Chanda's Secrets

by Allan Stratton

  “How could you think such a thing?”

  “B-because you told Mrs. Tafa we’d be taken in by Auntie Ruth.”

  Mama shakes her head. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

  “But we did,” they sob. “Please don’t give us away! Please, Mama!”

  “Nobody’s giving anyone away,” Mama says firmly. She hugs them close. “Sara’s on a trip, that’s all. Auntie Ruth’s having you for two days only, because there’ll be lots of grownups around here, and you’d be bored.”

  “No, we wouldn’t.”

  “Yes, you would. At Auntie Ruth’s you’ll have cousins to play with, and before you know it, you’ll be back home with Chanda and me.” A pause. “All right?”

  The whimpers subside. Iris says, “Will you sleep with us tonight, Mama? Please.”

  “Of course.” She kisses both of them on the hair. “I love you. Don’t you ever forget that.”

  As Mama gets up to finish her chores, Iris looks her in the eye. In a clear, still voice, she says, “Is Sara’s trip like the one Soly’s papa went on?”

  Mama takes a deep breath. “Yes.”

  There is a long silence. No one cries. Mama and I leave quietly. At the door, I hear Soly whisper, “Iris... will we ever see Sara again?”

  “Yes,” Iris whispers earnestly. “One day, one day the world will disappear, and we’ll all be together again. Sara and your papa and Chanda’s papa and everybody. They’re making a place for us right now.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s a secret.”

  “But where?”

  “In the most beautiful place you can ever imagine.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “You’ll find out when you’re older,” Iris whispers, like a mama.

  “I want to know now.”

  “Too bad.” Her mama voice disappears. “Go to sleep.”

  “Not till you tell me where. Wheeeerrrre? Where-where-where-where-where???”

  “Go to sleep or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  Iris pokes him. He giggles. She pokes him hard.

  “Ow.”

  “What’s going on in there?” I ask in my stern older-sister voice.

  “Nothing,” from the two of them. A moment of silence, till they think I’m gone. Then giggles, sounds of “Shhh!” and in a moment, everything falls still.

  I wake up in the middle of the night. There’s a ruckus in the front yard, loud singing, curses, a kicked can clatters against the wheelbarrow. Jonah’s friends have brought him home for the night. They toss him toward the house and run.

  Jonah staggers to the door. He’s too drunk to lift the latch. He slobbers a few words and slides unconscious to the ground. By the light of the moon, I see Mama across the room, lying next to Iris and Soly. Her eyes are open. She’s staring at the ceiling.

  Most nights, I’d help her drag Jonah inside. I’d flop him on their mattress and leave her to take care of his boots.

  Mama says I shouldn’t judge Jonah, that he has reasons for why he drinks. Maybe he does. But right now, I don’t particularly care what they are. Neither does Mama. We lie in bed, and listen to him snore.

  10

  THE BUS FROM TIRO IS REALLY A PICKUP TRUCK. It stops wherever people flag it down, and drops them off wherever they’re going. Tuesday is normally a quiet day for travel, and we expected Auntie Lizbet in the early afternoon. She arrives after dark with her satchel and three sacks of vegetables.

  “The truck ran out of gas. We were stuck for hours while the driver hitched to the nearest garage on a mule cart. Dear lord, and me already seasick from being bounced around all day on top of your onions.” She collapses. “I can’t walk. You’ll have to carry me. And I’ll be needing some ice for my lower back.”

  Mama and I cross our arms and hold hands. Auntie Lizbet wiggles aboard. She clutches our shoulders and we haul her indoors to the rocking chair. While she continues to whine, I bring in the sacks and her satchel, and Mama takes a hammer to the block of ice in the icebox. Mama wraps the chunks in a tea towel, puts the towel in a plastic grocery bag, and tucks it behind Auntie’s tailbone.

  “Aee! Aee!” Auntie wails.

  If it was anyone but her, I’d feel sorry. As it is, I want to laugh.

  Iris and Soly are smart enough to stay in their room pretending to sleep, but Jonah sticks his head out of the bedroom. He’s been hungover all day with the dry heaves. Mama tries to get him back to bed, but he insists on publicly begging her forgiveness. “I’ll never touch a drop again. I swear.”

  Auntie Lizbet raises an eyebrow. “So you’re the new one.”

  We go to bed. Nobody sleeps, except for Auntie. “Wakey, wakey,” she crows bright and early the next morning. With her around, who needs a rooster?

  I rub my eyes. It’s Wednesday. Two days ago, Sara was alive. Today she’ll be home for the laying over. Tomorrow we put her in the ground.

  Auntie Ruth arrives at nine for Iris and Soly. She and Jonah have a pleasant conversation, which is surprising considering that the last time he was at her place he tried to steal her jewelry. In addition to babysitting, Auntie Ruth’s arranged the meat for tomorrow’s burial feast. Jonah’s family wouldn’t pay for a cow, but she shamed them into contributing two goats. I hope it’s enough.

  As Soly and Iris leave, Esther arrives to help out. A load lifts from my heart. And the work begins.

  Bateman’s has provided an open-air tent for visitors staying the night. Mr. Tafa and his male lodgers raise it in the front yard near the cooking pit. Meanwhile Mama, me, Esther, Mrs. Tafa, and Auntie Lizbet get down to cleaning. It’s important the house be spotless for Sara’s last visit. We start by moving all the furniture and belongings out back.

  In less than two trips Mrs. Tafa has worked up a sweat and Auntie Lizbet’s griping about her back. They take a break, sipping lemonade and gossiping for the rest of the morning. Esther is a major topic of conversation. At first they whisper in each other’s ears, but pretty soon they’re being rude right out loud.

  “Those are quite the bracelets,” Auntie Lizbet hoots to Mrs. Tafa as Esther passes, hauling a chair. “They’re so big I’m surprised she doesn’t get bruises.”

  “That’s the least of her worries,” Mrs. Tafa roars. “If she bends over she’ll be showing her panties to the neighborhood.” She and Auntie Lizbet laugh so hard they almost fall out of their chairs.

  Esther stops in her tracks. She sets down the chair, faces them, and sticks out a hip. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Tafa,” she smiles sweetly. “I won’t be showing off my panties. I’m not wearing any.”

  “You shouldn’t say things like that,” I whisper to Esther at the back of the house. “They’ll spread it around as if it’s true.”

  Sure enough, on my way back, their tongues are flapping.

  “She’s always been wild, that one,” I hear Mrs. Tafa cluck. “A bad influence. I’ve warned Lilian.”

  “Where’s her mama?” asks Auntie Lizbet.

  “Dead.” Mrs. Tafa taps her nose.

  Auntie Lizbet squints. “So that explains it.”

  I want to say something, but what? I’d only make things worse. Luckily the house is now empty. Esther and I can clean inside and pretend they don’t exist.

  Together with Mama, we scrub down the floors and walls. We also wash all of the cutlery, plates, and cups that the neighbors have lent us for the feast. It arrived clean, but it never hurts to be careful. Then we haul enough wood to the cooking pit to make sure there’ll be coals under the stew pots through the night.

  Mrs. Tafa and Auntie Lizbet join us for lunch.

  “Not bad,” says Mrs. Tafa, having a look around. “I don’t mean to criticize, but you missed a few spots on the kitchen wall. I’m sure nobody else would notice.”

  “Oh, I did,” says Auntie Lizbet. “And if you ask me, the furniture out back might be lined up more neatly, too. All the same, I suppose I’ve seen worse.”

  We ignore them and get cha
nged. Mama suggests I loan Esther a long skirt. I’m embarrassed to suggest it, but Esther doesn’t complain. She even volunteers to remove some bracelets and a rhinestone broach.

  Then we leave for the Eternal Light.

  The moment we arrive, Auntie Lizbet notes the cement mixers next door. “How handy,” she says, nodding at Mr. Bateman’s patio of pink and gray paving stones.

  Today the patio’s covered in folding chairs. We sit in the shade of a plastic awning, surrounded by other bereaved families. They come from all sorts of churches. Most have colorful costumes: bright cotton robes and tambourines. Sometimes we join in their singing, but mostly we sit tight in our blacks and navies, like shabby crows at a parade.

  Mr. Bateman starts releasing the bodies at three. As he calls out each name, there’s a clatter of folding chairs and a gust of clapping and song.

  Finally, Sara’s name is called. Esther gives my hand a squeeze. I hold my breath and try not to think about what’s happening.

  Mr. Bateman leads Mama, Jonah, me, and our priest down the corridor, past the coffin showroom, and into a tiny chapel. I’m out of my body somewhere, as he presents Sara in her coffin. She looks so strange. The powder has smoothed where the rash crossed her nose, and they’ve wrapped the shroud to cover the eruptions on her ears and the bald patches on her scalp. They’ve also stuffed her cheeks before sewing the lips. I suddenly realize how much weight she’d lost.

  Others are filing in now, crowding around us: Esther, Auntie Lizbet, Mrs. Tafa, and Jonah’s relatives. I hear a tape of religious music, the priest saying a prayer—and before I know what’s happening, Sara is wheeled out the door and the room is following. We pass the embalming station and turn right. Heavy double doors swing open and we’re outside in the back parking lot. Sara’s placed in a miniature trailer shaped like a coffin, hooked up to a Chevy.

  My ears fill with the sound of church ladies singing and banging their tambourines as Mr. Bateman ushers me into the Chevy with Mama and Jonah. Heading out of the driveway, I see a mist of faces: the faces of those who came for Sara, and the faces of the families and friends who’ve come for the others.

  I have a vision. One day there’ll be faces come for Mama and for me and for Esther, and Soly and Iris and everyone I love. I want to bury my head in Mama’s breast and scream, “I don’t want to die! Why are we born?”

  11

  THE CHEVY PULLS UP AT OUR HOME, at the head of a convoy of mourners. Two of Jonah’s brothers-in-law bring Sara’s coffin inside. They take it into the main room and set it on an ironing board. The ironing board is draped in a clean, white bedsheet with Sara’s toys spread around the bottom.

  Mr. Bateman has provided two plastic wreaths, which Mrs. Tafa insists should stay in their cellophane wrappers to keep clean. She says this is how they do it at the white cemetery. Mrs. Tafa is an idiot, but Mama doesn’t argue. She just waits to unwrap them till Mrs. Tafa’s gone outside. From now until tomorrow morning only immediate family are allowed inside; by the next time Mrs. Tafa sees the wreaths, she’ll have forgotten her advice. Like Mama says, she just likes to be important.

  Mr. Bateman circulates, shaking hands and passing out his business card. Neighbors wander up with questions. “We offer a full service,” he confides. “There’s nothing for you to worry about. We even put a picture of your loved one on the funeral program. If you don’t have one, we can take a Polaroid.” He gives them a couple of extra cards to give to friends: “It pays to make these plans in advance. Takes away the stress of last-minute decisions.”

  Meanwhile, Esther prepares the fire and Jonah’s sisters chop vegetables, while the goats are brought in from slaughter. They’ve already been bled. I’m glad. I hate the sound of the squeals, the sight of the dripping, and the smell of the blood that misses the vats and bakes in the ground for weeks.

  Mama and I go inside to be with Sara. At the foot of the ironing board, she suddenly clutches her middle and falls to the floor sobbing. I’m scared. This is the first time Mama’s ever cried in front of me.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “It’s all right. I’m not a baby.” The next thing I know I’m on the floor beside her, crying too. We hold each other, gasping for air. When we can breathe again, we wipe our eyes.

  “I suppose it’s fine to cry in here, just the two of us,” Mama says. “But be careful when we welcome visitors.”

  I nod and do as she says. All afternoon we put on a calm face in public, then come inside to howl.

  Most of our friends and neighbors have brought along a sweater, a pillow, and a mat. They’ll be sleeping over outside. Esther helps me organize their stuff. My school friends say nice things about Sara, but when Esther sees my lip start to quiver she changes the topic to other things, such as rumors about our teachers. “Two years is a long time for Mr. Joy to spend his nights all alone with history essays,” she winks.

  For a second I forget the funeral is tomorrow and I laugh. Then new people arrive. “I’m so sorry,” they say, and my heart’s in my mouth again. I nod my head, shake their hands, say, “Thank you for coming,” and run back inside.

  Hearing “I’m sorry” is nice. What I hate is: “It’s for the best. Sara’s with God.” I want to say, “If being with God’s for the best, why don’t you go kill yourself?” I also hate, “Trust God. He has a reason.” I want to say, “Oh? Is it the same reason He made you stupid and ugly?”

  Thinking those things makes me feel guilty. I want Sara to be with God. I want to believe He has reasons for things. But more than anything, I want Sara alive. I can’t stand that she’s dead. And I hate people trying to make me feel good about it.

  Mrs. Tafa is the worst. While we waited at Bateman’s, she leaned over to Mama and said: “Take comfort, Lilian. The poor thing’s out of her misery.”

  “The poor thing?” I wanted to hit her.

  Then a terrible thought. What if she was right? Sara suffered from the minute she was born. She cried so much, sometimes I forgot she was my sister. I’d think of her as this horrible screeching thing. She had colic. Running sores and rashes, too. It hurt her to move, so she didn’t: she never walked, she barely crawled—a few feeble kicks and fussing, that’s all. Mama and I sang to her and told her stories. She hardly ever listened. Hardly ever talked either. Did the fevers affect her brain? Or was talking too painful because of the blisters on her mouth and throat?

  I don’t know. Nobody knew. Not even the doctors. At least not according to Mama. Early on she took Sara to the hospital. She came home looking like a ghost. She said the doctors couldn’t help, they didn’t know anything. She never went back.

  It was awful. A couple of times I prayed that Sara would die so the crying would stop. Then I slapped myself to make the evil thoughts go away. Now I wonder—did God answer my prayers? Is Sara’s death my fault? I don’t know what to think—or what I thought—or what I should have thought. I don’t even know what I feel.

  I wander around lost and confused.

  Esther tugs my elbow. “Mr. Selalame’s here.”

  Mr. Selalame? I look over. He’s walking towards me. I never dreamed he’d come. He’s important, a teacher; I’m just a student.

  As Mr. Selalame gives me a hug, his wife comes up beside us. She hugs me too. It’s like we know each other without having met.

  The Selalames stay with me while the sun sets. Mama appears. The offer their condolences and she thanks them for coming.

  “Chanda’s one of my favorite students,” Mr. Selalame says. “You must be very proud of her.”

  Mama beams. My heart swells as big as the world.

  The sky glows orange and purple. Torches are lit throughout the yard, and our gathering shakes off its gloom. There are pop cans in a cooler, but some folks nip out to the Sibandas’ shebeen. By ten o’clock the night is alive with singing and dancing. Songs from the villages played by old men on the segaba. And best of all, reggae and hip-hop from the Lesoles’ boom box.

  Mr. Lesole got his
boom box with tips from his job as a cook in a safari camp up north. The neighborhood knows whenever he’s home on break, because the boom box thumps till all hours, and the street by his yard jumps with parties. Sometimes the noise keeps me awake, but the music brings such cheer, and tonight it’s just what we need.

  Friends moving with the music cluster in groups all over the yard. They catch up on each other’s news, or spread Mrs. Tafa’s gossip, or argue with Mr. Nylo the ragpicker about how to choose the best odds and ends for mats.

  By midnight, the goats are off the spit, simmering in stewpots. It’s then that I see Mary by the road, wool cap pulled extra low as if she’s in disguise. She’s gripping the hedge to keep her balance, so drunk she doesn’t feel the cactus needles. She waves a hip flask to get Jonah’s attention. He inches her way.

  I tell two of his brothers-in-law to keep an eye on him, but they’re into the booze, too. Mary runs off with the three of them. Jonah’s sisters form a posse. They track them to the Sibandas and drag them back by the ears.

  About two in the morning, things start to wind down. Some folks sleep under the open tent, but most lie out under the stars. Jonah is stuck in the house under threat of a beating by his sisters, who post themselves at the front door. He stays alone in his bedroom while Mama and I lie awake in the main room with Sara.

  Unfortunately, one of Jonah’s friends slips him drinks through the window. Just before dawn, we find him with five empty cartons of shake-shake, passed out in his own vomit. We barely manage to clean him up by the time Mr. Bateman arrives with the priest.

  Outside the air is as crisp as the sunrise. Most of the gathering have slept well. They rub the night from their eyes and say their “good mornings.” The priest officially opens our home, and they file inside and past the open coffin.

  Back in the yard, everyone sorts themselves into the backs of pickup trucks. Auntie Lizbet and Mrs. Tafa are staying behind to bake the bread. Esther volunteers to help, but Mrs. Tafa says she’d just be in the way. The truth is, Mrs. Tafa doesn’t want her touching the dough for fear she’ll spread her parents’ disease.