Sweet Karoline

by Catherine Astolfo

  "We want to keep that, too," I say, pointing at the portable carrier. "You should give it to us for free in exchange for the trouble we had last night."

  One of the men looks over at me with a frown. His pasty round face flushes an unhealthy pink. He is big and has piggy eyes that are pillowed by fat.

  "This equipment is designed not to fail," he says.

  "My mother almost died because it did fail." Ice Queen tone has not disappeared, though the anger I feel seems reasonable, manageable. "When I came in here last night, the machine was turned off."

  His eyes flash malice at me, but he checks the device carefully. The second man, only slightly smaller in girth, adjusts the new tank. He turns it toward me so I can see the on/off button. He flicks it to OFF.

  "Was it in this position?"

  "Yes."

  "The only way that can happen is with a human hand," he pronounces.

  "No one in this household would be careless enough to do that," I fling back at him, biting down on every word.

  Just then Dembi bounces back into the room. Flapping nervously he twists his mouth into a lopsided, anxious grimace. He hums and probes the air. His gait is sloppy, regressed by fear. He huddles at my feet. Pats Memé's legs obsessively. Our mother probes back with her own hand until they connect. Dembi rocks slightly on the bed.

  The oxygen man gives me a meaningful look. Of course I know that he's thinking there is one person who could be careless enough—stupid enough—to turn the machine off. I wonder if he can be right.

  Did Dembi think the noise would bother Memé? Does that explain his odd behavior this morning? But Dembi has lived with the oxygen for quite a while now. He is aware of its connection to Memé's life.

  "But you can keep the portable machine," the man says as though he's being overly generous. "No charge."

  Number Two asks Melody and me to double check the replaced equipment. We follow his instructions carefully. I decide that I will teach Dembi when they are gone. I walk them through the kitchen out the front door. Miriam is in mid chop of a bunch of green celery when I return to lean on the counter. I briefly tell her about the machine and the fellow's theory.

  "Dembi would never do that. He knows how important the oxygen is."

  "Does he know how to turn it on and off?"

  She nods her head, her beautiful waves bouncing thoughtfully. "Yes, but…"

  I chomp on a piece of celery. "It's probably a malfunction and they won't admit it. They think we'll sue. We do it all the time in L.A. But we have a replacement now and Dee gave it a seal of approval. I still think we should get an alarm, though."

  "Absolutely. Dee probably knows a company we can call."

  "I'll take care of it. By the way, they gave us a portable machine. We can take Memé to the powwow if Dee thinks she's up to it."

  "And if the weather improves."

  We both glance out at the deluge of water against the window above the sink.

  When we all return to Memé's room, Dembi seems to have shaken his mood and is chatty and happy again. Dee fusses around us. Memé makes small sounds of joy.

  As I watch our brother whirling and doing tricks for us, I wonder if Dembi did turn off the machine by mistake. Luckily Memé is all right. Judging by his reaction, he would never do that again.

  By late afternoon the sky clears. Memé's room fills with sunshine. We slide open the curtains and prop the windows open a bit. The hot and cold fronts have finished their war, leaving a clean warm feeling in their wake. The air is freshly laundered, clear and pleasant. On an azure ocean of sky, the sun cheekily grins from behind white waves of friendly cloud.

  With Dee's help we lift Memé into her wheelchair and take her out onto the porch. Before the cancer felled her she'd buzzed around on her own two feet. I wonder how she feels, having to be so dependent. Not to mention that the portable tank and mask look like an appendage from a dinosaur.

  But Memé is altered by the sunshine. She sips from the after-shower, oxygen-rich day and smiles. Her wizened brown face seems less shrunken. A glimmer of the former beauty makes its way through her skin.

  Miriam and I are so busy with thoughts about wheelchairs, oxygen, bodily fluids and long-lost relatives that we have no time to discuss any further questions about our history. After Melody leaves for the night, we barbeque burgers for dinner and eat off paper plates around Memé's bed. None of us feels like leaving her side. Once she is asleep, we curl up in front of the television and eat ice cream. We don't talk much. There's a new contentment between Miriam and me, though it doesn't seem to have spread to Dembi. Before bed, he's distant and restless once more.

  I have a long exploratory conversation with Ethan. We discuss all the new developments. I tell him about my emotional transformations. Confide that I am still uncertain about everything. A fawn on newborn shaky legs. He's okay with all of this turmoil. He is far more confident of Anne than I have ever been. Me, reborn. Who knew it was possible?

  Once again I sleep at Memé's side. I am too nervous to trust the new machinery. I cuddle beside her as she breathes. The chug of the oxygen is comforting and strong. Dreams and memories flit through my mind all night. Faces, voices, feelings. I awaken several times, afraid, then feel Memé's slight but reassuring frame next to mine.

  Before dawn I am in the kitchen drinking coffee. I make French toast and bacon. Wash raspberries and sweeten them with real maple syrup. Around eight I step out onto the porch, mug in hand.

  The day is trying to decide what to do. Dark clouds ring the horizon. The sun is fiercely hot once again. It dances from shadow to shadow and broils the wind. It feels as though the storms are not through with us.

  Miriam and Dembi enter the kitchen at almost the same time. They are delighted with my paltry effort at cooking for them. Once he has eaten, though, Dembi announces that he's going to hunt on his own.

  I give my sister a worried look.

  "He's done it hundreds of times on his own. Don't forget, he grew up here."

  "Make sure you use the bridge to cross the river, Dembi."

  I almost laugh out loud. I can't ever remember issuing such a motherly command.

  Our brother nods. He's distracted again. Flaps his hands and hops from foot to foot.

  "It will be a short time," he tells me. "I am strong and careful."

  "Yes, you are, Dembi," I respond. "I trust you."

  To my surprise he gives me a scowl and disappears.

  After Melody arrives we return to fuss over Memé. Elizabeth Johnston emerges bit by bit over the next few hours. She looks more comfortable in the wheelchair. Though wispy, her hair is clean. Her wide eyes blink at us over the oxygen mask but they are far more alert than I've seen them since my arrival here.

  Miriam and I learn to maneuver the chair. How to replace the portable oxygen tank. Not that we should need to do this, Dee instructs. The tank will last for the number of hours we plan to stay.

  We talk about the powwow. The ground may be difficult to traverse after the rain. Especially if the storm returns today. Dee says they usually put boards along the pathways. The ceremony takes place in the fairgrounds just outside Burford. There are bleachers for seats. Flagpoles for the traditional raising.

  This year is particularly exciting because of the participation of the Canadian Black Heritage groups, some of whose members are descendants of the original Vryheid residents. Just like us.

  Dembi comes home well before lunch. Miriam and I, caught up with Memé, ask him simply if he had fun. He nods yes and wolfs down a sandwich. No tales of history, the Book, or the gold map. I am too preoccupied to wonder.

  The storm circles around again by afternoon. This time it's madder than ever. The old house literally shudders in fear. Thunder cracks right overhead, shakes the roof and rattles the walls. Lightning pitchforks the fields and dashes from cloud to cloud.

  We huddle inside, keeping the atmosphere as bright as we can with song and stories and busy-ness. Melody goes home early during a lull
in the torrential rain.

  Miriam offers to stay with Memé tonight. At first I am tempted to say, are you crazy? I'm not sleeping alone in this storm… and then I see the need in her eyes.

  As Miriam and Dembi turn toward their hallway later, my sister says cheerfully, "After Dee gets here in the morning I'm going grocery shopping. Want to come?"

  Dembi shakes his head, so I respond that I'll stay home, too.

  "Okay. If it stops raining we can go hunting after that if you want. Or we can stay home and play some games."

  But Dembi has already disappeared down the hall. Miriam gives an indulgent smile and we hug quickly. I saunter off to the parlor and curl up in my telephone chair.

  I give Ethan my customary rundown of the day. He's quieter than usual, lonely, he says, wondering when I will be coming home.

  "I promise it won't be much longer. What do you think about coming up here for a few days?"

  "When?"

  I laugh. "I take that as a yes. I don't suppose you could get here by Saturday for the powwow?"

  It's his turn to laugh. "That gives me a whole day. I doubt it, babe, but maybe Sunday? I can let you know tomorrow."

  "Perfect! I can't wait for you to meet my family."

  There is a slight pause. I consider what I have just said and what I want to say. My logical man is probably thinking about travel arrangements when I interrupt.

  "Ethan, I'm learning that love's a lot more than a word. But it's all I have right now. I love you," I whisper into the receiver.

  It may be all I will ever have but I said it anyway.

  His intake of breath, shaky and joyful, hisses through the wire. "I love you, too, Anne. For always."

  We both give a shy giggle. I say goodnight instead of goodbye and hang up. My hand rests on the instrument for a moment, unwilling to completely disconnect.

  The storm does not abate all night. My body never gives in to complete rest. I toss, turn, awaken, get up and check my locks obsessively. My dreams are indistinct mists of menace.

  When I enter the kitchen, Dembi and Miriam are already there. Cereal boxes and fruit line the counter. I grasp a cup of coffee like a lifeline. Unrelentingly gray and wet, the rain has not stopped, though the wind seems to have disappeared. No thunder roars and no lightning flashes. This is a straight-to-the ground shower.

  "I'm going shopping early to get it over with. We can't go treasure hunting in this weather and I have a list of things we need. Dee's here already. She's with Memé. Do you two want to come with me after all?"

  "No," Dembi says and straightens up.

  Miriam and I are a little shocked at his firmness, but we shrug and smile. Our brother is a mystery. I wonder what goes on inside his head. How he thinks. Which thoughts are coherent and which are not. It's intriguing how articulate he can be about history. How broad his reading vocabulary and how simple his other actions. As though the connections are wired wrong or the synapses misfire at different times.

  "I'll stay home, too. As long as you don't mind doing the shopping alone, of course." I'm a little concerned about Dembi but I keep this to myself. I'll try to get something out of him this morning. Besides, I'm still so tired.

  "I don't mind a bit. It's not a huge list. As long as you guys help me into the house with it. Okay, Dembi?"

  "I am strong," he answers.

  "Good. I'll need your help when I get back. I should be a couple of hours or so." In her raincoat, she looks like Little Red Riding Hood as she heads off to her car.

  "I'm going to get dressed, Dembi. Then do you want to visit Memé with me? We'll bring Dee some coffee."

  "Maybe," he replies without looking at me. His hands flap nervously. I wonder briefly why he's so upset this morning.

  "I'll see you in Memé's room in five minutes." I hope my statement will become a fact in his head.

  I throw on jeans and a t-shirt, make Dee's coffee, and head down the hall to Memé's room. Dembi isn't there. The big woman bustles around the room. She cleans up the breakfast things and prepares medication. Then she stops to sip her drink.

  "As you can see, Libby's sound asleep again," Melody whispers. "She's tired from all the recent activity, I guess."

  Memé and me both, I think.

  The woman looks proud of her patient. I impulsively kiss her cheek.

  "I repeat. You are wonderful."

  She smiles and sips. I believe she's used to being called wonderful.

  "Have you seen Dembi?"

  "No, he hasn't stopped by this morning. Kind of unusual for him."

  I gather up Memé's breakfast dishes. "I'll go look for him. He seemed out of sorts earlier."

  The kitchen, where I deposit the bowl and plate on the counter, is empty. Out in the hallway I notice that the side door is unlocked once more. Inspecting the mechanism a bit closer I note that, once unlocked, the latch is loose fitting. I hazard a guess that unless the bolt has been slid into place from the inside, a good strong wind could push the door wide open. One mystery explained.

  "Dembi?" I ask the empty parlor, family, living and bed rooms. Nobody answers.

  Back in the hallway I check the coat closet. Dembi's raincoat, a copy of Miriam's red one, is missing. I wonder if he's gone treasure hunting on his own. The weather is still blustery and wet but he probably doesn't mind. After all, he's oblivious to the heat.

  I feel an urgency to check on him. Melody agrees. There's forest green gear in the closet that fits me nicely.

  Immediately I regret my decision to follow Dembi. It's miserable out here. The rain pelts down relentlessly. Not a gentle tropical shower but a vicious cold front angrily usurps the space from the summer weather. I have to lower my head and watch my feet as I slip-slide along the sodden ground. The weeds and grasses are slippery. Heavily soaked branches slap lazily at my waterproof jacket, forcing the water to drip into my boots. I am soon shivering, but the determination to find Dembi doesn't abate. Thinking about his odd behavior the last couple of days propels me forward.

  It's the red that I see first. Peering through the rain I catch a glimpse of his raincoat as he quickly races from the steps of the church. His head is down and I am hidden by a clump of trees. Dembi passes fairly close to me but is oblivious to my presence. I decide to see what he was up to inside the old building.

  It's dry in here. The only sound comes from the pounding water outside. Even the birds are quiet, huddled in the grey misery of the day. Now and then they emit a feeble trill of protest at my intrusion.

  I gaze upward at the choir loft, a small afterthought of a balcony constructed of dark wood. I wonder what it would have been like to stand up there singing for the congregation. The first thing I notice is the absence of the ladder. When I reach the altar, I can see the top rung jutting out along the floor. It's been pulled out of sight, just behind a set of pews at the side. Dembi's version of hiding it?

  Now I have to follow his footsteps, or what I surmise were his movements. I settle the ladder against the crumbled staircase. Jam it into the crevices on the floor. It feels sturdy enough. When I am at the top I feel a bit dizzy. The floor looks intact but some of the rungs of the railing are rotting, so I wonder. Nevertheless I crawl onto the platform and gingerly stand. There is enough room up here for one row of choristers. Behind the wooden bench, the cupboards take up the rest of the space.

  Dembi has left a fairly easy trail. One door is slightly ajar. When I open it I discover the papers and canvases that had been piled under his bed in the cave. Curious, I pull them out and spread them on the floor. I am astonished by what I discover. A chunk of our history falls into place.

  Dear Diary,

  Sorry for not writing much, but I have been in such a good mood lately. Isn't it strange that most people only write in a diary when they're mad about something? Like poetry. It's always sad. Well, I'm not mad any more. I've figured it all out. Things are going to be just fine.

  Chapter 23

  I don't want to leave these here, vulnerable to
thieves and rats. But can I risk taking them out into the elements? Back inside the cupboard, I find two big empty garbage bags. Obviously Dembi thought of the rain, too. Alongside these, there's a beaten-up wooden rectangle that I recognize as a travel paint box. I take it, too. Everything fits in the two bags. I ensure the door is fully closed this time.

  Getting it down the ladder is the hard part. Several times I almost drop the whole bundle. A couple of times I feel a dizzy fear that I will flop onto the stone floor any minute. But I make it down. I replace the ladder in its inadequate hiding spot.

  Tossing the bags over my shoulder like Santa Claus I fight my way through the bushes and the weather back to the farmhouse. I have no idea what I will say to Dembi if he sees me.

  Fortunately no one is around when I return. In my room I check the locks on the windows and doors. From the pantry I lift an old broom and wedge the handle between the sliding door and the frame. Once again I study the paintings.

  They are various dimensions from small sketches to medium-size canvases. Thick paper to thin and delicate. They are immediately recognizable. Their color, lines and subject matter are identical to the 1940's sketches in the Vryheid book, not to mention to the painting on my living room wall in Los Angeles.

  Opening the sliding door that leads from the back of the closet to the dark storage space, I bundle everything onto shelves or lean the larger ones against them. When everything is stored away I turn back to my bed and see with dismay that I have forgotten the paint box.

  But now I hear Dembi's voice. He calls my name as he wanders toward my room. I shove the box under my bed, exit my room and lock the door.

  I try to smile normally at him as he ambles down the hallway.

  "Triplet Anne!" he grins. "Miriam needs us to help."

  He seems to be in a better mood, as though his errand gave him some kind of relief.

  We rush through the kitchen and out into the pouring rain. By the time we have hauled the bags into the room we are drenched and laughing heartily. Melody comes by to see what's happening. We sprinkle her with water from our dripping fingers. The silliness helps steady my thinking. Slows the pounding of my excited pulse.