by Malla Nunn
“Keep Annalisa company while we’re gone,” Mayme tells the priest. “And tell Mrs. Mashanini that we’ll be back soon.”
“Is it wise to—”
“Shush, Tony. Amandla is with me. I’ll be fine.”
We leave through the gate and walk slowly to the water tower with Nelson Mandela’s face beaming his warmth and wisdom onto all of South Africa. We sit side by side on upturned milk crates and read the neatly typed pages. We cry our eyes out. Our hearts are broken. Nelson says nothing, but he knows.
25
When we return to the house, empty of tears and filled with rage, Lil Bit and Goodness are waiting for us in the front yard. They look worried, frightened, even. It’s eleven thirty in the morning, but from their expressions, you’d think we’d been out walking at three in the morning. I hurry through the gate, with my pulse racing. What happened in the hour that we were gone?
“Is Annalisa all right?”
“She’s fine, you idiot. The priest is with her and Mrs. M has gone home to water her seedlings. It was you who had us worried.” Goodness punches my arm hard enough to sting. “What’s in your head, sister? Auntie Mags said we were supposed to stay together. Lil Bit thought that—”
“Thought what?”
“That Jacob’s gang found you.” She talks so soft that I have to lean in to hear.
The twins with the prison tattoos. In the flood of stuff that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, I’d forgotten about them. Lil Bit is right, I should have been more careful; I should have remembered Pain Is Love inked across Twin Number One’s cheek. The same twin who said he could break Lil Bit in two and she might like it. No wonder she’s worried.
“I don’t think they were Jacob’s friends . . . not really. They might have smoked meth together, but they probably don’t live in Sugar Town. We would remember seeing them and those tatts, for sure,” I say. “I doubt we’ll bump into them again. Now that Jacob’s gone.”
“You can’t assume that,” Lil Bit says, stubborn.
“That’s true but the odds are . . .” The rest of the sentence dies away. Lil Bit is right. The twins might be fifty miles away or they might be right around the corner.
“Chill out.” Goodness throw her arm across Lil Bit’s shoulder, lets the weight rest. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll get my father to tell the cops about those gangster boys. If they show up in the township again, the cops’ll be on them in a second.”
Lil Bit says, “I can’t ask you to—”
“It’s no problem. My father loves it when I run to him for help. It gives him a chance to be the big man.” Goodness lifts her chin in my direction. “In the meantime, we’re supposed to wash the blood off us, like Auntie Mags said. We haven’t done that yet, which means that we’re easy meat for the bad spirits. Next time, tell us where you’re going.”
“I’m sorry, girls. We’re fine, really,” Mayme says. “Amandla took me to the water tower to finish up some old business.”
Lil Bit raises an eyebrow. And what business was that?
“We had to read this.” I hold up the manila envelope marked Private and Confidential. “Now we’re back.”
“You look awful,” Lil Bit says. “Worse than I felt when we couldn’t find you.”
“What is that?” Goodness points at the envelope.
“It says what happened to Annalisa. It says why we’re here.”
Lil Bit reads my face, heavy with sadness, and frowns.
“That bad?” she says.
I nod yes.
“Goodness and me will help you through. Tell us what to do.”
A lump blocks my throat, and the angry spirit inside me stills. This lane, thick with shacks and rising dust, is my home. Mrs. M hums over rows of green seedlings across the way, and on the porch, Blind Auntie knits scarves for the orphans. I will leave here someday. I know I will. But for now, everything and everyone I need is right here.
“We’re going into town tomorrow morning,” Mayme says. “To visit the Bollard Company headquarters.”
“You guys want to come with us?” I ask. “I’ll need my crew.”
“We’re in!” Goodness grins, and rubs her hands together. “Just like we planned. It’s time to mess with the old man. We fu—” She stops, embarrassed at the swear word that almost escaped her lips in front of an older woman. A white one.
“We fuck him up,” Mayme says.
* * *
* * *
The argument in my head as I walk to Lewis’s office on Monday morning goes something like this: What you’re asking him to do is wrong, Amandla. Turn around and go home. You leave for the city in an hour. There isn’t even enough time.
My feet keep moving toward the Build ’Em Up. It’s as if they know better than I do what I need.
You have your words. You have the truth, and the truth is a powerful weapon. You don’t need anything else.
No. Words won’t be enough. Neville will deny everything. I can’t take that chance.
What would Nelson Mandela do in the same situation?
I ask the question, but I can’t answer it. My feet seem to be answering for me, though.
I come to a stop outside the gates to the busy timber yard. I ask myself again: What would Nelson do? The answer is complicated. Nelson on the water tower is a saint, forever radiating goodwill onto Sugar Town. The real Nelson Mandela believed in armed struggle. He was a freedom fighter before he became the leader of a nation.
Once you do this, you can’t go back.
It’s too late. I’ve made my decision. Today, I decide to follow the freedom fighter’s footsteps.
I grab the strap of my backpack and run into the yard. No hesitation. No doubts. I take the metal stairs to the upper level. The office door is open. I peek inside and motion for Lewis to come out. We need to talk. He comes right out and closes the door behind him to give us privacy.
“Tell me,” he says, reading my flustered expression at a glance.
I rise up on tiptoes to whisper my request in his ear.
* * *
* * *
The reception area at Neville’s office is massive. The furniture is plush, with Persian carpets and floor-to-ceiling windows that look across the sapphire blue of the Indian Ocean. The air-conditioning hums. There’s a glass case with a model of a building in it. Tiny cars and people give it scale. It’s huge.
The luxury on display in the waiting area is intimidating. Self-doubt creeps over me. An old woman with heart problems, a priest, and three teenaged girls from the township are here for justice. Who are we kidding? We do not have the power to fuck up Neville. We don’t even have the power to put a dent in his armor. He has all the cards. He always wins. Mayme senses my rising panic and reaches out to take my hand.
Her voice is tight with anger. “The furniture is window dressing, Amandla. A show. We know who Neville is. We know what he’s done. We know.”
She’s right. We’ve seen behind the mask, and that knowledge makes us stronger than the steel beams that hold up the twenty-story glass-and-steel tower that is home to the Bollard Company. Lil Bit sits next to Father Gibson on a wide velvet couch, calmly waiting, while Goodness paces back and forth.
“Sit,” Mayme tells her. “Neville’s secretary, the Mamba, will be out in a minute. I call her that because . . . well, you’ll see . . .”
Mambas are one of the most venomous snakes in Africa. They are lightning fast and they kill. The nickname doesn’t calm me down.
“Not long now.” Father Gibson picks at a jam stain on his shirt and spreads the mess even further. He is here to witness Mayme’s words. A white priest and a family friend. No one will doubt his honesty. Lil Bit, Goodness, and I are the Sugar Town backup.
The door to Neville’s office opens, and a white woman wearing a peach pantsuit comes out with pursed lips an
d a frown: part stern headmistress, part prison guard. Her gaze flickers over us one by one and stops on Mayme.
“Mrs Bollard,” she says in an icy voice. “This is a surprise.”
“Yes, it has been a while since my last visit, Beatrice, but as you can see, I’m alive and well. Thank you for asking.” Mayme’s voice has a sting—Beatrice knows that Mayme’s been sick and didn’t mention it at all. Beatrice’s mouth pinches tightly to seal in the words she wishes she could say.
“We’re here to see Neville.” Father Gibson smiles at the Mamba. “We don’t have an appointment, but I really think he should make the time.”
“Mr. Bollard is on an important call. Perhaps you could come back when it’s convenient?” Beatrice plants herself in the doorway, a human roadblock. The power to keep us on the wrong side of the door makes her face shine with pleasure. She’s enjoying herself. The cow. Beside me, Mayme’s breath grows loud and uneven. She hates conflict, has avoided it all her life. A fact that the Mamba has, no doubt, figured out over the years. I bet this isn’t the first time she’s barred my grandmother from seeing her own husband.
Well, not today, lady. I did not come here to seek your permission.
I stand and walk straight to the imposing doors that dominate the waiting area. Goodness and Lil Bit fall in behind me. Beatrice holds her ground, eyes hard. This close up, I can see her hair is sprayed into a helmet.
“Tell my grandfather that his wife and his granddaughter are here to see him.”
Beatrice hesitates a moment, shocked. A mixed-race granddaughter in the clan is a surprise. She gathers herself quickly and says, “Mr. Bollard is on an important phone call. You will have to wait till he is finished.”
Goodness sucks her teeth, impatient. “We heard you the first time, now you hear this: Move out of the way or we will move you. Take a good look at me and my sisters. We are Sugar Town Queens, and Sugar Town Queens never back down from a fight.”
“Never,” Lil Bit says. “Don’t even know how to.”
“The priest is only here to make sure we don’t hurt you. We’re from the township. We’ve got nothing to lose.”
Goodness has elevated our status. We are queens now, sprinkled in sugar and dust, sweet and dangerous.
Beatrice’s lips thin out into a red slash. “I will not be threatened at work by anyone. Least of all by you people.”
The phrase you people makes Lil Bit’s and Goodness’s eyes go wide.
“Woman!” Lil Bit says. “I’m gonna kick . . .”
“How long have you worked for the Bollard Company, Beatrice?” Mayme, shockingly, has stepped up. Her soft tone is velvet-covered steel. “It must be fifteen or sixteen years by now. Certainly long enough for you to remember who I am.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Bollard.”
“That’s wonderful. You had me worried for a moment. Imagine how embarrassing it would be for all of us if security removed you from the building for blocking me from my husband’s office.” She puts an arm around my waist, her palm pressed warm against my hip bone. “This is my granddaughter, Amandla. She’s a member of the family. All the privileges that apply to me, apply to her. Are we clear?”
Beatrice looks ready to explode, but she also wants to keep her paycheck.
“Of course.” She grabs the giant handle and opens the door. “Mr. Bollard? Father Gibson; Mrs. Bollard; your granddaughter, Amandla; and her friends are here to see you.”
* * *
* * *
Together, we walk into a wide room filled with light. Mayme keeps her arm looped around my waist to give me strength, or maybe so she can use mine, it’s hard to know. Neville sits behind a sleek desk made of blond wood. On the desk is a silver computer, a notepad, and a row of sterling-silver pens. Two matching blond wood chairs for visitors. Real minimalist stuff. Another floor-to-ceiling window on the right side of the office lets in views of the sky, soaring birds, and the distant blue of the ocean. All the beauty that money can buy.
“Amanda. You should be at home, resting.” Neville stands up but stays behind his desk, a man in control. “What are you doing here? And why did you bring her?”
“Her name is Amandla Zenzile Harden. Annalisa’s daughter. Our granddaughter.” Mayme is calm and polite. “And we have something for you.”
I take the private investigator’s report from my backpack and place it gently on the desk. No township toughness here. Just me, cool and in control, for as long as I can fake it.
I say, “This explains how Annalisa disappeared.”
Neville ignores the folder and me. Dressed in a crisp blue shirt and dark trousers, he is every inch a rich businessman, though old-school. His hair is trimmed and neat, and his mouth is curved in a smile that, to my eyes, is 100 percent fake. “Amanda, darling, you need to stop this,” he says. “You need to go home and rest.”
“Oh no, I don’t, Neville,” Mayme says.
He turns his BS smile onto me. “Then you have to stop this. You’re killing your grandmother. Do the decent thing. Leave Amanda in peace and take your friends with you.”
His appeal to my decency is funny. You’ve got to give a little to get a little, old man. In my experience, Neville is anything but decent. “No.” I stand firm. “I’ll stay for as long as Mayme wants me to.”
“Should I call security, Mr. Bollard?” Beatrice, the Mamba, says from the doorway. Her loyalty to my grandfather tests my cool. Lil Bit clicks her tongue.
“If somebody doesn’t get that woman out of here, I cannot be responsible for what I do next,” she says. I love this township-tough side of her.
“Leave, Beatrice.” Mayme is firm. “This is family business.”
Neville nods, and Beatrice withdraws with her jaw clenched. Wake up, lady. Your long years of service do not make you a Bollard, and this is strictly Bollard business.
“Keep the door open, and get Julien,” Mayme says to Beatrice’s back. I hide a smile. This new version of grandma is all kinds of good. Like Lil Bit, everything that’s happened over the last few days has made her braver than she used to be. It suits them both.
“Come and sit, Amandla.” She takes one of the blond wood chairs and pats the other. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable while Neville tries to lie his way out of the situation. Tony,” she calls out to Father Gibson, “there’s whiskey in the cupboard behind that white panel. Girls, help yourselves to soft drinks and any snacks that you find. We’ll be here awhile.”
Goodness reaches the white panel first and grunts. There’s no handle. No way to open the magic cabinet. Lil Bit reaches past her and pushes her fingertip to the edge of the panel, which springs open to reveal three shelves of soda cans and booze bottles in bright colors.
“Whoa! See all this?” Lil Bit calls out across the huge space. “Want anything, Mayme? You, Amandla?”
“Whiskey,” Mayme calls back, enjoying the moment. “Two ice cubes, please.”
“Amanda. Drinking is bad for your heart,” Neville says. “Think of the damage—”
Mayme waves him off with a flick of her finger. “Shut it, Neville. When you talk, all I hear is noise.”
Seeing her so calm and in control makes me proud. Reading the report changed her. Reading the report shone a light into the dark corners of her life that she was too scared to look into. Now that she’s faced the truth, she has to make things right. She can’t . . . she won’t back down. And damn, if Mayme hasn’t stepped up and stepped out. We Harden women are no pushovers.
“What are you doing here, Amanda?” Neville asks as Goodness and Lil Bit make a show of chugging cans of Pepsi Mango and ripping open packets of chips. “With them?”
Mayme takes a brimming tumbler of scotch with two ice cubes from Father Gibson and raises it in a silent toast. She sips, in no hurry to answer Neville’s question. She is playing a deep game that I don’t understand. It’s amusing and
frustrating. Mayme takes another hit of scotch and thumps the tumbler onto the table. Liquid sloshes over the sides and splashes onto the immaculate blond wood. Neville flinches.
“If you had loved me even a little,” she says, “you would never have kicked Annalisa out of the house because she was dating a black man. And if I’d felt loved and secure, I might have tried to stop you. Instead, I let you have your way, as I did with everything.”
Neville sits back in his chair with a wounded expression. “Amanda,” he says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Mayme sighs, tired of the lying game. “Tell the truth, Neville, and maybe you can salvage something good from all the bad that you’ve done.”
He stays silent, and anger knots my stomach. I was right. Neville will never confess; he will never suffer the pain and anguish that he caused Annalisa. His money will protect him. The tall walls around the white house will keep him safe. It’s not fair. It’s not right. My fingertips dip past the open zipper of my backpack, and my hand slides inside. Neville will pay. I’ll make sure of it.
“Last chance to tell the truth,” I say. “It’s not hard. Just repeat after me, ‘I am a bigot and a liar. I threw my own daughter out of home because she was dating a black man. When she stood up for—' ”
Uncle Julien chooses that exact moment to walk into the room. He is red-faced and flustered, with the Mamba whispering in his ear. I wonder how long he has been outside the door, listening and doing nothing. On her worst days, Annalisa has more spine than he has on his best.
“You have it wrong,” he says to me. “Your mother wasn’t kicked out of home. She ran away to Johannesburg. If Father knew where she was, he would have helped her.”
None so blind as those who will not see. Annalisa got that right.
