Chanda's Secrets

by Allan Stratton

  I look deep in her eyes. One of them’s swollen again. “The beatings aren’t from your auntie, are they? They’re from ‘working.’”

  Esther shudders. She nods.

  “Esther,” I say, “I’m going to ask a very private question. But I really want the truth.” I take a deep breath. “Do you use condoms?”

  An uncomfortable pause. “I always bring some.”

  “That’s not my question.”

  “It’s not that simple,” she pleads. “The guys don’t like them. If I try to make them use them, they’ll go to somebody else.”

  “Let them. Better that than get AIDS.”

  “What do you mean, get AIDS?” She stands up, really upset. “You make it sound like I’m a whore. I’m not. This is only for now. Once I get my brothers and sister back, things’ll be different.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. They’ll be different, that’s all.”

  I laugh bitterly. “Your brothers and sister saw their mama and papa die. Now they’ll see you die, too. That’s very different. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it, knowing you did it all for them.”

  “Go to hell!”

  A car pulls up. The driver leans over. He could be somebody’s grandpa. He motions us over with his hand.

  Esther fixes me with a stare. “Suppose I do get AIDS. Suppose I die. So what? It can’t be worse than this. Now get out of my way. I have work to do.”

  21

  ALL NIGHT I HAVE BAD DREAMS. Esther’s under that bridge in hooker park. She’s pawed by old men who turn into skeletons. She’s chased by the living dead. She’s crawling up a sewer pipe. Sores erupt all over her body.

  I wake up terrified. My friend’s going to be infected. She’s going to get AIDS. I know it. I can’t stop it. Nobody can. For all I know, it’s already happened.

  I recite like crazy—ABCDEFG—ABCDEFG—ABCDEFG—It doesn’t work. My mind won’t quit. I need to talk to somebody. But who? Kids at school would spread it around. Mama would make me stop seeing Esther.

  I pray for help, but the words stick in my throat. “God, where are You?” I cry. “I want to believe, but You make it so hard.”

  I must have fallen asleep again because next thing I know Iris is shaking my shoulder: “Mama says get up or you’ll be late for school.”

  Mama’s already awake? I jump out of bed. Not only is Mama awake, she’s in the kitchen making porridge. Is this another dream?

  She sees me staring bug-eyed. “You’ve been doing far too much lately,” she says. “Today it’s my turn.”

  “Mama?”

  “Don’t ask me why, but I slept like a baby. Those herbs. It’s amazing.”

  I try not to show too much excitement. Before class I check the encyclopedias in the school library. Sure enough, all the herbs Mr. Chilume gave Mama are listed. The encyclopedias say they’re used in traditional medicines for digestion, fatigue and sleep disorders. Maybe Mr. Chilume isn’t a quack after all.

  After class I hurry home. I’ve gotten used to finding Mama in bed. Instead, today I find her sitting outside with Mrs. Tafa. She’s wearing a fresh dress and a bright kerchief.

  “Have a good day?” she asks. Her voice sparkles like I haven’t heard in weeks.

  “Really good,” I say.

  “Me too,” she smiles. “I was just telling Mrs. Tafa, one day of treatment and I feel like a whole new person.”

  Mama’s still unsteady on her feet, but she’s got a lot more energy. Before supper she’s able to chop potatoes for the soup, and afterwards to tell Iris and Soly a story using rags for hand puppets.

  I’m not the only one to notice the change. Next day, Mrs. Tafa waves me over on my way to the standpipe. “Your mama’s doing so much better,” she whispers. “Yesterday, outside, talking. And this afternoon, why, I had her for a walk to the store.”

  “It’s almost too good to be true!” I say, walking on air.

  “‘Oh ye of little faith,’” Mrs. Tafa nods smugly. “Dr. Chilume’s a genius.”

  I bite my tongue. Whether Mama’s recovery is because of Mr. Chilume’s herbs—or Mama’s belief in his herbs—it doesn’t matter. She’s starting to be Mama again. It’s a miracle.

  All week she makes progress. She spends more and more time outside, manages some errands, and best of all never stops smiling. I’m so happy I find myself singing for no reason.

  The miracle comes to an end on Friday evening.

  Mama’s clearing plates after dinner. Out of the blue, she stiffens. The dishes crash to the floor. Mama sucks in her breath and grabs for a chair, her face frozen in pain. For a second she stands suspended. Then, she drops like a stone.

  “Bed. Get me to bed.” She clutches her head in agony.

  Iris and Soly hide under the table as I drag Mama to her room. She’s ripping the kerchief from her forehead. Now I see why she hasn’t been rubbing her temples. It isn’t because of the herbs. It’s because of a tensor bandage. She’s hidden it under her kerchief. Tied it so tight I’m surprised it hasn’t taken her head off.

  I watch in horror as her magical recovery vanishes before my eyes. Her energy’s shriveled back up. She’s small again. Frail.

  “It’s no use,” she moans. “Nothing works. Not the herbs. Not anything.”

  “That’s a lie,” I cry. “You’ve had a spasm. That’s all. You’re getting better. You have to. For Iris. And Soly. And me. Please, Mama. Please. You’ve got to try.”

  “I am trying,” she weeps. “I’ve been trying as hard as I can.”

  22

  NEXT MORNING MAMA RESTS IN BED. When I go out to feed the chickens, I see Mrs. Tafa sipping lemonade. We nod, but we don’t say anything. She knows.

  Soly and Iris stay by Mama. Me, I keep outside, working hard so I won’t have to think—about Mama, Esther, or anything. Late afternoon, I’m chopping firewood when Jonah’s sister, Auntie Ruth, drives up with her boyfriend. Their rusty Corvette drags a two-wheeled wooden wagon. It stinks.

  Auntie Ruth’s boyfriend honks the horn and hollers: “End of the line!”

  Auntie Ruth taps his arm. “Let me handle this.” She gets out of the car. “Chanda, is your mama home?”

  “She’s sleeping.”

  “It’s about Jonah.”

  “What about Jonah?”

  Auntie Ruth bites her lip. “He came by our place near a month ago. Said he’d left your mama, needed a place to stay. We thought a day or two, he’d head back home. Instead he took to raving.”

  “He was probably drunk.”

  “It wasn’t the drink.”

  Auntie Ruth’s boyfriend gets out of the car. “We haven’t got all day,” he says. He grabs a pitchfork from the back seat and kicks the wagon so fierce the side boards shake. “You in there. Out, now—or I’ll pitch you out like a bale of durra.”

  Iris and Soly stick their heads out the front door.

  “Go back inside,” I say.

  “Yes, and get your mama!” Auntie Ruth shouts.

  Mrs. Tafa gets up from her lawn chair. She peers over the hedge and calls Mr. Tafa to join her. Down the road, the Lesoles turn off their boom box and wander up for a look. Other neighbors collect, too. The Sibandas. Mr. Nylo the ragpicker. In fact, everyone we know.

  Auntie Ruth’s boyfriend waves the pitchfork over the end of the wagon. “Are you deaf?” he shouts. “I said, out!”

  An unearthly wail from the wagon’s floor. I look over the side boards.

  “I’m sorry,” Auntie Ruth says. “We can’t keep him. He has to go.”

  I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can’t take my eyes off the creature huddled in the corner. It’s Jonah. No. It’s what’s left of Jonah. He’s a skeleton. The flesh has been sucked out from under his skin. The skin’s dried so tight to his skull that the bridge of his nose has ripped through. His striped bandanna has slipped from his forehead. It hangs around his neck like a noose. His old navy suit flows over his bones like rivers of cloth. Flies are eating him alive.

>   Auntie Ruth’s boyfriend pokes him with the pitchfork. “I said out!”

  “No!” Jonah shrieks. “Kill me!” He clutches the shaft of the pitchfork and tries to drive the spikes into his chest. “Don’t leave me here! Kill me!”

  Mama comes out of the house. She makes her way to the wagon, supported by her walking stick. At the sight of her, Jonah’s so frightened he lets go of the pitchfork. He rises on stick legs and reels his head to our neighbors. “Two of my babies died in her belly. My baby Sara died from her milk.” Sweat pours down his face. “I have good blood. Good seed. She laid a curse on me.”

  Auntie Ruth’s boyfriend unhitches the wagon. It upends. Jonah topples back to the floor.

  “Jonah, forgive me,” Auntie Ruth weeps as she scrambles back into the car. Her eyes plead with Mama. “We have children of our own. It isn’t safe.” Her boyfriend revs the engine and the Corvette tears off, leaving the wagon with Jonah sprawled inside.

  “Listen to me, Jonah,” Mama says from the end of the wagon. “We’ll get you to a doctor.”

  “I don’t need no doctor.” He claws his way over the side wall. “It’s you that did this to me.” He falls headfirst to the ground, wobbles back to his feet and squints into the crowd. He sees Mary hiding behind a cluster of neighbors, cap pulled low. “Mary? Is that you?” He totters toward her.

  The crowd gasps. It pulls back. Mary tries to keep behind the Sibandas, but they grab her by the elbows and push her to the front.

  “Mary, help me,” Jonah begs.

  “I don’t know you!”

  “Yes, you do. It’s me. Jonah.”

  “No! You’re a dead man! A scarecrow!”

  “Please, Mary! You and me—”

  “Keep away!” Mary cries in terror.

  Jonah reaches out his arms to her.

  “I’m warning you!” Mary grabs a fistful of stones. “Keep away!”

  But Jonah doesn’t listen. He staggers forward.

  Mary whips the stones at his head. “Keep away! Keep away!”

  The stones spray over Jonah’s face. A cut opens over his left eye. He stops. Rocks back and forth in shock. His arms fall to his sides. He sinks to the ground, blinking back tears of blood. Then he covers his head with his hands and sobs.

  The neighbors look away. There’s an awful silence except for the sobbing. And then the voice of Mrs. Tafa: “Get yourself home, Leo,” she yells to her husband. She’s already indoors with her shutters closed.

  Mr. Tafa lowers his head and shuffles off slowly. After a moment, so does everyone else. One by one they drift away, vanishing back inside their homes, until the entire road, and even the yards along the road, are empty.

  Mary’s the last to leave. “Sorry, old friend,” she whispers to Jonah. “I didn’t mean nothin’.” Jonah howls, and suddenly Mary’s running down the road as if her life depended on it.

  Mama kneels beside him. Jonah won’t look at her or speak. “You can stay out here or come inside,” Mama says. “Either way, we’ll bring you a blanket and a bowl of water.”

  She squeezes my arm and I help her to the house. Inside, she makes her way back to bed. “Can I leave you to take care of things?”

  I’m not sure, but I nod. I try and remember what the doctor said at Esther’s. When I bring the water and blanket to Jonah, I have my hands in plastic bags. Jonah has crawled under the wagon. He’s curled in a ball, facing away from me. I put the water near his head. He shivers as I tuck the blanket around him.

  “Rest easy,” I say. He doesn’t answer. His eyes are glassy. I’m not sure he even knows I’m there.

  I hurry over to the Tafas and knock on the door.

  “Stay still. She’ll think we’re out,” I hear Mrs. Tafa whisper.

  “I’m not deaf,” I shout. “I know you’re in there. Jonah’s in a bad way. Can I use your phone to call a doctor?”

  “Leave us out of this,” Mrs. Tafa calls out. “It’s none of our business.”

  “That’s never mattered to you before!”

  Never mind, I think. The hospital’s not far. I let Mama know where I’m going, then hop on my bike and start to pedal. The air against my face feels good. My mind clears. But the second it does, the world floods in. My body trembles. I fall off my bike. I vomit at the side of the road.

  Jonah has AIDS. And Jonah’s slept with Mama.

  I think about their dead babies.

  And Mama’s headaches. Her weariness. Her joints. The way she’s gotten so thin. No wonder the herbs didn’t work. Mama’s problem isn’t sleep or arthritis or fatigue. It’s bigger. It’s—

  Mama! Please, God, no!

  23

  I BIKE THE REST OF THE WAY TO THE HOSPITAL, telling myself not to panic. Maybe Jonah got infected since Mama’s last miscarriage. Maybe they’d stopped having sex. Maybe Mama’s headaches are from grief, after all. Maybe she’s all right.

  Maybe.

  I chain my bike to a link fence next to the hospital’s emergency wing and run inside, almost knocking over a man on crutches. The lobby is packed. Even the window ledges are full. Women rock howling babies, men hold rags to open wounds, old folks squat on the floor, and screaming children run wild. Beyond, the corridors burst with stretchers: some surrounded by relatives, some covered in death sheets waiting to be taken to the morgue.

  “Number 148?” The voice is coming from behind a counter. I see a sign that says Reception. A few dozen people bunch in front of it. I push my way through.

  “I need an ambulance, right away,” I say to the receptionist.

  “Are you 148?”

  “No. But this is an emergency!”

  “So is this,” she says, with a glance at the ward.

  “I’m 148,” says the woman behind me. Her face is covered in blisters.

  I retreat and take a number from the peg on the nearby wall. Number 172. I’ll be waiting forever.

  Forever passes in a whir of orderlies, patients, nurses, cries, wails, buzzers, bells, and worries. When it’s my turn, the receptionist buzzes me through the door beside her counter and into a room full of privacy screens and filing cabinets. Between the partitions, nurses are taking notes from patients and relatives. Some are hysterical.

  I’m greeted by an older woman with wire-rim glasses. The name tag on her uniform says “Nurse B. Viser.” She leads me to her desk. It’s covered in file folders, stacks of multi-colored forms, and a box of tissues. There’s only one chair, a card table chair. She offers it to me and props herself against the end of the desk.

  “If I could get a little personal information,” she says, picking up a pen and clipboard.

  I give her my name, age, street, and section number.

  “Good,” she smiles, and taps the end of her pen against her chin. “Now then, what can I do for you?”

  I fill with fear. I can’t say the problem out loud. I don’t want it written down or connected to my family.

  “A man’s been beaten,” I say. “He’s bleeding under a wagon in front of my house.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  “No. He doesn’t need the police. He needs a doctor.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Nurse Viser, “we don’t have enough doctors for house calls. Call the police. If his injuries are serious, they’ll bring him over.”

  “No, they won’t,” I say. “They won’t touch him. They won’t even go near him. Nobody will.” I hold my breath and pray no one’s listening. “He’s very thin,” I whisper.

  Nurse Viser understands. She puts down her clipboard and takes my hand. “I’ll put him on the list for a caseworker,” she says. “But the earliest she can come is a week Monday. Your patient will still need a place to stay. There’s no room for him here. Who are his family?”

  “He doesn’t have one anymore.” My eyes begin to well. “And he won’t come inside.”

  Nurse Viser hands me a tissue. “No, thank you,” I say. “I’m fine.” I give directions to get to our house, and describe what it looks like so
the caseworker can find it.

  She writes it all down. “Until we can see him, make sure he’s covered and given plenty of water.”

  “I’ve already done that.”

  “Good. The caseworker can give him an AIDS test to confirm your suspicions. In the meantime, be safe: use these whenever he needs changing.” She reaches into a cupboard and hands me a box of rubber gloves.

  I lower my eyes.

  “It’s hard, isn’t it?” Nurse Viser says gently. She hugs me.

  It’s past sundown by the time I leave the hospital. The main strip is bright with neon lights, but the side streets are dark, except for the headlights of slow-moving cars trolling for hookers. The strip ends at the edge of downtown. I keep to the main roads, streaking through the patches of night that fall between the street lamps.

  All the while, I think: should I have told Nurse Viser about Mama? About her problems? About my fears? I don’t know. It’s too confusing. Let sleeping dogs lie.

  I reach my section. Something isn’t right. It’s too quiet for a Saturday. Where’s the singing? The yard parties? Nowhere, that’s where. Even the Lesoles’ boom box is still. Two blocks from home, I spot a funeral tent. At last, I think, people. I ride up expecting to see some life. But the mourners sit around the firepit, frozen as corpses.

  A cold knot grows in my stomach. It gets bigger the closer I get to home. A lamp glows in the main room. Soly and Iris are at the window, peeking out from between the slats of the shutters. Everything is as it should be. And yet...

  Before heading in, I go to the wagon. Jonah’s bowl is overturned by the yard-side wheel. I kneel and peer into the darkness underneath. “Jonah?”

  I listen hard for a chatter of teeth, a whisper of breath, a rustle of blanket. Nothing.

  “Jonah?” I say again.

  A voice comes out of the night behind me. “Jonah’s gone.”