Malawi's Sisters

by Melanie S. Hatter

  “They shouldn’t run,” Malcolm said. “But I know why they do.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s a survival instinct.” She watched him intently now, studying his face and a slight thrill ran through him at her gaze. He cleared his throat. “Since slavery black men have taken their chances at running rather than be killed when they’re caught. Justice has rarely been in our favor.”

  “So as a judge, how do you deal with that?”

  “I try to be fair. I have to work within the confines of the law, but I try to be fair, no matter the race or gender. We’re all human beings. We all screw up. I try to distinguish those who just screwed up and those who intended to do harm.”

  “Amen, brother. We need more like you in the courts.”

  “The system can be tricky.”

  “But it can be changed.”

  He smiled. “Not without a lot of fuss.”

  She leaned close to him and rested her warm hand on his arm. “You’re one of the good ones. Your wife is a lucky woman.”

  He could see flecks of gold in the dark-brown of her eyes, eyes reflecting years of pain and heartache; lines of worry and of laughter. He thought of Bet. She was effective when she wanted to be, sassy and charming, and breathtakingly beautiful. But Malawi’s death had squashed her spirit rendering her unrecognizable as the vibrant woman he married. Her face last night, sunken and pale, eyes flooded with rage, had terrified him.

  Sherry raised her arm to tuck a stray strand of hair into her bun and pulled a business card from her purse. A sweet fragrance captured his nose. She leaned closer offering him the card, her other hand returning to his arm. He could feel her heat and imagined her skin smooth against him. He imagined kissing her, tasting her burgundy lips, like black cherries, succulent and soft. He could feel himself drawing closer to her.

  “If you ever need to talk, call me.” Her voice was a whisper next to his ear, her thigh brushed his knee. How easy it would be to turn his head, press his lips against her cheek, slide his hand over her hip. Take her hand and lead her out to his car. Maybe they’d go back to her place. She was looking at him expectantly. He took the card and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his jacket, finished his drink and felt the dizzying effect of the alcohol. He straightened, shifting away from her.

  “Thanks,” he said, and offered his hand for her to shake. She cupped both her hands around his, her thumb caressing his knuckles. “This was nice,” she said. “I hope we can do it again.”

  “Yeah,” he said, retrieving his hand and standing. He paused, afraid that if he moved he would stagger, then he took a backward step away from the bar, turned and managed to make his way to the exit without stumbling. Outside, he couldn’t catch his breath in the humid air. Sherry’s perfume lingered around him, and for a moment he considered going back inside. But he thought about Teddy being with Bet and how their affair destroyed Teddy’s marriage and almost destroyed Malcolm’s. If he went back inside to be with Sherry, he would never forgive himself. He was a better man than Teddy.

  He wasn’t a religious man, but Malcolm had made a promise before family and friends. A promise for life. To honor and cherish. To covet no other. Till death. Though he had been tempted a few times, he never strayed. Not once, and he was proud of that. He was proud he and Bet had worked through her infidelity and stuck together. He couldn’t imagine himself with anyone else.

  From what he’d heard, Teddy had succumbed many times, not just with Bet, and continued to flit from one bed to another without any thought about his future. Malcolm didn’t want that life. So he drove home, undressed in the bedroom where Bet lay snoring—that soft slightly congested snore that had comforted Malcolm on many nights he couldn’t sleep—then settled down in the guest bedroom across the hall.

  15

  The nights were too long. The clock ticked toward four in the morning and Bet felt like she’d been up for hours. Sitting in the den, she cradled a mug half empty of milk, now a tepid room temperature. She wondered where the notion came from that milk helped people sleep. Or was that just for children? Flooding their little insides with creamy goodness that caused their bodies to fall into a deep slumber. She wanted that. Just to sleep. She’d taken two over-the-counter sedatives before going to bed and an ibuprofen for a headache but woke up in the early hours, and now sat awake with a throbbing in her brain. She hadn’t heard Malcolm come home, but knew he was in the guest bedroom. Bastard. If he wanted to sleep in separate beds, so be it. She didn’t care.

  She remembered when her daddy started sleeping on the couch—there was no guest bedroom in their little house off 13th Street Northwest. Daddy had been a numbers runner for a nightclub owner until he got a promotion and managed the club. He’d been gone a year serving time in jail for what he said were “trumped up charges.” His first day out, he and Momma got into an argument about money; there was no honeymoon period, just straight back into it, all loud and cruel. So that night, he slept on the couch. Bet—eight or nine at the time—crept downstairs and snuggled up to him while he slept. A week later, he kissed Bet, soft and sweet on her cheek while she pretended to be sleeping in her bed; he kissed baby William, too, and disappeared into the early morning only to end up in prison a few months later. She never saw him again.

  She wondered about Will. If she knew where he was, she’d call him, but they’d lost touch with each other after he showed up drunk at their mother’s funeral. She’d been mortified and told him to leave and come back when he was sober. The argument had been loud and embarrassing, but feeling regretful, she’d dialed his number a few days later, only to hear an automated voice saying the number was disconnected. Mutual friends didn’t know where he was either. In a way, she was glad. All he’d ever done was borrow money and spend it on drink and gambling.

  When she heard Malcolm enter the bathroom around five a.m., she went downstairs to her studio. He wouldn’t come down there and she wouldn’t have to see him. She listened to him moving through the house, his heavy footsteps on the stairs, crossing the hall into the kitchen, the refrigerator door opening and closing, the front door opening and closing, the car engine starting and fading away as he left for work. She sighed. Finally, he was gone.

  She watched the clock until her doctor’s office opened. Pushing her fingers into her temples, she waited on hold for several minutes until Dr. Lane came on the line.

  “Mrs. Walker? How are you?”

  “Oh, Dr. Lane.” Bet perked up. “I know I should come in, but can you call in a prescription for something to help me sleep? I’m having such a hard time right now.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Um . . .” Bet didn’t know what to say. “Well, my daughter . . .” She stumbled over her words until the doctor responded.

  “Oh, Mrs. Walker, your daughter, of course. I’m so sorry. I saw the news.” The line fell silent for a moment. “Yes, I’ll call in something for you this morning. But, please come see me as soon as you can.” The doctor confirmed the pharmacy’s phone number and transferred her back to the reception desk for her to make an in-person appointment, but she hung up before the transfer was made.

  She washed quickly in the bathroom sink, wiping her face and underarms, then dressed in casual pants and a blue blouse. She drove slowly to the pharmacy and waited, sitting in the uncomfortable metal chair for almost an hour for her prescription to be ready. The doctor had given her ten pills with orders to take one pill before bedtime.

  When she got home, there was a package on the doorstep with a note from her friend Danita. She carried the box inside and opened it in the kitchen to find a selection of bagels and pastries. The note was scribbled on a torn page from a notebook. Stopped by. My heart is broken for you. Call me. Your phone inbox is full. ~ Danita. Bet’s vision blurred by a sudden flood of tears. Her answering machine was full of messages from friends and neighbors offering condolences and asking how to help. She was grateful, but not ready to talk, not to Danita, or to anyone. She c
ouldn’t see how anyone could help.

  She took one pill with a small glass of water. She didn’t want to visit the doctor, but she’d have to if she wanted more pills. Ten wouldn’t be enough.

  16

  Kenya watched from the sitting room window as her neighbor pulled into the driveway, but instead of idling while Charlene and Junior came inside, Tracy turned off the engine and came to the door with the kids. Kenya opened the front door wide. “Hey, there,” she said brightly.

  Junior and Charlene offered their customary hugs, as Tracy said, “Do you mind if I stop in for a minute?”

  “No, of course not.” A twinge of panic ran through Kenya as she hoped the house was clean and in order. She’d known Tracy for several years, but thought of her only as her neighbor who collected the kids one day a week; the redhead with the ruddy pink cheeks, whose daughter had the same complexion. Their girls played violin together in the school orchestra and practiced after school on Thursdays. Occasionally, Kenya and Tracy had coffee or tea, but not much else. All three kids kicked off their shoes at the door and bustled up to the bedrooms.

  “Charlie will enjoy having Lilian to play with,” she said and led Tracy into the kitchen where she offered to make tea, but Tracy’s expression was one of concern and Kenya braced herself for the inevitable. She’d already been flooded with emails and phone calls offering condolences.

  “Oh, Kenya. I saw the news. I’m so, so sorry. My God, I just can’t imagine. Why didn’t you say something?”

  Kenya was blinking rapidly and tried to stop. She opened her mouth but didn’t say anything. Instead she turned and filled the kettle with water, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. Finally, she turned to face Tracy and said, “I didn’t know what to say.”

  “Are you all right? Do you need anything?”

  Kenya shook her head. This was a private family matter, no reason for Tracy to be involved.

  “When I lost my father, I was a wreck, I can tell you.” Tracy pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. “I couldn’t do a thing.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Kenya placed two mugs on the counter and scooped two teaspoons of loose green tea into the ceramic teapot.

  “Oh, it’s been five years, now, but you never really get over it.”

  “I suppose not.” Kenya leaned on the counter until the kettle boiled then added water to the teapot.

  “Was she an alcoholic? My father was.”

  Kenya almost dropped one of the mugs moving them from the counter to the table. “Excuse me?”

  “The news said your sister may have been intoxicated and that’s why she crashed.”

  Kenya stared at her neighbor, again mute. Shame flushed Kenya’s cheeks as she remembered wondering if her sister had been under the influence of drugs or alcohol. Only family had the right to ask such questions.

  “I just hate to see your family getting mixed up with all of this racial stuff. It must be so . . . so embarrassing.”

  “Embarrassing? No, um . . .” Kenya ran her palm over her hair and pinched at the band holding her ponytail feeling her cheeks flush hot. “It’s still just so . . . so shocking.”

  “Oh, of course. It must be.”

  She moved the teapot to the table and settled into the seat opposite Tracy. “What do you mean, all this racial stuff?”

  “Oh, you know, all these protesters screaming about racism as if all white people hate African Americans. It’s just ridiculous. I mean, look at us.” Tracy flapped her hand between her and Kenya. “Look at our children. How can a country that elected an African American man as president be racist?”

  An avalanche of emotions she couldn’t define overwhelmed Kenya and she said nothing. Unconsciously, she touched the side of the teapot feeling the heat on her fingertips.

  Tracy went on. “I just don’t understand why every incident that involves people of different races suddenly becomes a hate crime or racial profiling or something absurd. I mean, if someone came to my door in the middle of the night and I felt threatened and defended myself, would that mean I was a racist because the person was a different race?” She shook her head. “Oh, goodness, that really didn’t come out right. Your sister wasn’t doing anything wrong, but you know what I mean, don’t you?” She paused, as if waiting for Kenya to offer reassurance, then continued. “I’m just so sad for you and your parents. How awful for you all.”

  “Um, Tracy, can we chat another day? I forgot, I need to do something for Sidney before he gets home. He gets back from L.A. tonight.”

  “Goodness. I’m rambling on.” They both stood and Tracy gave Kenya a loose hug. “You call me if you need anything, okay?”

  Kenya nodded, certain she wouldn’t call Tracy if she needed anything, but said, “We’ll have tea again another time.”

  As they walked through the foyer, Tracy shouted up to her daughter and Kenya suggested letting Lilian stay another hour. The girls’ cheers and giggles burst into the air. “I’ll walk her home in an hour or so.”

  She watched Tracy pull out of the driveway and disappear around the corner before closing the front door, then went back to her seat at the kitchen table, poured herself a mug of the tea, and sipped slowly. Tracy had fired so many things at her during that brief conversation that Kenya could barely process it all.

  This was what white people really thought. Kenya almost laughed but instead studied her hot tea with a deep frown in her forehead. She should have said something. If she had been quicker with her thoughts, she would have let Tracy know that her sister wasn’t drunk—Daddy said the report showed she was under the legal limit—and even if she had been, she didn’t deserve to be shot for seeking help. Kenya wasn’t sure whether or not the man was a racist, but perhaps if a white woman with long blonde hair had knocked at his door, he would have welcomed her inside. And she wished so much that having a black president had meant there was no more racism, no more hatred of any kind.

  17

  Seated at a small round table in Jerry’s Bar, Ghana felt Cass watching her. The place was dim and crowded and the waiter had just left with their beer orders. Ryan and Allan—Cass’ latest boyfriend—were making small talk about baseball.

  “Stop staring. I’m fine,” Ghana whispered.

  Cass tilted her head, leaned closer and said, “You sure? We’ll understand if you want to go home.”

  Ghana pushed Cass away, her palm pressing against her friend’s arm. “I’m fine,” she said and scraped her chair back. “Just going to the ladies room.”

  She made her way to the back of the bar and Cass followed close behind. Ghana pushed into the bathroom, which had two stalls, both empty.

  “I’m okay. Really, I am,” she said before slipping into the nearest stall. She sat on the toilet knowing she didn’t need to go. She wanted everything to be like it had been. Hanging out, laughing, talking, knowing her sister was doing the same in Florida, knowing at any moment she could send her a text and get a smiley-face response. Malawi had been gone five days.

  “So it’s been, what, three or four weeks now, you and Allan?” she asked, wanting to talk about anything else. She heard Cass in the next stall, a rush of pee hitting the bowl and the sudden flush echoing around them. Ghana pulled up her panties and jeans, used her foot to flush and watched the mini-tidal wave swirl and disappear.

  “Yep, four weeks,” Cass said, grabbing paper towels from the dispenser as if she were collecting enough to wipe up a heavy spill on the floor. She dabbed her hands and dumped the wad into the trash can, then retrieved a black eyeliner pencil from her purse and touched up around her eyes.

  “He seems like a good guy,” said Ghana. The soap dispenser was empty and she mashed on it a few times getting a sliver of soap. She rubbed it vigorously over her hands and rinsed off with cold water.

  “Yeah, I like him a lot. He calls me every day just to hear my voice.” She looked at Ghana as if surprised. “Just to hear my voice, he says.”

  Ghana giggled. “That’s sweet.”<
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  “Was Ryan like that? Did he call you a lot?” Cass rested her hip against the sink and looked at Ghana.

  “Not really. Not at first.” She thought for a moment. “He was kind of distant for a while. I could tell he liked me, but he kept me at arm’s length at first. Occasionally, he’d send a text, checking in. Then I called him one night, and we sat on the phone for almost three hours. Didn’t I tell you this?”

  Cass shook her head.

  Ghana remembered the call clearly. Having lain in bed for a while unable to sleep, she had decided to see if he would answer her at two in the morning. And he did. They talked about their families, and when he talked about his brother she could hear tears in his voice. He said he felt guilty because he had done four years in the Army and served one tour in Iraq and two tours in Afghanistan, both without incident. His younger brother, who had followed him into service, got sent to Afghanistan where an explosive device hit his vehicle just outside Kabul. He lost both legs—his right, just above the knee—as well as his left arm at the elbow. The conversation had been raw and intimate. She fell in love with him that night, with his honesty and vulnerability.

  “After that we talked every day.” She gave Cass a smile. “I didn’t tell you that before?” Then she remembered telling the story to Malawi and for a split second she felt lightheaded enough to pass out, but shook away the sensation.

  When they returned to the table, their drinks were waiting and, as if he couldn’t contain himself any longer, Allan said, “Hey, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Ghana felt awkward, unsure how to respond and simply shrugged his comment away. The thought of curling into a ball and never going outside ever again had occurred to her more than once, but Malawi would be horrified if Ghana stopped her life because her sister was no longer in it.