chew Stop,” I say. “We’re volunteering. You won’t make a single
tambala
.”

“It is no matter.” Agnes shrugs. “I shall be most delighted to assist Doctor Saidi.”

Saidi flashes a bright smile, and I can’t believe it. By all appearances, he’s forgiven Agnes just like that!

“Don’t you get it?” I tell Agnes. “Doctor Saidi won’t work
in
the hospital. Only
outside
it.”

She looks at me like I’m trying to mess with her mind.

“We’re painting murals. We’ll work right here on the dirt.” I take a deep breath. “Back in a minute,” I say, stomping up the steps into the waiting room behind a man with a bloody gash in the back of his head. I’m so busy staring that I don’t even notice Mr. Malola until he starts talking.

“Ahh, Clare,” he says. “Wait here.” A minute later, he returns with a pile of large flattened boxes that Dad and I picked up early this morning from the Slow but Sure Shop. I made certain to take only the biggest white boxes with the least writing on them so our paints would show up. Now Mr. Malola hands me two flattened boxes, and he holds the rest. Together we step outside, where he gives the cardboard to Saidi.

After we review the plan in detail, Saidi cuts out a side of one of the boxes that doesn’t have anything printed on it. Then Prince Charming and Cinderella follow Mr. Malola back into the hospital to get some more supplies while I use a piece of coal that I brought to sketch. Of
course, drawing when I’m furious is a serious challenge, since my hand is shaking like mad. “How can he forgive her?” I say.

“That is Saidi.” Memory steps onto the edge of the cardboard to hold it down. “Always kind.”

I sketch the knobby bumps of the dragonfly’s body.

“Anyhow, even with high marks, most student cannot afford to attend secondary,” Memory says.

I draw one of the wings and think about what she said: You have to be wealthy just to go to high school here. “You sketch the other wing,” I tell Memory.

“I cannot draw,” she says.

Saidi and Agnes return with buckets of water. I tell them we’ll need to make purple and white paint. Then I chomp down on my pendant and watch them disappear into the forest in search of the necessary ingredients.

“Anyone can draw,” Mom says. “Lie down.”

“Oh, hi,” I whisper
.

“Now do what I say,” Mom says. She explains how I should stretch out on the giant piece of cardboard and use my body to measure distance
.

I lie down and place the heels of my high-tops on the tip of the dragonfly wing.

“Wow, you’ve grown!” Mom says
.

I smile
.

“You see how the length of the wing there is the same as the distance from your heel to your armpit?” she asks
.

I nod
.

“Now you show your sweet friend,” Mom says
.

I spit out the heart.