by Malla Nunn
“Show us the way.” Lewis lifts Annalisa into his arms and cradles her to his chest. “I’ll follow.”
My mind goes blank. I don’t know where to go or which direction to turn. Lil Bit grabs my hand and pulls me toward Sisulu Street. She has made the journey to our shack a hundred times, and now she leads the way. I stumble along beside her, soaked in blood and in shock.
“Follow me.” Lil Bit cuts across Sisulu Street and scoots into our lane. Children play hopscotch and soccer in the dust. They stop and stare. Others run to their homes to spread the news. The white woman is whiter than white, her red blood dripping in the dirt.
I give Goodness my key. “Go. Open the door for Lewis.”
She bolts ahead and unlocks our door. I break right and catch Mrs. Mashanini hurrying to her gate to see what’s going on.
“Help,” I croak. “Annalisa is hurt. She is bleeding bad.”
“Hurt how?” Mrs. M demands, and takes in my blood-soaked shirt.
“Jacob Caluza stabbed her.”
“Go. Keep pressure on the wound. I’ll get my things and come right now.”
“Hurry,” I beg. “Please.”
“I will do what I can. Now go to her. Tell her to stay with you. Tell her to hold on to the sound of your voice.”
* * *
* * *
I flick on the electric light. Mrs. Mashanini enters, and with Lil Bit’s and Goodness’s help, she rips away the clothing around Annalisa’s wound. Then Lil Bit and Goodness light candles and place them on the dresser beside Annalisa’s cot to give Mrs. Mashanini extra light in the “bedroom” area. Lewis is either gone or just waiting outside to give us space to work. I hold Annalisa’s hand and ignore the pain radiating from the cut in my palm.
My body is a hard, cold stone. I am terrified of life without Annalisa. Despite the fact that her visions and strange behavior drive me insane, her love is what makes me, me.
I bargain with God. I make promises to the angels. Give her back to me and I will:
Be a kind and good neighbor.
Help others without being asked.
Embrace the way of Ubuntu.
After half an hour or less or more, I can’t tell, Mrs. Mashanini mops the sweat from Annalisa’s face and sits back with a sigh. She has done all she can with what little she had in her nursing kit. When the bandages ran out, we pulled the blue sheet dress into strips to bandage up the jagged wound on Annalisa’s chest.
I confess, I was happy to see it go.
Mrs. M turns and looks me directly in the eye.
“Your mother has lost a lot of blood. I cleaned the wound, stitched, and bandaged it, but she’s still in danger. If the knife damaged her heart . . . We need a doctor to see to her, Amandla. Not tomorrow. Not after waiting five hours in the emergency ward, but now. Tonight. Do you know anyone that can help?”
When we are sick, Annalisa and I take potluck at the Sugar Town Clinic along with everyone else. I do not know any doctors. But wait. I do know a priest. Father Gibson. He might have a connection to someone with medical skills who’d be willing to come out to a township before the sun goes down. Worth a call.
I grab Annalisa’s leather bag and rummage inside for the card that Father Gibson gave her. I pull out a ball of string, a starling feather, and an old Durban postcard addressed to a Mr. William Williams. The card is neatly tucked in a side pocket with Father Gibson’s name, address, and phone number in black ink on the plain white paper.
“Can I use your phone?” I ask Goodness, who wears a turquoise-colored T-shirt with a frayed neckline that we found in Annalisa’s drawer. The T-shirt that she used to staunch the wound will have to be burned. That amount of blood can’t be washed out.
“Of course.” Goodness hands me her diamond-bling mobile. It is the brightest object in our dull shack.
I dial the number, and the phone on the other end rings. And rings. Pick up, I beg Father Gibson. Please! A moment later, the receiver lifts.
“Father Gibson? It’s Amandla Harden. Annalisa’s daughter.” I cut him off before the routine exchange of pleasantries. Instead, I barrage him with all the information that’s important. “Annalisa is hurt. Stabbed. She needs a doctor. The infirmary is closed, and even if we get her to a hospital, it might take a while to get treatment. You promised to help her any way that you could.”
“Give me your address,” Father Gibson says, and I tell him that we live in the lane between Tugela and Sisulu. Ask anyone in Sugar Town. They’ll know. “Tell your mother to hold on. I’m coming with help.”
“Thank you, Father.” I end the call and the muscles in my jaw and neck relax. Help is on the way. “Will she be all right for another hour or two, Mrs. M?”
Mrs. M says, “I’ll pray on it,” and I go to give Goodness back her mobile. The phone’s diamond cover is stained with blood from my hands. Rubbing the surface against the leg of my jeans makes things worse. Red and pink streaks across most of the diamonds, and the cover will have to be replaced to stop the blood from flaking off after it dries.
“Sorry.” I hand the phone back. “It’s ruined.”
“Blood diamonds,” Goodness says, deadpan. “Very African.”
What she says is funny, and I laugh, high-pitched and witchy. I laugh and I cannot stop. I laugh till I am bent over double and gasping for breath.
“Hysteria,” Mrs. M says. “Soon the bubble will burst.”
Lewis enters the shack. His T-shirt is soaked red from holding Mother close to his chest, but it’s his face that gets my attention. His jaw is tight, and his skin has lost its color. He rinses his hands at the sink for a long time and cleans the blood from under his fingernails. Then he lights the gas stove and puts water on to boil.
“What happened? Where did you go?” I ask, all tense and worried.
“To wait with Jacob’s body till the police arrived,” he says.
Oh, that’s right. We left Jacob lying in the laneway with a knife sticking out of his chest. I’m ashamed to realize that I haven’t given his death a second thought . . . not when the knife that he plunged into Annalisa’s chest might have cut her heart. Still, it’s awful to imagine Lewis standing alone in the falling dark with Jacob’s body going cold on the ground.
“I’m sorry. Thank you for doing that,” I tell Lewis as he throws loose tea leaves into a teapot and pours boiling water over them. The smell of the brewing tea hits my nostrils, and something unwinds inside me. What a day. What a terrible day.
I rest my palms on my knees. Suddenly, it’s hard to find oxygen and hard to see through the tears that blur my vision and run down my face. Racking sobs replace my earlier laughter, and Lil Bit throws an arm around my shoulder. I stand and lean against her, and Goodness leans against me. They hold me tighter, and I don’t want them to ever let me go.
“Pour the tea,” Mrs. Mashanini tells Lewis over my sobs. “Tears and tea are good medicine.”
Mrs. Mashanini guides us to the kitchen table with a brusque, “Come, girls. Let Miss Harden rest.”
I dissolve into the chair, drained of laughter and tears. Lewis sets a cup of red bush tea on the table.
“Let me see that hand, Amandla,” Mrs. M says. I uncurl my fingers to expose my slashed palm. She examines the cut and cleans it with soap and warm water. Then she applies disinfectant. It stings but it feels good. The sensation wakes me up. I think of the moments before we turned into the alley and how good it felt to walk with Lewis and the others. Then I remember that it was my idea to take the shortcut. My heart sinks.
“I shouldn’t have taken us down that alley.”
“What?” Lewis kneels near me as Mrs. M applies the last of the bandages. He is exhausted from the fight with Jacob and from carrying Annalisa from the alley to our house, but he is maybe more beautiful than ever. Brave. Kind. Strong, inside and out. “None of this is
your fault, Amandla. Don’t even think that.”
I blink back fresh tears.
“If Jacob had stayed home this afternoon,” Lil Bit says, “nothing would have happened. If Jacob had dropped his knife and walked away, same thing. He’s responsible for everything bad that went down today. Not you. Not me. Not your mum or Goodness or Lewis. You aren’t to blame.”
“That’s right,” Goodness says.
Lil Bit continues, “And I’m not to blame for what my father did and you’re not to blame for your mother’s mixed-up memories. We are ourselves. We don’t control other people.”
“Amen.” Mrs. M finishes bandaging my hand. “No stitches necessary,” she says, and downs her mug of tea in one hit. The last hour or so has sucked the energy from her but has also, strangely, made her glow with inner light. Healing people is her calling.
Lewis stands and rests his hand on my shoulder, a soft touch. “I’ll be back soon. You rest.”
“Where are you going now?” Fear sharpens my voice, and I grab hold of his hand, impulsive. He squeezes my fingers.
“I have to go and tell William Caluza what happened to his brother. The police told me where to pick up the body. I have to tell him that, too.”
Goodness throws Lewis a hard look that reminds me of her father, Mr. Dumisa, the businessman/gangster. “Take Themba, Stevious, and Daddy with you. That way William will understand that this is the end of it.”
Oh, of course. William might take it into his head to retaliate for Jacob’s death by coming after whoever killed him. Even though it was Jacob who fell on his own knife. Blood feuds can simmer and boil over behind Sugar Town’s closed doors.
“Be careful,” I tell Lewis, who nods and walks out of the room in his blood-soaked shirt and jeans. He is going to tell William that his baby brother is dead and that is where the violence ends. There will be no payback, no more bloodshed.
Annalisa’s chest rises and falls. Her skin is pale, and I pray that Father Gibson gets here soon.
She was right. There are visitors in the house and more are on the way.
How did she know?
21
The clock strikes 7:00 p.m., and the light outside the window has faded to black. Annalisa lies still and pale in her cot, her chest barely moving under the blue bandages. I go to the door and check the lane for signs of Father Gibson. No one yet. The wait is agonizing. Mrs. M shoos Goodness and Lil Bit home to wash and find clean clothes while we listen for approaching footsteps. Another hour passes. Still nothing.
I sit on the edge of Mother’s cot and hold her hand. I tell her, “Hang on. Father Gibson is on his way. He’s bringing a doctor.”
If she hears me, she gives no sign. In desperation, I lie and say that I have found all the pieces of her story. When she wakes, I will tell her every detail, down to the name of the dirt road that leads to the mountains she remembers seeing on the horizon.
Voices filter in from the outside, and I run to open the door. Father Gibson and a short black woman holding a doctor’s bag stand in the empty yard with uncomfortable expressions. Whatever they imagined they’d find in Sugar Town, our shack is worse.
“Come in, Father.” I cross the yard and hook my arm through his. Our neighbors gather in the lane to hear the news. They expect it to be either The white woman has gone to the ancestors, or Praise be. It was not her time.
Father Gibson clears his throat and pretends that the dusty air and the rusted buildings don’t bother him. Maybe they don’t. Maybe he just sees his fellow human beings bound together by poverty. The doctor struggles. She’s dressed in a raw-silk pantsuit and a long woolen coat that ties at the waist. Gorgeous, expensive clothes. Her immaculate hair hangs down her back in a single woven braid. She is dazzling but nervous. Bet this is her first visit to a township.
“This way,” Mrs. Mashanini calls from inside, where she waits to assist. “Quickly, please.”
Father Gibson moves aside, and the doctor walks through the kitchen to the cot where Annalisa lies. She kneels on the grass mat and takes Annalisa’s pulse. After a few moments, she lays Mum’s arm back down on the bed. With her thumb, she pulls down the skin under Annalisa’s right eye, and with the other hand, she shines a penlight into it. The pupil contracts. A good sign?
“More light,” she tells Mrs. M, who grabs a candle from the dresser top and holds it high to cast a bright circle in the dimness. When the doctor pulls down the blanket, I see that the bandages are red and wet. Did the blade get to Annalisa’s heart? How much more blood can she lose and still survive?
The doctor opens her bag, pulls out a blood pressure machine, and wraps the cuff around Annalisa’s arm. She pumps it up, lets it deflate, then checks the reading.
“Blood pressure is stable,” she says, and listens to Annalisa’s heart with a stethoscope. We all go quiet, anxious to ensure that the doctor hears everything she needs to. “Lungs are clear, heartbeat is strong. Let’s look under the bandage. Gloves and scissors from my bag, please, sister,” she says to Mrs. M.
Mrs. M follows the doctor’s directions with quick and efficient movements. She is right back in her element. The doctor puts on her gloves with a pop and opens her hand for the scissors. Mrs. M leans forward as the doctor cuts through the makeshift bandages with four quick snips to reveal the wound above Annalisa’s right breast.
The cut is long and raw but sewn up evenly by Mrs. M. The violence of it forces me to turn away, sick to my stomach and afraid. If I want to sleep at all tonight, I have to ask . . .
“Is her heart okay, Doctor?”
“Her heartbeat is weak but regular. It’s a good sign.” The doctor looks up at Mrs. M. They have work to do. “Sterile water, sister. We’ll clean the wound and rebandage. You did an excellent job closing the wound, by the way. If you hadn’t, the bleeding would have put the patient in a much worse position. You saved us a lot of work.”
Mrs. M says, “Miss Harden is tough, Doctor. She’s small, but she’s a fighter.”
Father Gibson places his hand on my shoulder and gently turns me toward the door. “Let’s leave Dr. Dlamini and . . .”
“Mrs. Mashanini,” Mrs. M says. “Nurse. Retired.”
“Dr. Dlamini and sister Mashanini need room to work. Is there a park we can walk to? Someplace quiet.”
“I wouldn’t go to a park now that it’s dark, but we can walk down Tugela Way.” I’m not one of the girls who hangs out with the drinkers near the wall painted with a rainbow in Mafalo Park at night. I have one foot in the township and the other planted in an imaginary future where I live on a sprawling university campus with gardens and stone buildings. If that future doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll change where I spend my evenings.
When we get outside, the crowd moves closer. They look to us for news. Their expectant faces make me want to scream at them to go home. I don’t, though. They haven’t done anything wrong. I am just too full of everything that’s happened to me and Annalisa over the last few days.
Father Gibson senses the tension inside me. He clears his throat and tells the crowd, “With the doctor’s help and by God’s good grace, Miss Harden will live to see the morning.”
It’s enough to send our neighbors back to their homes to share the news with their families. Death has a seat at every table in Sugar Town, and with each loved one gone comes a lesson. Don’t walk down that lane after dark, my daughter. Never play under the dead marula tree on Alfred Street. If a man in a blue car offers you a lift, don’t get in. Every new danger creates a new rule to keep us safe from harm.
“She stepped in front of Jacob’s knife,” I tell Father Gibson as we take a right onto Sisulu Street with its locked and barred shops. “It should be me on that bed, not her.”
“Your mother acted out of instinct. Burying your own child is the worst kind of pain.” Father Gibson sidesteps a pool of stagnant water swarming with mosquitoes. “Whe
n my youngest daughter died, I cursed God for taking her instead of me. If it was you on that cot, it might have killed Annalisa anyway.”
Annalisa called me her “perfect thing” a few days ago. The only perfect thing she ever made. Me, the brown baby that wrecked her life and led her down these dirt streets. Will I ever feel the same level of deep, blind love for another human being?
“She ended up in Sugar Town because of me, I think.” We swing right onto Plain Street, which connects with Tugela Way. “Do you know what happened before she went missing? How did she get here?”
Father Gibson walks and thinks. He tries to find the right words. “Does your grandmother know that you live in a township?”
“Yes,” I say. “She saw Annalisa every couple of months and gave us money to survive.”
Father Gibson stops to consider the information, and I pull him forward. At night, you have to keep moving through the streets. You don’t stop and let thieves close to your pockets or yourself.
“As far as I know, Annalisa disappeared when she was eighteen years old. A runaway, Neville said. She took up with a bad crowd in Jozi.”
We hit Tugela Way and take another right, circling the block. “That’s what Neville told everyone, and I didn’t question it. I should have, but he pays for the upkeep of Saint Luke’s Mission by the Sea, and he helps with my grandchildren’s school fees . . . I let the sleeping dogs lie. I shouldn’t have.”
Father Gibson is honest, and I appreciate it. “And Mayme never said.”
“No.” He gestures to the barbed-wire fences and dirt yards. “She knew where you lived. How you lived. But she didn’t trust me with the information, and she was right not to. I have been a weak old man, pretending that everything was all right when it was all wrong. I’m sorry, Amandla.”
Father Gibson’s regret is written on his face, but his words are just that: words. Like the old aunties say, Talk is cheap and whiskey costs money.
