He heard Bet’s soft tread on the stairs. He sank lower into the cushions, hoping she’d stay away from him. They hadn’t touched each other in weeks, but she poked him with her criticisms, her accusations. He heard her go into the kitchen and fill the kettle with water, then she came into the den and hovered near the settee, likely watching him from across the room, though he wouldn’t look up.
“Are you just going to sit there all day?”
Malcolm said nothing in response. She spent most of her time drugged with sleeping pills and had no right to judge him for watching TV.
She walked over to the window. “I feel that draft coming through these sliding doors,” she said. “Needs caulk, I think. You said you’d do this months ago.”
Malcolm didn’t want to move, but he knew she wanted him to look, to confirm she was right, get the caulk and fix it now because this was the focus of her attention, and so, it should be his, too. She’d complained about this draft last winter and no, he hadn’t fixed it then. And he wouldn’t now. Not now. Besides, there was no breeze, no wind outside. The weather was still and humid.
Her breath inhaled sharply, but she didn’t push for a fight. “It’s not so bad now with the warm weather,” she said. “But when it gets cold it’s going to be bad. We should fix it soon.”
“We,” she said, but she meant him. With a sigh he got up and walked to where she stood, crouched down to inspect the seal along the bottom of the sliding glass door. “I’m thinking I might go to Florida. Just take a few days away.” The words tumbled out of him before he even realized this was what he’d been thinking.
“Florida? Why in the hell would you go there?”
“Go to the beach, maybe?” But it wasn’t the beach he was interested in.
“I never want to go back there.”
“I’m not asking you to come,” he said more sharply than intended and glanced at her stricken face. He looked back at the floor. “I just want to be alone for a while. Maybe work on my golf swing.”
“You hate golf.”
A frown creased his forehead and he ran his fingers along the rubbery seal. “I’ll get someone to take a look at it. Looks like it might need more than just caulk.” He stood up and left her in the den with the television talk show rambling in the background.
30
Ghana could see there was something off about her sister. She was unsteady but not in a drunk way, more of an absent-minded way. Unfocused. And that wasn’t like Kenya. She watched her sister slather teriyaki glaze on two chicken breasts, her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, her casual shirt and jeans crisply laundered, her face crumpling as if the action was painful. Then the brush spontaneously slipped out of Kenya’s hand and bounced off the counter onto the floor leaving a trail of teriyaki sauce along the marble. Kenya stared unbelieving at her hand and Ghana stifled a laugh.
“Sis, let me do it.” She bent down and retrieved the brush and dumped it in the sink.
“That was weird,” said Kenya, a puzzled smile tugging her lips as she stood helplessly at the counter.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s been happening to me too. Sit.” Ghana pointed at the stools on the other side of the breakfast bar then poured a glass of the pinot noir she’d brought. “Have some wine.”
She used a spoon to finish glazing the chicken then placed the tray in the oven to bake, marveling at the expansive clean kitchen with stainless steel at every turn. Kenya had called earlier in the afternoon inviting Ghana over for dinner, but something in her sister’s voice had put Ghana on alert. “We have to do better,” Kenya had said. “Be better sisters to one another.” Yes, but Ghana suspected something more, something beyond the loss of Malawi and being better sisters. When she arrived, Kenya welcomed her with red puffy eyes. Ghana couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her sister cry—not even at the funeral. This wasn’t the bossy, in-charge sister Ghana knew so well, which was unnerving.
She began slicing tomatoes for the salad while Kenya settled on a stool. Since Kenya had yet to open up, Ghana nudged her now, softly. “What’s going on?”
Kenya’s forehead wrinkled as she tightened her grip on her glass of wine. Her voice flat, she said, “Sidney has moved into an apartment in Georgetown. The kids are visiting with him for the weekend. We would be having our seventh annual Fourth of July cookout this weekend, and I’ve had three people call today asking if it’s on.” Her sister finally looked up and jerked her shoulders. “I said he was out of town.”
Ghana released a half grunt, half groan. She’d never considered the premature end of her sister’s perfect marriage with her two perfect kids and perfect house. Though in reality, it wasn’t perfect. Kenya had let it slip a few Christmases ago that Sidney had been unfaithful, but was confident they would recover and, as far as Ghana could tell, they had.
But he’d done it again. “Cheated with . . . with another woman.” Kenya closed her eyes for a moment. “It’s over this time. For real.”
Ghana dumped the tomatoes on top of the lettuce already in a bowl and paused to look at her sister. “Are you considering a divorce?”
“Yes.”
Everything stopped, just for a second, until Ghana drew in a long breath. She had still been in high school when Kenya started dating Sidney. The two of them not being together seemed implausible—like her little sister being dead. Life had become distorted, she thought. Maybe they were living in a parallel universe and eventually everything would sort itself. She wished everything would go back to normal. But this was the new normal. She realized she’d been holding the knife in the air and placed it by the bowl, then surveyed the shiny kitchen.
“Will you keep the house?” Instantly, the question seemed absurd and she immediately felt guilty for thinking about such a material thing when her sister’s heart was likely in pieces. “That’s probably the last thing on your mind.”
Kenya raised her glass of wine, holding it above her head. “Hell, yes, I’m keeping the house. I’m taking that asshole for all he’s got.”
Ghana chuckled, feeling her body relax. She moved around the bar and straddled the stool next to Kenya. They clinked glasses and toasted to new-found freedom.
“He’s definitely going to pay,” Kenya said, but her voice broke. Ghana grabbed her hand.
“You’re strong. And I’m here for you. We’ll get through this.”
Kenya didn’t reveal the woman’s name. “Just a woman,” she said too quickly. Ghana figured it was likely someone Kenya knew.
“The affair lasted longer than he admitted,” she said. “I found things, receipts, cards, stuff that proved it went on awhile. I’m done with the lies.” Wiping her nose with the back of her hand, Kenya sniffed and made a slight shaking gesture with her head, a cat shaking off a sneeze.
“Thanks for cooking,” she said. “You’re better at it than me.”
“Just baked chicken with salad.”
Cold air blew vigorously through the vents but the wine made Ghana’s face warm. Returning to the bowl of lettuce and tomatoes, she added grated carrots, sunflower seeds and cranberries. She grabbed a block of cheese from the refrigerator and grated part of it into the bowl, wondering why Sidney would risk his family for a piece of ass.
Kenya changed the subject. “How are things with you and Ryan?”
Ghana shrugged. Switching from her sister’s likely divorce to her own impending break-up didn’t seem like a good idea, but she considered how to respond. “Ryan and I are . . . well, we’re in a bad place.”
“I never thought you two were a good idea.”
“Don’t start.” She wasn’t in the mood for her sister’s judgment, but Kenya talked on about opposites not lasting longer than the initial attraction, that police officers have a reputation—domineering, aggressive. “They’re known to cheat, too.”
Ghana raised her hand, palm facing Kenya. “Stop! Just stop. You’re not doing this to me. We’re not doing this.”
Startled into silence, Kenya sat
open-mouthed, blinking in that annoying way she did when she didn’t know what to do. But Ghana needed a moment. She wasn’t going to make her sister feel better. But then Kenya spoke, softly, apologetically. “Ghan-Ghan, you’re right. I’m being petty. I don’t even know him.”
She reached for Ghana’s arm. “I know I haven’t been there for you in recent years, but let’s do better. Okay? Daddy says we should take care of each other. Especially now.”
Ghana considered her sister’s words. Especially now. Now there were only two of them. She patted her sister’s hand, took a gulp of wine and opened the oven door to check the chicken. A blast of heat hit her face. Using two large oven gloves, she set the pan on the range.
“Thing is,” she said, “I’m not sure how I feel about him.” She studied the meat as if waiting for it to move. “I thought I was so in love, but now, I’m not sure.”
“Is it still the race thing?” Kenya leaned on the counter, watching Ghana.
“Yeah.” She placed the salad bowl and a vinaigrette dressing on the kitchen dining table then returned to the chicken. “He just doesn’t seem to understand how I feel about these shootings that are happening and the protests.” She reached into the cupboard for plates. “He dismisses the whole Black Lives Matter movement and is in the ‘everyone matters’ camp.”
“But everyone does matter.”
Ghana almost dropped the plates and looked at her sister. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. I’m not.” Kenya wore her stern face, the one she got when she was about to climb on her horse. “I mean, I get it, I get this movement is saying more focus should be on black lives and how society isn’t respecting us as much as white lives. But what bothers me is the black-on-black crime no one seems to be talking about. I mean, isn’t that something we, as a people, should be addressing?” She lifted her wine glass but didn’t drink then put it back on the counter. “We get all up in arms because white cops are abusing and killing black people, but we don’t seem to care that we’re killing our own people in much larger numbers.”
“But it goes deeper than that,” Ghana said, stumbling through her thoughts to respond. “Our people have struggled economically. And when you start with nothing, you’ve got nothing to lose. So you act out.”
“Act out? Is that what’s happening?” Kenya snorted. “Black people are acting out like children who don’t get what they want?”
“No, not like children,” Ghana said. “Like human beings who have been oppressed for so long they feel they have no recourse. No way to get their needs met. So they resort to violence, toward each other, to anyone in their way. It may not be right, but economic inequality goes back to slavery.”
“Oh, Christ, really? Oh, poor little black people, we can’t get it together because we were once slaves? That’s ridiculous.”
Ghana could feel her own irritation and frustration in her breathlessness. She wasn’t explaining well. She wanted to stress the hopelessness in many depressed communities, the idea that a predominantly white environment had created subtle inequalities that often went unnoticed. “It’s not ridiculous,” she said. “Not if the system is set up for you to fail.”
“Yeah, fail like our family? What a bunch of losers we are, who can’t get ahead.”
Ghana scraped a chicken breast onto a plate for herself and one for her sister. Kenya took both plates and set them on the table, sat down, and with bowed head, silently said grace before dumping a mound of lettuce on her plate. She covered the leaves with dressing then cut into the chicken. Ghana brought the wine and sat down.
“You always do this,” she said, spooning salad onto her plate.
Kenya swallowed a mouthful of lettuce and gazed out the window above the sink. “Do what? What do I always do?”
“You turn everything into an argument.”
“No I don’t.”
Ghana looked at the ceiling as if searching for some celestial help. “I don’t even know how we got here. I was trying to talk about Ryan and . . . and we said we wouldn’t fight . . . and I can’t even talk to you without you disagreeing with everything I say. This happens every time.”
Slow and steady like a cow chewing grass, Kenya ground her food. Finally she wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin and made eye contact. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
They ate in silence until Ghana’s irritation subsided. She said, “Well, it’s good to know you actually have some passion in you.”
Kenya swatted at her and Ghana dodged her hand.
“You make a good point about the violence within the black community,” Ghana said. “I have no idea where to start with that, but at least there’s a movement happening across the country that’s acknowledging our people are dying unnecessarily. That’s worth supporting, don’t you think?”
“Sure. Of course it is.”
This was the moment, she thought, to bring her sister in on her plan to create a support group. Excitement built as she talked about the good they could do in reaching out to women and families who had lost a family member from a shooting. She talked about the women seeking support, wanting a shoulder to lean on, about the research showing only a few such groups across the country, with not one in the D.C. region.
“And you came up with this because of Malawi?” Kenya asked.
“A way to honor her.” Ghana could tell from Kenya’s expression that she wasn’t sold on the idea. “You should listen to the women I’ve talked to,” she added. “Hear their stories. There’s definitely a need. I’ve even thought of a name: Sisters of the Slain.”
Kenya screwed up her nose. “That sounds morbid.”
“But it’s the truth. Plus, I’ve already thought of a logo. I want you to help me organize the group.”
Kenya shook her head. “I wouldn’t be any good.”
“You can be the legal counsel, and you’d be fantastic.” Kenya made a face that said you’ve got to be kidding and Ghana chuckled, then got serious. “There are a lot of women out there in need of support. I had no idea. Mostly they just want someone to talk to, and I figured we could create a group that would support one another. We can figure out what they need, what other resources are out there for them, maybe provide legal resources. Dad would know folks who we could refer. You know, that sort of thing. What do you think?”
“Maybe.” Kenya thought for a moment. “What about ‘Malawi’s Sisters’ as a name?”
A thrill rose in Ghana’s chest at having her sister on board. “That’s a great name. It honors her and recognizes all the women as sisters. Perfect!”
Kenya suggested talking to their father before making any concrete decisions, and Ghana agreed. “Have you talked to him?”
Kenya said she hadn’t. “He’s gone to Florida. I’ve no idea why.”
“What about Mama? Have you talked to her?”
With a shake of her head, Kenya said, “I’m worried about her. I call every day but she doesn’t answer the phone.”
31
In line at the pharmacy, a tall woman stood too close behind Bet, smelling of some strong fragrance that irritated Bet’s nose, and every time Bet inched forward to create more space between them, the woman moved closer. She could feel the woman’s breath on the back of her head. The man ahead of her was called to the counter. Not long now. She needed a refill on the prescription sleeping pills. Less than three weeks had passed and already she’d gone through her thirty-day supply, but she was certain she had one refill. Malcolm would caution her that she was going through the pills too fast, but he wasn’t here. And she didn’t miss him. Not one bit. He never listened to her, tuned her out and walked away, and that didn’t solve anything. So he’d gone off to Florida of all places. To find himself? Take a break? Grieve in private? What kind of a man wouldn’t grieve with his wife, wouldn’t share in the pain she was feeling. He said he was heartbroken, but Bet didn’t see it.
When she got to the counter, the young clerk searched the rows of prescriptions waiting to be collect
ed but came back empty handed. “There’s nothing for you,” he said.
“Oh, but I called it in on the automatic refill line. Here.” She handed over the empty bottle. She had only been half listening but thought she’d pressed all the right buttons to refill her prescription.
The man consulted with a stern-looking woman behind a glass window and returned. “I’m sorry, we can’t refill for another seven days.”
“But I need it now,” Bet said, desperation rising in her throat, though she tried to sound composed. “I just really need it now.”
“I’m sorry. We can’t refill it. You’ll have to come back.”
She wandered away from the counter and loitered helplessly in the aisle near to tears. “What am I going to do?” She was whining but couldn’t stop herself; like beads falling from a broken necklace her words spilled out of her mouth. “What am I going to do? I really need these pills.”
Just one pill had given her the best sleep she’d had in weeks. A few days later, she found that having just one additional pill in the afternoon made her feel more relaxed. She pulled out her cell phone and called her doctor, waiting on hold for five minutes while she wandered through the store looking at vitamin supplements and bandages for joint sprains. When her doctor finally came on the line, she explained that Bet would have to wait until the time passed. “It’s not me. It’s the insurance companies,” said Dr. Lane.
Bet paced up and down the aisle murmuring to herself. A young white man approached and asked what was wrong. Without looking at him she moaned about her plight. “I just really need my pills. I’m going through a tough time right now and I can’t sleep. The pills have made such a difference.”
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