Sugar Town Queens

by Malla Nunn

  Mayme sighs and turns to Julien. “Your sister did not run away.” She speaks slowly and clearly, the way she might to an old pet that’s lost its hearing. “When Annalisa got pregnant, Neville did lavish her with his help. A bed in a mental institution. Electric shock treatment. Imprisonment. And, most kind of all, he arranged for a couple to adopt her baby after it was born. But you know Annalisa. Too stubborn to know what’s good for her. Instead of being grateful, she set fire to the institution and burned it down. Then she escaped with Amandla. She walked ten miles on dirt roads with no shoes before she found shelter. Imagine that. My girl is a warrior.”

  The tips of Uncle Julien’s ears glow hot. Annalisa pushed back against Neville in ways he cannot imagine, not even in his dreams. I almost feel sorry for him, but only almost; he had a chance to show us kindness at the police station and he failed. For now, Uncle Julien is on his own.

  “Is that true?” he asks Neville. “About Annalisa and the mental institution . . . the shock treatments?”

  Neville pulls a worried face. “Your mother’s heart condition has made it hard for her to live a full life, so she builds castles in the air and believes they’re real. It’s not her fault.”

  Every time Neville speaks, he makes it easier for me to hate him.

  “Who do you believe?” Mayme asks Uncle Julien. “Your father or me?”

  26

  I hold my breath and wait for Uncle Julien’s answer. He stands at the crossroads of two different lives. If he sides with Neville, he will spend the rest of his days doing what he has always done—trying to please his father. If he sides with Mayme, the future is new and uncertain.

  Your move, brah.

  “Where did you find out about the asylum and Annalisa being committed?” he says, still trying to decide on the best path to take.

  I admit that Annalisa’s story sounds far-fetched, but luckily, we have proof that every twist and turn is real. I take the report from the envelope and hand it to Uncle. “It’s all here. With times, dates, and pictures. Mayme had this done years ago but couldn’t bring herself to open it. So we did it together.”

  Julien flicks through the report, scanning the contents. His face goes crimson and then white as he reads the true story of Annalisa’s disappearance. “My God, Dad . . .” he whispers. “How could you do this to your own child?”

  “Don’t tell me you believe the rubbish in that report,” Neville snaps, and for the first time since entering the office, I see the unease growing inside him. He expected Uncle Julien to take his side no matter what. “None of it is true.”

  Lil Bit walks over to the table and throws me a can of guava juice. I catch it on the fly and rip it open to drink a mouthful of the sweet pink liquid. She turns to Neville and smiles. What is she up to?

  “Some words in the report are true. Your name. Annalisa’s name. The address of the white house. The name of the head psychiatrist at Bright Way House, the mental health clinic at the foot of the Drakensberg mountains where Annalisa was committed. Dr. Leonard Milton,” she says with perfect recall. “I looked him up. They called him Doc Shock for his fondness for electroshock therapy. The higher the voltage, the better. He fried Annalisa’s brain, and you let him. That’s why her memory is broken. Call fake news all you want, but the facts are all in the report.”

  “I don’t know anyone named Leonard Milton.” Neville’s stunning lack of shame remains intact. “How could I instruct a stranger to do everything that you claim?”

  Father Gibson wanders over with a tumbler of scotch in his right hand, no ice. He drinks and thinks. “I’m getting on in age, but I do remember Leonard. Tall, dark hair, eyes set too close together. You introduced us at your engagement party to Amanda and again at the wedding reception . . . or am I a liar, too?”

  Silence falls over the room, broken only by the distant crash of waves on North Beach. I say nothing. Neville taps his fingertips on the desktop. Is he trying to find the right words to ask for forgiveness or is he searching for a way to deflect blame for his actions?

  “But why?” Julien mutters. “She was your favorite. You promised her the company.”

  Neville’s hands make fists. “And she threw it all away for a black man who worked in a bar. Nobody in their right mind exchanges a seat in the boardroom for a barstool. I sent her to Bright Way to clear her mind. Everything I did was for her own good.”

  Mayme goes still, and her shoulders slump. I reach out, afraid of the strain that this conversation is taking on her heart. “You punished Annalisa for turning her back on your plans,” she says. “You broke our beautiful girl. Things will never be the same between us.”

  “Please go home, Amanda.” Neville amps up the concerned tone. “You need to rest and take care of your heart. We’ll talk tonight. I promise.”

  Mayme snorts in disbelief. “You bring up my heart whenever you want me to shut up and go away. I’ve lost count of the times you barked and I backed down. I’m not backing down today. Tell the truth or there’s nothing left for us to talk about.”

  Preach it, sister.

  Neville’s arctic-blue gaze drifts from Mayme to Julien and then to Father Gibson, whose cheeks glow from the scotch. We Sugar Town girls are beneath his notice. If we shouted his sins from the rooftops, nobody would believe us. Neville knows that. He knows that all the prejudiced perceptions of nonwhite women still hold sway. Black girls lie. Dark girls will, given the chance, maliciously attempt to blackmail a powerful white man for money. It’s in our blood: this need to deceive and steal and use our bodies for gain. Social media will eat us alive.

  “There are a million things for us to talk about, Amanda,” Neville says. “But not here. Not surrounded by people who don’t have your best interests at heart.”

  Lil Bit, Goodness, and me are the “people.” He means black people. All nonwhites. Lazy. Scheming. Violent. His racism poisons the room. The city. The whole world.

  “You’ll feel better at home, surrounded by your pots and plants. And when I get home tonight, we’ll go over everything in that report. We’ll find a way out of this. Together.”

  I shoot Mayme a sideways glance. Is she buying Neville’s bullshit? He’s softened his eyes and mellowed his voice. He’s an amazing liar with years of practice. I worry that Mayme will fall for his act and that we’ll leave with nothing. Not good enough. I need to hear Neville confess to what he’s done. I need him to beg forgiveness for wrecking Annalisa’s life. And after he’s confessed, he needs to fix what he shattered. I don’t know how, but he has to try. It’s still inside the room. Then:

  “It’s too late to sell your lies as the truth,” Mayme says. “Words won’t change what you did to Annalisa and Amandla. To me and to you, too, Julien. You need to suffer the way that you made us suffer.”

  The change in Neville is swift and frightening. The veins on his forehead pop out, and his jaw clenches. He might actually be grinding his teeth. His smooth front evaporates. He burns with rage.

  “You don’t have the power to punish me, Amanda,” he sneers. “But go ahead and try. Let’s see who wins this fight.”

  Mayme holds herself still and upright. She doesn’t flinch in the face of Neville’s dark mood and ugly threats. This is not the first time she’s been bullied and belittled. I hate that, even after all his lies and crimes have been exposed, Neville refuses to show remorse for what he’s done.

  He will never change. Speaking truth to power is so much bullshit. Power only respects power.

  * * *

  * * *

  I reach into my backpack and wrap my hand around a smooth polymer handle. The rough grip presses into my palm. A perfect fit. I stand up and pull a black Ruger Security 9 pistol from the interior. My hand shakes but I manage to hold the pistol steady as I aim the muzzle at Neville’s heart. Or close to it. I’m no expert. We lock eyes. His are wide with shock, and mine are narrowed in determination.


  All around me is noise and confusion. Everyone talks, but all I hear is white noise.

  “Amandla . . .” Mayme’s voice breaks through the buzz. “Put that down.”

  “Nah . . .” I say. “I’m cool.”

  Lil Bit rushes to my side. Father Gibson is right behind her; both of them are shocked. “Don’t,” Lil Bit says. “He’s not worth it. Put the gun down.”

  “Killing Neville won’t change what he did,” Father Gibson says. “Violence isn’t the answer, Amandla.”

  Yeah, I know, but seeing Neville scared is so satisfying. I could feed on his fear all day. “Are you sure that violence isn’t the answer, Father?” I say, and keep the pistol aimed across the desk at Neville. I have his full attention. “ ’Cause right now it feels pretty good to me.”

  Goodness strolls over and stands next to Uncle Julien, who is frozen with fear.

  “Shoot him in the shoulder or the arm,” she says. “It will hurt like hell, but he’ll live. And once a judge has read the report, you’ll get off with community service. I mean, after what he did to your ma, he has it coming.”

  “Put the gun down!” Neville says. “Right now.”

  “No,” I say. “Close your eyes, Neville.”

  He shakes his head no. I lean forward with my finger touching the trigger. “Now.”

  His shoulders tense, and his eyes squeeze shut, expecting a bullet. I say, “Imagine that you’re running for your life on a dirt road in your bare feet for hours. You run till the skin on your burned feet rips to pieces. Your arms are exhausted from cradling the only thing you have left to love.” I keep the gun in a steady, two-handed grip. Part of me wants to put down the weapon before things get out of control, but I want justice. I want tears.

  “Amandla. Please . . .” Lil Bit is at my shoulder. She’s waiting for the right moment to stop me from committing a crime. She’s worried, but she shouldn’t be. My heart rate is slow and my hand is steady.

  “Take it easy, Lil Bit.” I walk around the blond wood table with even steps. “It’s all good.”

  I have taken care of my mother my whole life. I have picked up her pieces by myself with nothing. Who could Annalisa and I have been if Neville had just left her alone? I put the pistol barrel to Neville’s arm. He’s sweating now.

  “The shock therapy wiped out most of Annalisa’s memories, but she still has nightmares about smoke and fire, and pain, and running with me in her arms. She wakes up terrified because of you. She hid us inside the township because she was scared. Of you. I was born in a mental hospital because of you.” I lift the barrel and press it to his temple. “You like playing God, so use your all-knowing power and tell me: How far will the bullet go? If I shoot you in the head, will it go all the way out the other side of your skull or will it get stuck in your brain?”

  “Don’t do it, Amandla,” Mayme whispers. “I can’t lose you. Not when we have so little time left.”

  Neville blinks and tears roll down his face. They hit the desk with wet splashes, and I smile. He is right where I want him to be. Powerless. In pain and in tears. Afraid. Maybe tonight he will dream about this moment and wake up sweating and terrified and remember what it is to be afraid for his life.

  My job here is done. It is time to end the farce. I step back, hit the magazine release, and let it drop into the palm of my hand. Then I show the magazine to the group.

  No bullets.

  Neville sees the empty magazine and goes from scared to furious in a split second. He grabs the phone, hits three buttons, and opens an internal line. The phone is picked up on the other end. “Security,” he snaps. “Three guards to my office. Now!”

  Too late. I got the tears that I came for.

  Mayme sits back and presses her hand to her mouth. She is shaking and afraid. And I am an idiot. My stunt could have ended with Mayme dead. Who was I kidding? Nelson the freedom fighter would never have used violence to settle a personal score. And he would have had bullets, too. Nothing that I did was for the greater good. I feel shame and triumph at the same time.

  “I’m sorry, Mayme. I wasn’t sure that I was actually going to use the gun, but I lost my temper and . . . I didn’t even think what it would do to you.”

  “I’ll be fine in a moment.” She takes a long swallow of her abandoned scotch. “Are you hungry? It’s long past lunchtime, and I’m starved.”

  The sudden switch from guns to food is jarring. Then I get it. Mayme wants to get us back to normal as soon as possible. She needs to erase the fear that gripped her as she waited for me to pull the trigger. I’d like to forget that moment, too.

  “Any idea what you’d like to eat?” I ask, joining in.

  “Let me think.” She takes a minute. “Fried chicken and then chocolate?”

  “Perfect.” We are so calm, we might as well be talking about the possibility of rain in the afternoon. I slide the magazine back into place, and Father Gibson holds out his hand. I give him the gun, and it disappears. Neville’s close call with a nonexistent bullet leaves him white with rage and speechless for the moment.

  Goodness says, “The Hot Dip on Makeba Street does amazing fried chicken. They have chocolate bars and chocolate malva pudding, too.”

  “Lead the way,” Father Gibson says as two security guards in blue uniforms walk into the room. They wait for orders.

  Neville snaps, “I asked for three of you.”

  The Indian guard looks out the window, uncomfortable. “We’re here on Mrs. Bollard’s request, sir.”

  “What!” Neville pales, and something clicks inside his head. He reaches out to take Mayme’s hand, and she pulls away from him. “Everything I did was for Annalisa,” he says. “To stop her from ruining her life.”

  I snap, “Stop lying, brah. You didn’t like Annalisa being with a black man because you’re a racist. Be honest with yourself and maybe, just maybe, you can change your ways.” Calling my father a black man suddenly feels wrong. He was more than the color of his skin. He loved cold beer and the AmaZulu Football Club. He had a life and he had a name that I will not say aloud in front of Neville. Annalisa will be the first person to hear it from my lips.

  “I’m not a racist,” Neville says. “Do you know how many black people I employ? Hundreds and—”

  “Don’t waste your breath and our time.” Mayme stares him down. “You committed Annalisa so you could control her. You arranged for Amandla to be adopted out to punish her. There was no love or care in what you did. And speaking of control . . . you do realize that, between us, Julien and I control the majority shares in M-Tech, Sage Property Development, and BVL Investments? Till now I’ve let you take care of the business, but that’s all changed. My lawyer will sort out the details, but in the meantime, security is here to escort you from what is now my office. All right with you, Julien?”

  “Yes,” Julien says. “That’s fine with me, Mum.”

  Now it is my turn to be stunned. I made Neville shed a few tears, but Mayme has taken control of the company and grabbed Neville’s lifeblood. She presses her palm to her heart and takes a deep breath. I search her face for pain and see none. She is serene. A fortress. We walk to the office door side by side, our shoulders touching.

  “We’re going to get lunch,” she tells Julien. “Are you coming?”

  “I’d love to,” he says, and joins us.

  Neville springs to his feet. “You can’t—”

  “I can and I will. We’re leaving, Neville,” Mayme says from the door. “Security will help you out once we’re gone.”

  27

  Mayme and Uncle Julien buy enough fried chicken to feed everyone who lives on the lane. Mrs. M sets up her clean seedling bench in our front yard, and Lil Bit, Goodness, and I bring out chairs from the kitchen for people to sit on. Uncle Julien does his best to act laid-back and cool, but his nervous smile and stiff shoulders give him away.
Poverty is something he reads about on the internet or sees on the evening news. He might occasionally drive by a township with his car doors locked and the windows up, but meeting the people who live inside the crooked streets and jumbled houses is different.

  I bet he’s sorry that he brought Sam and Harry with him. Too late now. I love that my cousins are here in Sugar Town and close to Annalisa and me. And who knows, the sound of her family’s voices might reach into her subconscious and pull her back to the present. Mrs. M checks in every hour, but for now, Annalisa is sleeping like a mermaid at the bottom of the ocean.

  “Where did you get it?” Lil Bit asks when we finish helping Mrs. M load the food onto the seedling bench from where she will serve it to everyone. “Tell me, Amandla.”

  “Get what?” I fall into an empty chair and bite into a crispy chicken wing. I promised not to tell and I won’t. Not yet.

  “The gun, you fool!” Lil Bit says. “Did you steal it?”

  “No.” I take a second bite of the wing and roll my eyes. “Mmm. You’re right, Goodness. This is the best fried chicken I’ve ever had. Like . . . the best.”

  She grabs for the wing, and I duck out of the way, laughing. Both she and Lil Bit have been burning to know all about the black Ruger pistol, which Father Gibson gave back once we reached the township. “Tell me before I make you,” Goodness says, and stops to squint through the cloud of dust raised by running children. “What’s he doing here? The Build ’Em Up is open till six.”

  Lewis walks through the gate and straight toward me. He squats beside my chair and holds out his hand, not a word spoken. I dip into my backpack and lay the pistol across his palm. “Everything go okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah, and thanks. It did the trick.”

  “Good.” He stands and shoves the pistol into the waistband of his jeans. “Remember, if my dad hears that I borrowed one of his guns, I’m dead.”

  “Understood.”

  Then he walks through the gate and into the lane. In a minute, he’s disappeared into Tugela Way. He does not look back or wave, and I wish that he would. I need to know that asking for the pistol hasn’t damaged things between us, that we are still sweet. Goodness punches me hard in the arm. The pain takes my mind off the uncomfortable feeling that the invisible thread that holds Lewis and me together could be broken.