Sugar Town Queens

by Malla Nunn

  A fist bangs against our tin door, and the walls creak. Annalisa sleeps through the noise with the help of painkillers, but I am up and across the small kitchen space in three seconds flat. It’s seven fifteen in the morning, too early for Mayme’s daily visit and too late for the police raids that occasionally sweep through the township.

  “Amandla,” a voice calls. “It’s me.”

  “Sam?!” I open the door and find him standing in the dirt yard, his cheeks flushed and a gaping hole in his T-shirt. “What happened?”

  He says, “I jumped out my bedroom window and went over the garden wall. I threw a blanket over the wires, but I got caught on the way across.”

  The razor wire that’s coiled on the top of the tall walls in nice parts of town has slashed his T-shirt. Shhh. I put my finger to my lips and pull him inside.

  “Sit. Lemme see.” He sits at the table, and I yank up his T-shirt to check the damage. A tiny scratch crusted with dried blood. He is already healing. Sam is all right. He is in Sugar Town and in my house.

  “Why did you scale the wall when you could have walked out the front door?”

  “No choice,” he says. “Dad won’t let me come visit you by myself, and he’s too busy kicking Grandpa out of the company to find the time to bring me out. ‘When things have settled,’ he says, but I couldn’t wait.”

  “All right, but you still could have used the door.”

  He laughs. “True, but no lie, I’ve always wanted to go over the wall just to see what it’s like. And I left a note saying where I was.”

  “Good work.” I take his hand and lead him across the small space to the bedroom area. We stand at the foot of Annalisa’s cot and watch the peaceful rise and fall of her chest in the early morning light.

  “Will your mother be all right?”

  “Yeah, the knife wound healed up nicely. She’s walking and talking and getting stronger every day.” How sweet it is to say those words out loud. “But in the meantime, do you want a tea or coffee?”

  “Coffee, please,” he says, and follows me into the kitchen. He’s not completely at home inside our tin walls, but the worn floors and rusted roof don’t freak him out, either. Where is his mother, I wonder, and how did he get to be so at home in his own skin?

  “Mayme will be here in a few hours. How long can you stick around?”

  “All day.” He takes two cups from the cupboard like he has lived here forever. “Or until my dad sends someone to find me. Though I’d rather not be here when that happens.”

  “I can arrange that. How are your lungs?”

  He frowns. “Fine as far as I know. Why?”

  “I’m taking you some place where screaming is encouraged.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The wooden grandstand sways and groans as the crowd jumps to their feet to shout encouragement at a player taking a run at goal. Shouts of “He scores! He scores!” thunder from all sides when the Sugar Town Shakers put one in the net. A little boy on the edge of the field breaks into a victory dance and sends dirt flying into the air.

  I check Annalisa out the corner of my eye, concerned that the noise and the relentless energy of the soccer match might be too much for her. She’s calm. Her visit to the land of the dead changed her. She still has sad moments and blanks, but knowing that Joseph is waiting on the other side of the river has, somehow, anchored her in the here and now. Things will never be perfect, though. The damage done by the shock treatments can’t be repaired. Finding out the truth about what Neville did has changed my reaction to Annalisa’s mind drifts. Now when she forgets and asks me when Father will be back, I tell her soon; I tell her that he misses her and thinks about her every day. I lean my shoulder against hers. We are both perfectly imperfect, and knowing that makes our relationship easier.

  Mayme sits between Sam and Lil Bit and smiles at the little boy dancing in the dust. This is her first township soccer match, a “winter warmer” before the opening of the official season, and despite Mrs. M’s warnings about the noise, she refused to stay on the lane. My heart can take it, she said.

  She is determined to live every last minute of the time that’s left to her.

  “Goodness has talent,” Annalisa tells me when the noise dies down. “If she wants to play on the women’s national team, she has to step up a league and get herself noticed.”

  I am no longer Annalisa’s sole focus. She has plans for Lil Bit (a scholarship to a decent university) and Goodness (international soccer stardom) and Lewis (his own construction business). She aims high on all our accounts.

  On the field, Goodness swats a ball away from the net to keep the Sugar Town Shakers in the lead. The crowd roars. “She saves! She saves!” Goodness is the only female on the team. The men accept her because she is a superstar; her talent is too big to be contained inside the township. When she kicks the ball, it makes a sound like a rifle shot and flies down the field to land at the feet of a Sugar Town striker who flies toward the opposition goalie. He aims the ball at a right angle and curves it into the back of the net.

  Annalisa stands up and claps, and I stand with her. Laughter and chants of “He scores!” surround us. The man next to Mayme lifts his arms and throws her a prodding look that says, Come on, sister. Give it power!

  Mayme stands and lifts her hands above her head. Sam and Lil Bit lock their arms around her waist to keep her steady. The atmosphere is electric. And infectious. I grab Annalisa’s hand and call out at the top of my voice, “He scores! He scores!” She laughs and joins in the chanting till we are both hoarse and breathless. It feels good to make noise. To raise our voices in a chorus of celebration.

  I turn to check on Mayme. Dust motes float around her head like a halo. Her face shines with joy. Life is all around her, full and overflowing. She is beautiful, and my heart hurts to see her so radiant and present.

  * * *

  * * *

  We slowly walk home, glowing from the Sugar Town Shakers’ 3–2 victory over the Durban Diamonds. Goodness blocked a shot at goal in the dying minutes of the match. A close call. My throat is raw from screaming useless instructions from the stands. “Watch out. Stop that ball!” Goodness managed to save the match without my help.

  We turn into Tugela Way. Sam, Goodness, and Lil Bit run ahead, kicking a ball from one to the other. Where Goodness gets the energy to keep going, I don’t know. When the action and excitement have died down, she’ll need a quiet place to just breathe. Lil Bit could be that quiet resting place for her. I hope they will soon figure out how perfectly they balance each other out.

  Mayme squeezes my hand. It hurts a little, but the feeling of our bones pressed together is heaven. I think maybe she’s imprinting the memory of herself on my skin, on me. Our time together is running out. Do we have days or weeks left? That’s not enough. I want years, not months.

  I can’t help myself. The words spill out.

  “Lil Bit looked up the stats. Open-heart surgery is nasty and the recovery is painful, but . . . if you survive the operation, you could live for years longer. Will you please think about it? Annalisa wants more time with you. I want more time with you.”

  We walk on in silence. A noisy voice fills the quiet space inside my head. Mayme knows all about heart operations. She doesn’t need you to tell her how it is or what she should do with her own life. You pushed her into a corner. You asked her to do something that she has already told you she doesn’t want to do. Smooth move, Amandla.

  Minutes go by. Mayme doesn’t say a word, and that makes me anxious.

  “I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t have—”

  “No. You did right.” Mayme stops at the mouth of the lane. “I’ve lived with a broken heart my whole life. And now, for the first time, I have a chance to fix it. Not just the weak muscle inside my chest, but the contents. I have plenty of sadness and fear stored away. From now on, I want to
fill my heart with happiness and good memories.”

  Does that mean Mayme has changed her mind about the operation? I turn to ask and see tears in her eyes. Annalisa sees them, too, and dips into her bag for tissues. She pulls out a linen handkerchief with the initials BBZ monogrammed on the corner and gives it to Mayme. A second later, she pulls out a beaded necklace with a wide, flat pendant designed to sit at the base of the neck. The colors are gorgeous. Copper, brown, and pearl beads woven into intricate diamond shapes.

  “A Zulu love letter,” Goodness whispers, mindful of Mayme’s tears. “The diamond shapes represent a married woman, but the colors have a secret meaning that only the woman who made it and the man she sent it to understand.”

  “Oh.” Annalisa holds the necklace out to Mayme. “You’re the only married woman here. This is for you.”

  The necklace is a mystery, both vintage and modern at the same time. Was it made by a lovesick woman decades ago or hand-sewn by a design student in a city studio last week? It doesn’t matter. Seeing the necklace makes Mayme forget her tears. It makes her smile.

  “Lean forward.” Annalisa slips the necklace around Mayme’s neck and closes the clasp. The beaded panel sits snug against the breastbone. It could have been made for her. Maybe Annalisa’s bag is magic after all.

  “I love it,” Mayme says, and runs her fingers over the beads to feel the rough texture. “And yes, Amandla. I’ll talk to my surgeon in the morning and schedule the operation. I’ve decided to live fast and die old.”

  Thank you, Father, and all the saints in heaven. Mayme will be at my high school graduation and my eighteenth-birthday party, which I have decided will be big and flashy, with a thumping DJ and close dancing. Annalisa might be right. There really might be angels whose job it is to listen to our dreams and help them catch the light.

  30

  That night, Annalisa shakes me from sleep, and I roll onto my back, disoriented. A single candle throws light onto the rusted walls, enough for me to see that she is barefoot and in her flannel nightdress. She leans close to my face.

  “Get up, Amandla. Someone is coming.”

  I get up and get out of bed. I don’t argue. Annalisa might be emerging from the tail end of a nightmare that woke her or she might be having one of her episodes. It’s impossible to know, so I surrender to whatever is happening. She opens the wardrobe, pulls out a pale yellow dressing gown with a moth-eaten silk collar, and gives it to me. I’ve never seen it before. “Wait outside the door. Not too far into the yard,” she says in an urgent voice. “I don’t want to hear what they have to say.”

  She’s scared, and now so am I.

  “Go, Amandla.”

  I wrap myself in the too-big dressing gown and flick on the electricity on my way out of the house. It’s still dark outside, and the light spilling from the open door will help me see what’s coming. I go halfway to the gate and search the lane in both directions. A three-quarter moon hangs over the rooftops, and a dog barks in Tugela Way. The lane is asleep. Annalisa’s visions have been wrong more times than they’ve been right. This is one of those times. I turn back to the house, relieved, and then I hear footsteps on the road. I turn and see two human shapes in the moonlight.

  It’s hard to make out who they are, but my heart knows. It’s Father Gibson and Sam. They have come with news that I don’t want to hear. I hold up my hand to stop them from getting any closer.

  “Go away,” I call out. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  Father Gibson rests his hand on the gate. He is a wreck in wrinkled clothes, his face drawn tight with sadness. Sam hangs back in the darkness, and the sound of him crying is loud in the stillness.

  “Amandla . . .” Father Gibson opens the gate and walks toward me. “I’m so sorry—”

  “No!” I cut him off. “It’s too soon. She still has time to get the operation.”

  He shakes his head and holds out his hands to take mine. I step back. Does he not understand what I said? It is too soon.

  “No,” I say again. “Just. No.”

  Sam comes into the yard, with puffy eyes and cheeks wet with tears. “You’re right,” he says. “Mayme left too soon, but I think she died happy.”

  “Happy to leave me and Annalisa after one week together?” Wrong answer! “You had fifteen years with her. I had days. Days! It’s not fair.”

  My knees give way, and Father Gibson catches me before I hit the ground. My heart hurts inside my chest, and I can’t breathe. White spots float in front of my eyes, and I suck in a mouthful of air. A wailing sound comes from inside the house. Annalisa is in pain and falling apart. This is where I run and help her. It is my job to save her from the darkness.

  “Sam,” Father Gibson says, “take care of your cousin while I see to Annalisa.”

  I slide to the ground the moment Father Gibson’s hands leave my shoulders. I sit in the dirt, and Sam sits next to me. Tears stream down his face, and seeing him cry makes me cry. I lay my head on his shoulder and let the tears come.

  “I’m sorry your time with Mayme was so short.” Sam wipes his nose on his sleeve and clears his throat. “If it helps . . . this last week was the happiest I ever saw her. She got to live her life on her own terms before she died. You helped her do that. You did that, Amandla.”

  Maybe someday in the future, I will be glad that I helped Mayme reclaim some of her power, find some joy, and find her family again. Right now, though, grief has shattered me into a million pieces.

  * * *

  * * *

  Saint Luke’s Mission by the Sea is built of stone. It has stained-glass windows and a steeple that pierces the sky. The church towers over wild grass fields and looks down on the distant blue of the Indian Ocean. If I was God, I’d want to live here.

  We walk through the parking lot toward the front doors, and my mouth sags open at the collection of luxury cars around us. Shiny cars with working stereos and leather seats. Cars with horned bulls and winged ladies on the hood and not a speck of rust.

  I shrink an inch with every step that we take toward the carved wooden doors. The feeling of not belonging comes in a wave. Nobody inside of Saint Luke’s has ever haggled over the price of chicken necks. Of this I am sure. My heart beats loud in my ears, and it’s difficult for me to move forward.

  “We’ve come too far to turn back, Amandla.” Annalisa straightens her spine. “The congregation might judge our clothes and our hair, but Mayme never did. All she sees right now is her daughter and her granddaughter coming to say goodbye. And I know it makes her happy.”

  Lewis presses his hand to the small of my back and urges me on. Annalisa and I have come all this way, not for the living, but for the dead. We are here for Amanda Iris Harden Bollard, who broke out of her golden cage to spend the last days of her life with us in Sugar Town.

  “Keep your head up high and don’t walk too fast,” Annalisa whispers as we step through the open doors and into the cool interior of the church. The pews on either side of us are filled with people: mostly white faces I’ve never seen before, and a sprinkling of black, Indian, and mixed-race faces, too. All are dressed in dark suits and black dresses. Even if we’d come early and sat in a corner, our group would stand out. We add a bright pop of color to the somber atmosphere. Mayme would have liked that, too, I think.

  Mrs. M is in a hot-pink suit, and Lil Bit and Goodness and me wear shweshwe print dresses covered with blue and red starbursts. Annalisa’s black silk pants, white silk shirt, and zebra-print scarf score an 80 percent match for the right colors but only 5 percent for proper funeral clothes. Lewis wears a light blue suit with a white shirt and white high-tops with blue laces. He is a beautiful dream of a boy. I’m scared to look at him for more than a few seconds in case what I’m feeling for him is written all over my face.

  Annalisa walks to the very front of the church, a journey that takes us past the hundreds of mourners
inside Saint Luke’s. People stare. Mouths fall open and eyebrows shoot up. It’s as if they’ve seen a ghost. I hear whispers from both sides of the aisle. “That’s definitely her,” “Where’s she been for all this time?” and “I heard she was dead.”

  Annalisa’s presence is a shock. It rattles the congregation to see her alive and with her mixed-race daughter. No doubt they heard and believed the story that she ran away to Jozi and fell in with a bad crowd. Maybe they still believe that. I force my legs to keep moving. It’s a challenge. Saint Luke’s is a sacred space dressed in acres of white flowers and lit by white candles, and I am dragging my dusty shoes right through the heart of it.

  I throw Mum a sideways glance and find her in full untouchable mode. She looks neither left nor right. She sails down the aisle with her focus pinned on the high altar and the red-haired woman playing the church organ behind it. Sam stands at the end of an empty pew two rows from the front and guards the space.

  “Thank you.” Annalisa kisses his cheek, and he steps aside to let all of us into the reserved seats. Nobody tries to stop us, and there’s plenty of room. I sit and try to relax. Members of the family who are strangers to me turn and stare. Fair. I am the first mixed girl to sit in the family pews, and with my black friends, no less. An older man with a red-veined nose turns and glares at us. He is a heavyset version of Neville with thin lips and a thick neck.

  Annalisa says, “Amandla, meet my uncle Rupert. Your grandpa’s brother.”

  “Have you no shame?” Uncle Rupert asks in a loud whisper. “Take your brat and get.”

  Get.

  Neville said the same thing to me in the rooftop garden at the institute. Neville, who is now losing the fight to keep his control over the Bollard Company’s vast holdings: a diamond mine, a tech company, a real estate empire, and a financial investment firm. Too bad, so sad. Neville, who has no family left but this puffed-up old codger with a drinker’s nose. His attitude is offensive, but I am not offended. I am calm.