Sugar Town Queens

by Malla Nunn

“Mother!” she screams at the top of her lungs. “Mummy! Come out. Help me. Please. Come out!”

  A shiver of fear travels down my spine to hear Annalisa so raw and vulnerable. I go to pull her into my arms, to smother her with love and make her quiet. Then I hear the whoosh of blood in my own veins, whispery as the rain that falls onto our roof in the springtime. The rain is soft at first, then it gets louder. It tells me to let Annalisa scream. It tells me that I need to scream with her.

  Instead of shifting away, embarrassed, I take Annalisa’s hand. If we had a mobile phone, we’d call Mayme direct, but all we have are our voices. I open my mouth and scream: “Mayme! Mayme! Mayme!”

  The guards panic and crowd in. They better not touch us. Annalisa and I hold our ground. Our two voices melt into one.

  “Mother. Mayme. Mama!”

  We call for our mother and grandmother.

  “Please! Miss Bollard!” the lead guard says, frantic at the noise we’re making. The neighbors will be out soon, and the gossip will go on for days. Not our problem. Let Neville deal with the fallout from banning his own daughter from her childhood home.

  We ignore the guard. Annalisa’s hand tightens around mine. I squeeze hers back. Something raw and primal comes out of us together. It feels awful and amazing at the same time.

  “Miss Bollard!” the main guard shouts over my screams. “Stop. Neighborhood security will drive by any second now. They will pull over and pick you up. If you’re lucky, they’ll take you to the local police station. Or they might take you someplace else. Do you understand?”

  I understand. Private security companies are a law unto themselves in South Africa. They are the police, except better armed, better paid, and they make their own rules. I squeeze Annalisa’s hand, take a deep breath that goes all the way down to the pit of my stomach, and I lift my head one last time. “Mayme!” I scream.

  Our voices die into nothingness. Silence from the house. Behind the guards, nothing moves. A white car with Diamond Security written across the side turns into the street and drives toward us.

  I put my arms around Annalisa. “Relax,” I say. “Take a long, smooth breath in and a long, smooth breath out. Smell the flowers in the garden.”

  Lil Bit calls this slow in and out “yogic breathing,” yet another trick she picked up from the stolen self-help book, Peace Within. It’s strange that yogic breathing doesn’t seem to help Lil Bit calm her emotions when Goodness is around.

  “I smell roses,” Annalisa says in a voice hoarse from screaming. “Lily of the valley. Lavender. Jasmine.”

  “You know the names, but you can’t grow any of them.” I laugh. “Why is that?”

  “Black thumb,” she says. “Except for you. You are the only perfect thing I ever made.”

  The guards glance at the ground, the sky, the passing traffic on the street. They ought to be ashamed to keep a daughter from her mother, and maybe they are, but they have their orders and jobs are hard to find. The private security patrol car moves closer with its windows wound down. The pockmarked guard clears his throat again. “It is time for you to go,” he says.

  “Fine. We’re going.” I tuck a strand of hair behind Mother’s ear, tender. She warned me to stay away from the hospital and from Neville. I was foolish, too caught up in the fantasy of having a family to stop and think about what this would do to her.

  “We can have what’s left of the curry for lunch. It’ll be even better today.”

  “Wait,” she says, and reaches past the two backup guards blocking the gates with their bodies. She snaps off a single white rose from a dazzling bush covered in flowers. She drops the rose into her bag, and somehow, when we get home, the bloom will emerge with perfect petals.

  The three guards close ranks to form a human chain outside the gates. This is Neville punishing us. Cutting us off from Mayme will hurt her as much as it does us, but he doesn’t care. Neville can be unkind, the note said. Next time I see my grandmother—if there is a next time—I will explain the difference between unkind and cruel.

  “Back to the bus station,” Annalisa says, flat and defeated, as we turn from the big white house to begin the twenty-minute walk past the security cameras positioned along the street. The houses have dogs and razor wire, alarms, guards . . . Man, this country is screwed up. Nelson on the water tower changed the segregation laws so that all people could be free, but money, or the lack of it, keeps us in our separate boxes, fighting.

  When will Neville put his weapons down?

  * * *

  * * *

  “Annalisa. Good Lord! Annalisa. Is that you?”

  A skinny white man with red cheeks and wisps of gray hair flying up from his scalp like exploding firecrackers runs out of the gates and past the guards. He wears a wrinkled black suit and a wilted clerical collar.

  “Annalisa?” He hurries over with his worn heels scraping the pavement and a look of wonder on his face. “I prayed for you to come home, but sometimes the lord doesn’t return my messages.” He smiles. “Until now.”

  He reaches for Annalisa. She doesn’t flinch when he hugs her. I try to remember if I’ve ever seen my mother being hugged by a man before. No. The security vehicle moves past us and turns into the next street. All clear.

  “Where have you been?” he asks. “I was scared you were in prison. Or dead . . .”

  Annalisa closes her eyes, leans against his shoulder, and says nothing. She feels safe with this man. The priest lets her go and wipes the tears from his face. He blushes, an odd sight in a man in his seventies. I see that he’s old but strong. Wiry, even.

  “Neville said you ran away to Joburg and that he hadn’t heard from you in years.”

  “He lied,” Annalisa says. “Obviously. Are you really surprised?”

  “At seeing you, again? Yes, absolutely. At your father lying? Not at all.” The priest steps back and takes in all of Annalisa and then all of me. He sighs, and I see him put the puzzle pieces of mother’s disappearance and my existence together. “Ah,” he says. “Your daughter?!”

  “Yes. This is Amandla. Amandla, meet Father Gibson, our family priest. He married my parents at Saint Luke’s Mission by the Sea, built on private land near Umhlanga Rocks. Julien and I were christened in the same church,” she says. “A family tradition.”

  I remind myself that I am not inscribed in the family Bible. There’s no chair waiting for me at Sunday lunch. I’m a missing link in the chain of my mother’s family and their traditions.

  “Amandla.” Father Gibson holds out a bony hand, smudged with blue pen ink and streaked with dirt. He sees that I see and smiles. No offense taken. “The ink is from writing a sermon, and the dirt is from pulling up a weed in your grandmother’s garden. I’m a famous slob. Ask Annalisa.”

  “It’s true.” Annalisa laughs, and for an instant, the happy girl from the photographs on the internet appears. Carefree and lovely. “It’s Father Gibson’s trademark.”

  The priest’s handshake is firm and friendly. I decide right there that I like him. He made Annalisa laugh. He frowns and checks his watch, an antique timepiece with a cracked leather strap.

  “I have a pre-wedding counseling session in forty-five minutes. Come, I’ll walk you to the back porch, where Amanda is sitting. I still have time.” He moves to the gates and checks over his shoulder to find us standing still. “Of course. Forgive me. This is a private family moment. You prefer to go in by yourselves.”

  “It’s not that . . .” The blood drains from Annalisa’s face, leaving her pale and sweating. She’s ashamed to admit that we’ve been banned. Ashamed to be caught pleading outside the locked gates of what was once her home. She shouldn’t be ashamed when it’s Neville who has done the shameful thing and he isn’t ashamed at all.

  “We’re not allowed in,” I tell Father Gibson. “Neville’s orders.”

  “Nonsense.” The priest wal
ks to the gates, sure that a mistake has been made. He says to the mixed-race guard, “This is the Bollard house and both these women are Bollards. Is there a problem, Gerald?”

  “You can enter, Father, but these ladies are not allowed on the property.”

  “How can you be sure?” Father Gibson is calm. “Are they on a list?”

  “Two females. One white with blond hair and the other mixed with a freckled nose. Both women are banned from entering the grounds and the house. Mr. Bollard’s orders.” Gerald breaks eye contact with the priest. At some level, he knows that turning Annalisa and me away from the house is wrong.

  “Ridiculous!” Father Gibson says. “Mrs. Bollard will hear about this. Let me through right now.”

  A distant siren wails, the sound growing louder as an emergency vehicle moves closer to the house. A white ambulance with lights flashing turns into the street. Gerald presses his finger to his earpiece and listens to a message coming through. It’s a man’s voice, too faint for me to decipher.

  “Move back, please, Father,” Gerald says. “The ambulance needs room to turn into the drive.”

  The white guard waves Annalisa and me farther down the footpath while the black guard unlocks the gates. Father Gibson joins us. The ambulance slams its brakes and reverses into the driveway. The siren dies and my mind races. Has Mayme’s heart given out for good?

  “Stay right there, Father.” Gerald points a finger at the priest before rushing toward the open gates. “Don’t make me push you back.”

  Father Gibson steps away, arms out, surrendering to the guard’s instruction. He turns to us with a frown. “When I left, Amanda was walking around, out of her wheelchair. She was the best she’s looked in weeks. Happy.”

  Annalisa slips her arm through mine and pulls Father Gibson closer. “The human heart is a mystery. Isn’t that what you taught us in scripture class?”

  The priest says something I don’t hear. I’m too busy listening to the noises in the front yard of the white house to pay much attention. The ambulance is parked smack in the middle of the drive, and I can’t see past it. I tilt my head and listen hard. A door opens. Rolling wheels bump on the smooth drive. Mumbled voices. A male and a female. Then faint words that I have to strain to hear.

  “Fine,” Mayme’s voice says. “A precaution,” Neville answers. “I’ll pack your overnight bag.”

  The ambulance doors slide shut and the lights turn on, flashing red and blue. The guards on either side of the open gates keep their eyes on the empty street. I’d rush into the yard if I could, but all I want from the white house is now inside the ambulance.

  “Bye,” I whisper as the flashing lights of the ambulance disappear into the distance. Neville reenters the house, and the guards close the gates to lock us out.

  Neville wins again.

  “Time to go, Amandla.” Annalisa holds back tears. “The next bus to Sugar Town leaves soon and I don’t want to miss it.”

  “Sugar Town!” Father Gibson chokes on the words. He is more than surprised to find out where we live. He is shocked, and it shows. “Dear God. How did you end up in a township?”

  Annalisa blushes, embarrassed by the Anglican priest’s dismay. Living in Sugar Town is better than being dead, but the girl who attended scripture lessons with Father Gibson and skied the white-powdered slopes of Europe is long gone.

  “I’m sorry.” Father Gibson realizes too late that his shock at where we live has wounded Annalisa. She keeps her face turned away, not daring to look him in the face.

  “It’s not like we had a choice between this house and Sugar Town,” I say. “We live where we can afford to . . . the same as millions of other people in South Africa.”

  “Of course. Forgive me.” Father Gibson takes Annalisa’s hand, gentle. “I’m older but I’m still no closer to being wise. Amanda will have my head when she hears how badly I’ve bungled our reunion.”

  “Do you think we’ll see her again?” Annalisa asks. “I’m scared she won’t come home from the hospital.”

  “Try not to worry, Annalisa,” Father Gibson says. “Your mother will be fine. She has the best doctors and the best care. We’ll see her again.” He takes a deep breath and smiles. “Come, I’ll give you a lift to the station.” He pulls a set of keys from his jacket pocket and unlocks an old Volvo with a dented fender and rust on the roof. The car is his perfect mechanical twin: untidy and full of personality. “Hop in. Don’t mind the mess.”

  Annalisa takes the front passenger seat, and I find space in a back seat crowded with cardboard boxes, loose papers, and, of all things, a baby seat and a collection of stuffed animals with chewed ears and missing limbs. Lil Bit has told me that her father’s girlfriend, Sunshine, is expecting. They’ll need a baby seat soon . . . This baby seat, though, probably belongs to an adored grandchild who is seriously into Peppa Pig and smooshed banana.

  Father Gibson throws the battered Volvo into gear and drives away with his hands gripped tight to the wheel. I think that he’s still angry at the guards for turning us away and angry at himself for hurting Annalisa with his reaction to where we live. “That house is your home, Annalisa,” he says. “Take my card from the glove box and call me. I’ll help if I can.” He waits till Mother has his card tucked into her bag. He doesn’t know that the closest pay phone is three streets away from our house and that Mother’s mobile almost never has any credit. “As for Neville, he’ll have to answer to the Lord for keeping you away from your own mother.”

  “I have no idea what to do now,” Annalisa says, and the car fills up with silence. I turn around to take a long, last glimpse of the fairy-tale house. A shadowy figure moves in an upstairs window. Neville is looking down at us driving away. It’s crazy, but Cyril’s nervousness when he gave me the note at the hospital suddenly makes sense. Neville had read the note. He knew we’d come to the house and he stopped us. As for the ambulance turning up just in time to stop Father Gibson from telling Mayme that we were waiting at the front? Too perfect to be a coincidence. I overheard the conversation in the front yard. Mayme said she was fine, and I believe her. The ambulance was Neville’s way to seize control again. My face goes hot, and my throat burns. I hate my grandfather with a passion that shocks me. The feeling is too big for my body. I feel like I might explode. Or implode. I close my eyes and breathe. My shoulders relax. But the tight knot of hate that I feel for Neville?

  It stays.

  13

  Annalisa drops the white rose into a jam jar filled with water and places it on the windowsill above the sink. The petals shimmer, and the chicken curry simmers on the stove, filling the kitchen with the smell of cardamom and cinnamon. I set knives and forks on the table and imagine a lazy lunchtime in the big white house. A long marble counter gleams in the soft light that falls through a tall window with views of a lawn with trees at the back. Mayme and I work at the counter, our hands covered in flour and sticky dough. The oven is hot. The rolls, laid out by us in perfect rows on a tray nearby, are ready to bake. Then Mayme washes my hands with hers, pushing the dough from my fingers under warm water. “We’re a mess!” she says, and we laugh together. Happy.

  “I should have taken you to meet her earlier.” Annalisa’s flat voice breaks the fantasy. “She begged me to bring you to her, but I was afraid that my father would find out. Now . . . it might be too late to bring the two of you together.”

  “We will see her again. I promise.” I believe what I say.

  The ambulance was bullshit. A stunt. I know it but I do not say it, just in case I made a mistake and it wasn’t Neville standing at the window. He was too far away for me to see his expression. He might have been sad instead of gloating, but I doubt it. Or is that my hate talking? I don’t know. Not knowing is the part that worries me.

  “Did Neville kick you out because my father was black?” Nelson Mandela on the water tower would be disappointed to see how stubbornly t
he colors of the rainbow refuse to get along.

  “I . . .” Annalisa’s memory struggles again. It always falters on the things that have to do with me. She sits at the table and waits for the food to be served. This is our usual routine. Me in the kitchen, cooking. Her, seated at the table, waiting for phantom servants to appear with meals. Before Mrs. M snuck across the lane to teach me how to make the basics, everything we ate came from a can. “I’m sorry,” Annalisa says at last. “I don’t remember the details. Things are jumbled up in my mind.”

  “Neville is a mean bastard. He kicked you out. That’s all you need to know,” I say, and normally I would never, ever, on pain of a twisted ear, use the word bastard to describe an older person, much less a relative. Well, I didn’t know I had relatives until a few days ago, so I should be forgiven. Annalisa hates swearing, but after this morning, I’ve earned the right to call Neville whatever I want.

  Annalisa chews a warm piece of roti, but her mind is somewhere else. I put the plates of curry down, and we start to eat. The flavor is deeper than yesterday, the chicken falling off the bone. It’s delicious, just like the boy who gave it to me. I push Lewis out of my mind. I felt something in the way he looked at me, but I’m not kidding myself. He can do better than the brown sparrow who lives in a back lane. He can do better than me.

  “Seeing the house again . . .” Annalisa says after a while. “I had a flash of my father in a big room with a desk. I must have been about nineteen. It was night. I could hear the crickets chirping outside. He said, ‘You can have one or the other. Not both. You choose.’ He was angry. I don’t remember what I had to choose between, but I think I chose wrong . . .”

  “You are his only daughter,” I point out. “He should have stuck with you no matter what choices you made. And Mayme should have come out when you called.”

  “None of it matters, Amandla. My father always wins.”

  We eat in silence, and the curry is finished too soon. I mop up the sauce and plan tomorrow’s dinner. Rice and beans or spinach and lentils. Two of the cheap basics that Mrs. M introduced me to. Annalisa stares at her empty plate and sighs.