If people are not calling with stories like that, then they are calling to ask for U.S. dollars to buy food because things are now being paid for in U.S. dollars and South African rands. These are the phone calls Aunt Fostalina dreads the most, so much so that she almost doesn’t even want to answer the phone anymore. The calls just keep coming and coming like maybe they’ve heard Aunt Fostalina is married to the Bank of America.
Today, it’s Mother on the phone. I am glad to hear her voice so I start smiling. I miss her so much sometimes it makes me dizzy but then there is nothing I can do about it. I can tell from how she sounds that everything is all right, so I relax.
How was it falling? Mother says.
Falling? I say, racking my brain to figure out what she means.
Falling from where? I say.
Falling from the sky because I apparently did not give birth to you. Maybe an angel did because otherwise you’d know you actually had a mother and you’d maybe call her every once in a while to see how she’s doing, Mother says. I don’t say anything because I’m not sure what’s the right thing to say. The last time I spoke to her was maybe two, three weeks ago. Four weeks; I don’t remember.
Darling, am I not talking to you?
I’ve been pretty busy, I say.
Yes, you’ve been busy because I hear now you have a job and a wife and children to take care of. And I see that America has taught you to speak English to your mother, and with that accent. He-he-he, so you are trying to sound white now! she says, then she is laughing hysterically and it’s hard to tell if she is serious or not. I start to call her crazy but I hold it and tell myself that it is one of the American things I don’t want to do, so I just roll my eyes instead. On TV, on the Maury show and Jerry Springer and stuff, I’ve seen these kids calling their mothers crazy and bitches and whores. I’ve practiced the words, but I know I’ll never say them aloud to my mother or any other adult.
Did you give Aunt Fostalina my message? she says.
Yes, I say. My heart skips a beat but I keep my voice level so she can’t tell I’m lying. I chose not to tell Aunt Fostalina that Mother had said to see about sending money to buy a satellite dish from her neighbor’s son who was importing the dishes from China.
I had meant to give Aunt Fostalina the message, but then when she came in from her second job later that night, her body looking like a sack, and threw herself on the La-Z-Boy and let out a tired sigh, I just didn’t have the courage.
Well, make sure you tell her again. We need the dish, why do you want to enjoy the fine things all by yourselves in that America? Mother says. Anyway, your friends are here.
My friends? I say.
Yes, I saw them just wandering about and invited them in, who knows what they were up to. Stay right there.
Now I am aware of the chatter of familiar voices in the background. Godknows’s and Sbho’s voices stand out and I get goose bumps just from hearing them talk. There is a strange feeling coming over me and I feel this dizziness and I have to sit down. Time dissolves like we are in a movie scene and I have maybe entered the telephone and traveled through the lines to go home. I’ve never left, and I’m ten again and we are playing country-game and Find bin Laden and Andy-over. We’re teasing Godknows for his peeking buttocks, we’re watching a fight, we’re imitating the church people, we’re watching somebody get buried. We’re hungry but we’re together and we’re at home and everything is sweeter than dessert.
Are you there? I said, what are you doing? It’s Sbho’s voice.
Nothing, I say.
Nothing? You mean nothing-nothing?
Well—
How can she do nothing in America? That doesn’t even make sense! I hear Godknows say in the background.
I’m coming from school, I say, trying not to be irritated.
You’re coming from school? She says she is coming from school, and here it’s early evening, ha-ha, Sbho says, half to me and half to the others. I hear them laugh, but I can’t figure out why they are laughing. Time difference? Please.
Have you seen Victoria Beckham? Kim Kardashian? Lady Gaga? Oprah? Have you been to New York? Hollywood? What are you wearing now? Do you have white friends? What are their names? Sbho is speaking in questions and I don’t know how to respond because everything is coming out all at once, like a rap song. Then Godknows saves the day by snatching the phone because I hear Sbho protest and beg him to give the phone back. Then I hear Mother’s voice announcing that her phone is not a toy.
Wassup, Darling, how you doing, boo? Are you pretty good? Godknows says. I start to respond but then he is already talking over me: I heard all that talk from your mother’s TV. That’s how you talk over there in America, you know wha’m saying, my nigga, wassup with all the whores and motherfuckers over there? How’s New York? How’s my man Obama? he says, and I laugh a small laugh because I don’t really know how to respond. Then there is an awkward silence, the silence of waiting.
Well, so, in just a few months I’m going to live in Dubai. My uncle finally left London and is now working over there, he’s coming to get me and I’ll leave this kaka country too, Godknows says, as if this is something he’s just remembered. I know from his voice that he is smiling his wide smile.
That’s nice, Godknows, I say.
Yes, it is nice, he says.
There is silence again, but it’s broken by a long scream coming from the basement, followed by giggles. I have almost forgotten Kristal and Marina are still down there. Now I know they went on to watch flicks without me and this pisses me off. I don’t know when Godknows gets off the phone but I suddenly find myself talking to Bastard.
How is Destroyedmichygen? Bastard says. His voice has broken and it sounds strange; it’s like I’m talking to somebody I don’t know.
Destroyed what? Oh, Detroit! It’s good, but I don’t live there anymore. I live in Kalamazoo now, we moved not too long after I got there.
Did they make you leave?
No, not really. We just left.
You know you are lucky, Darling, he says after a while. His voice sounds tired and I don’t know what to say to him so I just keep quiet.
Can you send me a Lady Gaga shirt and an iPod? I hear Sbho shout in the background.
What is happening over there? Chipo says when she comes on the phone.
What’s happening? I say. I hear another scream from downstairs. A fat fly flies across the living room and sits on a pizza that somebody left lying around. I pick up a newspaper to kill it but when I look up it is gone.
Yes, outside. What do you see when you look outside? Are there people and what are they doing? Chipo says.
I look outside, through the lace curtain. The street is empty, like maybe Martha Stewart was here and cleaned everything up. When I start to tell Chipo that nothing is happening, a bunch of police cars zip down the street, lights flashing, sirens screaming. I count seven of them.
Just some police cars going down the street, I say.
Where are they going? Are they going to arrest somebody? Are there criminals over there? What did they do? Are you going to go outside and see? she says. In the background I hear Godknows ask, What’s happenin’, what are the motherfuckers doin’ in America?
I move the phone from one ear to the other, cradling it between my head and shoulder. I’m feeling a little spent; I just don’t know how to deal with all these crazy questions. I lean toward the glass table and start to play with the mail. A card addressed to TK that says Join the U.S. Army, a pink Victoria’s Secret envelope, a red JCPenney envelope, a thing from Pizza Hut, an envelope with a plastic key taped outside, a Bank of America envelope, a Discover Card envelope.
Well, what is happening over here is that your mother is finishing cooking istshwala and macimbis, and Sbho is standing there watching her and eating a guava. When Chipo announces this I get a strange ache in my heart. My throat goes dry; my tongue salivates. I am remembering the taste of all these things, but remembering is not tasting, and it is
painful. I feel tears start to come to my eyes and I don’t wipe them off. Chipo is still going on.
—And outside, a woman in a yellow dress and white hat is walking down the street. She is walking like a caterpillar because she is big. Now she is stopping a vendor on a bike to buy some fat maize from him. Now, now, oh Jesus, there is a whirlwind. It is not a big whirlwind, but it is a whirlwind all the same and it has whipped up dust and debris. The clothes are dancing on the clothesline. Ha-ha-ha, the woman’s dress is lifting and she is trying to hold it down with both hands. We can see big brown thighs and green parachute underwear. My daughter is trying to fly in the wind, I am going outside to get her, bye.
When we were little we used to play in the wind whenever it came. We would run outside to meet it, hands outstretched like wings, bodies balanced on tiptoe and reaching toward the sky. We wanted the wind to pick us up, and when it didn’t we spun around in dizzying circles singing, Take me to London, baby. To see my uncle, baby. Who has a baby, baby. A baby girl, baby. Oo-uh-huh, baby! This is the song I am singing when Stina asks me what I am doing. His voice sounds far away, like he’s speaking from up a tree.
That is strange; that’s exactly the song Chipo was singing on her way to get Darling just now, Stina says after we have greeted each other. Darling is Chipo’s daughter; they claimed they decided to name her after me so there would be another Darling in case something happened to me in America. It’s kind of cute, but I don’t know how to feel about it, somebody being named after me like I’m dead or something.
When are you coming back? Stina says after a long silence. I open my mouth and hear Aunt Fostalina’s voice inside my head. I don’t know how to tell Stina that I don’t know when I’m coming home. Through the window, I can see the tall mailman walking up the driveway, toward the house. I wait for him to ring the door before I put the phone down after telling Stina to hold on, knowing I will not be picking up the phone. It’s hard to explain, this feeling; it’s like there’s two of me. One part is yearning for my friends; the other doesn’t know how to connect with them anymore, as if they are people I’ve never met. I feel a little guilty but I brush the feeling away.
After getting the package I close the door and watch the mailman walk back to his truck. He is tall and strong, and I’m thinking of how when he was making me sign for the package I couldn’t look him in the eye. But I was aware of him towering over me, big hairs covering his arms and legs. I was also thinking of what his thing would look like if he were to take off his uniform. When I see the mail truck pull away, I set the package on the kitchen table. It is from Victoria’s Secret and is addressed to Aunt Fostalina and I know it’s the push-up bra. They have spelled her name Fosterline.
When I get back to the basement, Kristal and Marina are watching something else.
What the hell is that? I say.
She-male, Kristal says.
What’s she-male? And why did you jump all the way to S? I say.
It don’t matter, Kristal says. It’s still people fuckin’, ain’t it? She scoots over to make room for me but I remain on my feet, both hands on my waist, thinking of whether I should sit or turn around and stomp up the stairs to let them know I’m upset.
On the screen is a tall, beautiful girl who has a penis. It’s not like those fake ones the lesbians were wearing when we were on L; no. It is real. Of all the flicks we have seen, this one stuns, and I can feel my head start to spin in confusion. The sight of long hair and a pretty face and an Adam’s apple and big breasts and a big penis all on one body makes me feel that on top of the badness we are doing, this is added badness, so I say, You shouldn’t have skipped.
Fine, let’s go back, then, Marina says quickly, and I know from the sound of her voice that she, too, is not ready to watch a she-male. I breathe a sigh of relief and sit down when she leans forward and clicks the Back button.
Yo, so my girl Alexis hooked me up with this cool link. Wanna check it out? Kristal says.
What’s on it? I say.
How the hell am I s’posed to know? Our computer just be so slow, like it’s trynna download Jesus.
Well, you just said it’s a cool link, I thought you’d seen it, Marina says.
So? Scoot over, Kristal says, and she reaches for the keyboard.
The first thing we see is the caption This film contains some disturbing images. I look at Kristal and then at Marina to see what they think about this because it reminds me of like a horror movie and I’m not trying to see any horror. Kristal is running her hands in her weave, and Marina starts to do a drumroll on her thighs, so in the end I shrug and start making sounds to accompany the drumroll, but then this crazy scream just explodes and we all stop what we are doing.
The scream sounds like it has devoured all the pain there is and is now choking on it. It hangs in the air like something alive. I’m thinking of how it sounds so familiar, like I’ve heard it before, but I can’t really figure out where, and from whom. I badly want to click the Mute button, I know we all want to because it is such a terrible sound, but nobody touches the mouse. Then the camera does a long shot and we see her lying on the floor, hands in fists, head thrown back, mouth open and all teeth. She is in this yellow dress with white flowers on, and she has these country-game legs, long legs that would make enormous counts and run far.
Then this woman comes in the picture and goes for the girl’s legs, and the girl starts kicking like there’s a devil inside her. Then this gang of women comes in and pounces on the girl, pinning her down. I am reminded, from the way they are doing it, of how men back home would hold down a goat during slaughter, or how Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro and the Evangelists held down the pretty woman on the mountain to exorcise her demon. Now the women are busy shouting things at the girl, and even though I don’t understand the language, I know from their hot voices they are telling her to stop the screaming and kicking and behave.
Only one woman is not taking part in the holding down, and it’s because she is the one with the long knife. Tall, big-bodied woman, large arms, giraffe neck. Round face. Almost pretty. Oval eyes. Big breasts. Long skirt the color of leaves in the fall, red blouse. Yellow hoop earrings, colorful bangles on the wrists, rings on the fingers. Dirty rag in hand, and in the other, the knife; I want to ask what she is going to do with the knife but I know that if I open my mouth there will be no words. And then to the side there is this old, old woman with skin like worn leather. She is watching everything through squinted eyes. She keeps nodding and nodding, her wilted hands clasped over a walking stick.
The knife woman starts to clean the knife with the rag and I get this shiver. She is doing it slow and deliberate, like maybe she knows we are watching, a frown of concentration on her face. She spits on the knife, wipes, spits, wipes, and, satisfied, flings the rag away. By now I have my legs pressed together tight. I glance at Kristal and Marina and they have the same posture.
Then the knife woman bends toward the girl, teeth digging into the bottom lip, fat fingers wound tight around the knife. When the knife reaches the girl, Marina gets up, and we hear her running up the stairs. I want to get up and run myself but my thighs just feel heavy so I sink back into the couch and just cover my eyes with my arm and listen to the girl’s screams, cutting now like somebody doused her voice with paraffin and lit it.
When I look again there is a lot of blood on the floor. The girl has been moved to a corner. Her dress has been straightened out over her legs; you could not tell what had happened just a few minutes before. The screaming and kicking is gone, like whatever was raging inside the girl has grown wings and flown away, leaving her looking like a flower pulled from wet earth, roots and all. Kristal and I sit there, not moving, just staring, and I know, from how we are not looking at each other, that we will never talk about what we have seen.
Hitting Crossroads
Kristal isn’t old enough to have a license but that doesn’t mean she can’t drive, which is how come right now we are on our way to the C
rossroads Mall. It’s Marina’s mother’s car—we took it because she works nights at Borgess Hospital and sleeps during the day, like an owl, waking up at five in the afternoon, which gives us enough time to go to the mall and back. Marina says her mother sleeps like she’s dead but if she happens to wake to go to the bathroom, she keeps her eyes shut, staggering and bumping into stuff like a chicken with its head cut off; if she were to go outside, she wouldn’t see nothing.
We have never done this before and we almost didn’t because Marina and I weren’t so sure at first, but after watching Kristal reverse the car from the driveway and put it back in its spot using just one hand we got a little brave and jumped in, fastened our seat belts, and giggled. When we were getting ready to leave, though, we saw Mr. Harris. Mr. Harris is Marina’s neighbor, and he was driving back home in his crawling car, so we had to duck in our seats and stay low until we heard the car park next door and the door bang shut. We lifted our heads just enough to watch Mr. Harris shuffle to the mailbox and then the house like he’d been told he’d get a prize if it took him no less than ten years to do it.
Marina is in the front seat since this is her mother’s car, and I’m in the back behind Kristal, which is fine by me in case we do a head-on collision or something. For the first few minutes I’m leaning forward and looking at Kristal’s thin hands on the wheel. My own hands are clutching at the back of Kristal’s seat like I’m driving it. Marina is quiet, which means she too is scared and maybe she’s even thinking of telling us that she was just playing, that we should take the car back and forget Crossroads. It’s Kristal who is busy talking but I’m not even listening to her; I’m looking to see where all this is going, and how.
At one point the car swerves to the left and I inhale sharply and get ready to scream but I catch myself since nobody else is screaming. We drive in silence for a bit, but after Kristal gets us down Paterson and takes a left on Cobb without any problems, I start to feel better and put all of my butt properly on the seat. By the time we hit Westnedge we have all rolled down our windows, have our elbows out as if we’d bought the car with our own money as well as paid for the road.
We Need New Names: A Novel Page 16
