Chanda's Secrets

by Allan Stratton

  “I don’t care what you know,” I say. “Esther’s in trouble. She’s my friend.”

  “You think your mama wants her babies living with a whore?”

  “What Esther’s done, she’s done for her family. Keeping a family together whatever it takes—that’s something Mama understands.”

  “Don’t mention your mama and that little bitch in the same breath,” Mrs. Tafa thunders. “Esther Macholo can sleep with the pigs, for all I care. But she’s not sleeping next door to me. Either you kick her out or I do.”

  My guts clench. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tafa. I’m not kicking her out. She’s staying right where she is, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to use your phone to let Mama know.”

  Mrs. Tafa hoots. “Nothing I can do about it? As long as that slut’s under your roof, you’ll never use my phone. You’ll never speak to your mama again.”

  “Oh, yes, I will,” I hear myself say. “I’ll speak to her one way or another. When I do, I’ll—I’ll—I’ll tell her you made me whore for the money to use a pay phone!”

  Mrs. Tafa wobbles backwards. “What?”

  “You heard me. I’ll tell the whole neighborhood!”

  She clutches her chest. “That tramp’s under your roof one night, and listen to your filth! It’s the devil talking!” She points to her phone. “Go ahead then, Jezebel. Use it, if it means so much to you. Use it and be damned.” She runs outside.

  I panic: What did I just say? Never mind, I tell myself, it was worth it to see the old goat twitch. I’m shaking as the operator makes the connection to Tiro. The general dealer answers on the fourth ring. There’s laughter in the background. I picture a group of men sitting by an old Coca-Cola cooler playing cards and smoking.

  “Yeah?” says the dealer with a hearty voice.

  “Mr. Kamwendo?”

  “That’s me.”

  “It’s Chanda Kabelo. Remember me?”

  “Yeah. Your granny and grampa are the Thelas. You called a while back when your sister passed.”

  “Yes, and, well, as you probably know, my mama’s visiting Granny and Grampa, and, well, could you please give her a message?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Tell her everything’s going well and we all miss her and to please call, I have to talk to her.”

  I hear a clunk as if he’s put the receiver down on the counter. Then I hear him talking to a customer and a cash register opening. There’s the sound of a little bell and a screen door opening and banging shut.

  “Hello?” I say. I hear the receiver bounce on the floor and some swearing. “Hello? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “So you got my message?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell Mama to make sure to speak to me. Not the neighbor lady.”

  “Sure thing.”

  I want to ask him if he’s seen her, if she’s well, if everything’s okay. I want to ask him so much. But if I do, maybe he’ll wonder why I’m asking. Maybe he’ll know something’s wrong. Maybe he’ll spread things. So I don’t ask anything. I just say: “Thank you.”

  I hang up. An emptiness swallows me. A second ago I was talking to someone only a five-minute walk from Mama. I was that close to her. And now she’s hundreds of miles away again.

  And I don’t know how she is.

  And I don’t know why she hasn’t called.

  And I’m afraid to find out.

  32

  BY LATE AFTERNOON, Esther’s swelling is worse. By nighttime, she’s unrecognizable. Iris and Soly say hello through the curtain, but she doesn’t want anyone but me to see her.

  She stays behind the curtain until the middle of the week. I bring her food, but she doesn’t eat much even when I spoonfeed it. I leave her a potty and empty it in the outhouse at sunset and daybreak.

  Around about Thursday, Esther makes her first steps into the living area. Tiny steps, like an old woman. I hold her by the elbow to keep her from falling down. I also hide the hand mirror by the front door so she won’t see what she looks like. It doesn’t matter. She can tell by the stares she gets from Soly and Iris.

  Back in her room, Esther touches the sides of her head. It hurts her to lift her hands and elbows, but it hurts her even more to imagine what she can’t see. “I’m ugly,” she weeps. “I wish they’d killed me.”

  I ignore the last part. “It’s just a little swelling,” I say. “It’ll come down.” I hope so. Her head’s full of lumps, like a bag stuffed with marula nuts. There’s a puckering around the stitches. I pat them clean with a cotton towel and boiled water, but it doesn’t make a difference.

  Meanwhile, things with Mrs. Tafa are really tense. She keeps babysitting Soly, but she ignores me. The morning after our fight, she stayed out of sight when I lifted him over the hedge.

  When I got back at lunch, she was in her lawn chair. I hollered hello. She pretended to be sleeping. I hollered again. She turned her back.

  “Mrs. Tafa,” I said, “thanks for letting me use your phone yesterday. I’m sorry I was rude.”

  She got up and walked into her house. Since then we haven’t said a word to each other. It’s gotten so uncomfortable, I try not to be outside at the same time as her. She’ll never forgive me. Not until I get rid of Esther. And I won’t do that, ever.

  Mealtimes are the worst. Mrs. Tafa manages to get Iris and Soly into her house right beforehand and spoils them with treats. At first they claimed they couldn’t hear me calling them. So I started ringing a cowbell. That worked on Soly. Not Iris.

  The first time she refused to come, I said, “Soly, is Mrs. Tafa keeping Iris inside her place?”

  His little eyes got big as moons. “If I tell, they’ll be mad at me.”

  “Well, if you don’t tell, I’ll be mad at you.”

  “I know. So what am I supposed to do?”

  I didn’t know what to answer. I just told him to wash his hands and come to the table. Around about the time we were cleaning up, the Little Herself strolled in, eager to let Soly know about the candies he missed.

  “Iris,” I said, “Mama put me in charge. From now on, you come when I call.”

  “I’ll come when I want,” she taunted. “Maybe I won’t even come at all.”

  “Iris—”

  She stuck out her tongue, put her hands over her ears and ran around the table yelling at the top of her lungs. I wrestled her to the ground. Sat on her. “You’re going to listen to me, Iris.”

  “Leave me alone. This isn’t my real home. You aren’t my real sister. I hate you.”

  I hate you? I thought I was going to die. I went limp. Iris pushed me off and ran outside.

  “You should lock her up in her room,” said Esther.

  “She’d just get out. Then she’d go to Mrs. Tafa. Next thing you know she’d be staying there.” I buried my face in my hands. “Why does she hate me?”

  “She doesn’t hate you.”

  I want to ask Mrs. Tafa to back me up. But she won’t. She wants to be the boss. And she has treats to give. I can’t compete.

  I can’t eat much anymore, either. Or sleep. What if Mama never comes back? What if something happens to her when she does? Will Mrs. Tafa take over? Will she steal my family? How can I stop her?

  I wander into the yard in the middle of the night and sit at the side of the house, praying my magic stork will appear. “Please, mma moleane, visit me again. Bring me another dream-vision of Mama.” Of course it doesn’t. I knew it wouldn’t. There’s no such thing as magic. The stork I saw was just a stork. It lives by the Kawkee dam. It came here by accident. It’ll never come again.

  The weekend passes. Mrs. Tafa does the cemetery tour without me. There’s still no word from Mama. It’s been two weeks since she left. A week since I phoned. Why hasn’t she called back?

  I want to bang on Mrs. Tafa’s door and yell: “Mama’s phoned, hasn’t she? She wouldn’t leave us like this. Not all alone without a word.”

>   But if I bang on her door, what difference would it make? Mrs. Tafa wouldn’t tell me. Even if she did, I wouldn’t believe her.

  I live with this terrible not-knowing into the next week. Then, Tuesday afternoon, something happens. Something so terrible Mama’s sure to come home.

  33

  TUESDAY MORNING I TELL IRIS AND SOLY I’ll be late for lunch. “I have to stay at school to do a makeup test for English,” I say. “But don’t worry. Esther will be here. There’s soup left over from last night. She’ll give you a bowl.”

  “Who cares about your soup?” Iris says. “We’ll be at Mrs. Tafa’s. Mrs. Tafa has figs. Mrs. Tafa has cookies. Mrs. Tafa has everything.”

  “Iris, I don’t have time to argue.”

  “Good. ’Cause I don’t have time to listen.” She takes off for school.

  I lift Soly over Mrs. Tafa’s hedge, and catch up to Iris on my bike. Actually, I don’t quite catch up; I stay two blocks behind her. For the past week, she’s refused to walk with me. If I don’t stay back, she squats on the ground and refuses to budge.

  Where’s the Iris who loved me? She’s gone. I’m a failure.

  We near the kindergarten playground. Iris runs into one of the Sibanda kids and little Lena Gambe. I let her walk the rest of the way with them. There’s so much to do before class. I haven’t read anything in ages and I have that English test. Mr. Selalame would give me another extension, but I’m too embarrassed to ask. He’s been too good to me.

  I get to the library before the bell and try to concentrate. I can’t. All I can think is: Why is everything such a struggle? Why do I fight with Mrs. Tafa? Maybe it’s good that Iris and Soly are getting treats I can’t afford. And it’s good they get to see so much of Mr. Tafa. Maybe I’m just jealous. Maybe I’m just selfish. Maybe I’m the problem.

  The whole morning is like that: My body’s in school, but my mind is somewhere else. At lunch, Mr. Selalame sits behind his desk marking while I write the test. Or try to. I stare at the questions like an idiot. My mind is a blank. I write a couple of words, and scribble them out. I fill in the holes in the a’s, o’s, d’s, and p’s.

  It’s no use. My eyes fill. I pull myself to my feet.

  Mr. Selalame looks up from his work. “What’s the matter?”

  “Everything!” I head to the door, bumping into desks.

  “Chanda, wait. Talk to me.”

  I want to! I want to tell him about Mama, Esther, Mrs. Tafa, Iris—how I’m so scared I can’t breathe, and I don’t know what to do. But all I can say is, “I let you down. I promised to do my work and I can’t. I can’t do anything.”

  Before Mr. Selalame can stop me, I’m out the door.

  When I get home, Soly’s in the front yard. He’s blowing bits of chicken down off his hands, watching them float in the air.

  “Did you have your soup?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “And Iris?”

  He shakes his head.

  I go inside. Esther’s at the table. “Have you seen Iris?”

  “No,” she says. “I think she’s at Mrs. Tafa’s.”

  I know I should check, but I can’t face Mrs. Tafa. Not to mention Iris with a mouth full of figs. I curl up on my mattress and cover my head with a pillow.

  Next thing I know, I hear screaming and crying, a banging at the door. I leap to my feet as Mrs. Tafa barges into the house. She’s shaking hysterically. “Chanda, come quick,” she cries. “There’s been an accident at the junkyard.”

  There’s a huge crowd by the time we arrive. Clusters of neighbors and strangers bunch near the road between the ambulance and the police cars. Some crane their necks for a better look at the action at the rear of the property. Others huddle amongst themselves. I hear bits of things like, “It should never have happened,” “Such a tragedy,” and “So young, so young.”

  Mrs. Tafa and I stumble through piles of old tires, paint cans, scraps of barbed wire. The crowd gets thicker the closer we get to the abandoned well. “Out of the way!” Mrs. Tafa yells. “Family coming through.” She elbows ahead with one arm while pulling me behind with the other.

  Police are keeping people back. They’ve cordoned the area around the well, stringing rope to a couple of upturned wagons and the rusted hulk of an old car. “Chanda Kabelo, sister of the little girl,” Mrs. Tafa says. A policeman lets us under the rope and takes us aside.

  “All we know is what we’ve got from Ezekiel Sibanda and Lena Gambe. You know them?”

  I nod. Lena and Ezekiel go to school with Iris. I see Ezekiel close by with his parents. His papa’s holding him. His mama’s wailing on the ground.

  “They’re pretty shaken up,” the cop continues. “Each time they tell what happened it’s a little different. But this is how we’ve pieced it together.” He clears his throat. I brace myself and listen.

  It seems that Ezekiel, Lena, and Iris didn’t stay at school this morning. Mrs. Ndori was sick. Again. As soon as she took the attendance, she lay down in a corner. Ezekiel, Lena, and Iris took off. This has been happening a lot, the last month.

  The three of them came to the junkyard, where they met Ezekiel’s little brother Paulo, the one who wears juice cartons for shoes. Ezekiel had sneaked some shake-shake from the family shebeen. Pretty soon they were all drunk.

  Iris tottered to the well. She balanced over the lip, calling, “Hello, down there.” When the others wanted to know what she was doing, she said her baby sister Sara lived at the bottom. Ezekiel and Lena didn’t believe her, but little Paulo did. He said he wanted to see her.

  Ezekiel found an old bucket on a chain. Paulo got in. Ezekiel, Lena, and Iris started to lower him down the well. Except the chain wasn’t long enough to reach the bottom. They tried to pull him back up, but they didn’t have the strength. They called for help. Nobody heard.

  Lena panicked and let go. The extra weight was too much for Iris and Ezekiel. The chain slipped. The bucket banged against the stone walls. Paulo fell out. He screamed till he hit the bottom with a thud. The kids called to him, but there was no answer.

  Iris said it was all her fault, she was going to climb down and bring him back up. Ezekiel said she was drunk and stupid and she’d just get herself killed. He and Lena ran off for a grownup. When they returned with the neighborhood, Iris had disappeared.

  I see the empty cartons of shake-shake on the ground. I run to the well. No one could survive a drop like that. I don’t care. I call down: “Iris? Iris?”

  I’m sobbing as Mrs. Tafa starts to pull me away. And then I hear a sound. A whimpering, like in my dream. “Chanda?... Chanda?” But the voice isn’t coming from down the well-hole. It’s coming from inside an oil bin a stone’s throw away. The bin is on its side. Garbage bags spill from its mouth. I watch as the bags are pushed away—as a little body crawls out of its hiding place.

  Iris!

  Mrs. Tafa kneels down to scoop her up, but Iris runs past her and into my arms. “Chanda, Chanda. I’m sorry. I’ll never be bad again. Please don’t hate me. Please. I’m so scared.”

  I hold her tight. “It’s okay,” I say. “I love you. It’s okay.”

  A fire truck roars up to the junkyard. Three firemen break through the crowd. Their leader rappels down the inside of the well. The other two aim flashlights down to help him see.

  There’s a pause. Then the fireman calls out: “I’ve got him. It’s a miracle. He’s unconscious. But he’s alive!”

  The crowd cheers as Paulo is raised to the surface. Still, miracles don’t just happen. There’s a reason Paulo didn’t die. Something cushioned his fall. That something is why the fireman throws up. It’s why the police tell everyone to move farther away. It’s why the firemen return to the well-hole and rappel down again. This time, all three of them.

  What they bring back to the light is a nightmare. Something bent and twisted. Dried out of shape. Draped in rotting cloth. At first, people don’t know what it is. But I do.

  I’d recognize Jonah’s striped bandanna a
nywhere.

  34

  JONAH’S BODY IS TAKEN TO THE CITY MORGUE.

  Iris is fine, except for a little rawness where the chain slid through her hands. After she’s checked over, Mrs. Tafa and I get her back home. The whole way, Mrs. Tafa sings hymns of joy, babbles about miracles, and rants that the city of Bonang should fence up all its junkyards. Apparently the two of us are talking again. Lucky me.

  I put Iris to bed to sleep off the shake-shake. Then while Esther watches over her and Soly, I go to see Mrs. Tafa. She’s already on her lawn chair soothing her nerves with a lemonade.

  “I need to call Mama,” I say.

  “What for?”

  “To let her know about Jonah. She’ll want to make the arrangements.”

  Mrs. Tafa sucks the last drops of lemonade up her straw. “That man is no concern of hers. The sonofabitch left, remember? Good riddance, may he rest in peace, or you’d be up to your ears in expenses.” I’m about to argue, but Mrs. Tafa doesn’t want to fight. She waves me toward the house. “You know where it is.”

  I thank her, phone Tiro, and tell the general dealer my step-papa’s passed. “Can you get my mama to call home right away?”

  “Yeah.”

  Heading home, I ask Mrs. Tafa to holler as soon as there’s a ring: “I’ll be outside working in the garden.”

  I till the earth for fresh vegetable rows. I water and weed. Before I know it, it’s suppertime. And Mama hasn’t called. It doesn’t make sense. Jonah is dead. She’d have called if she could. What’s wrong? Before I can find out, Auntie Ruth drives up with her boyfriend. He stays in the Corvette listening to the radio while she greets me at the end of the bean rows.

  “I’m sorry about your brother,” I say.

  “Jonah. Yes. Thank you. That’s why I’m here. Is your mama around?”