bone

by Yrsa Daley-Ward

  Oh God.

  Ngiyakukhumbula.

  My God,

  how you are missed.

  some kind of man

  He kept trying to explain. When he

  tried the first time, she didn’t get it.

  When he explained again, she didn’t

  want to understand. The more that he

  tried to tell her, the less she wanted to

  know. He smelled of something

  strong and sweet. Perfume. Not

  liquor.

  “Believe me,” Samuel had begged,

  and as soon as he said that she felt as

  though she never would again. “It’s

  not what you think.” He was right about

  that. It was far beyond

  anything that she could ever have

  imagined. She felt as though she

  would die. The worst thing about

  somebody who betrays you,

  somebody who turns out to be a

  completely different person to whom

  you first thought, is the love that you

  still feel in your heart for them,

  embedded so deeply into the narrow

  spaces of yourself that you cannot

  access it to try and remove it.

  He said, “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

  This doesn’t mean what you think.”

  She slapped him in the face and the

  more he stood there and took it

  and the more she collapsed into tears,

  the more she loved him and could

  not understand it.

  But everybody knew what kind of

  man he was. He was the kind of man

  who, when you woke up in the

  middle of the night itching on the

  joints of your fingers and your legs

  and jaw line because the mosquitoes

  had been at you again, would rub

  cold ointment into your skin

  whispering, “Hush baby, you will be

  fine.” Or if you felt like you were

  going to be sick and cried because

  you were scared of vomiting, held

  your body with one hand and stroked

  your hair with the other, who

  checked your fever when you said

  you had a temperature, who would

  cut the crust off your sandwiches and

  pick all of the apricot pieces that you

  didn’t like out of your muesli in the

  morning. It had all been too good to

  be true and his behaving exactly like a

  saint at all times had only served to

  set her up for the fall.

  Perhaps she should have known.

  Indeed, she should have known. She

  wanted to blame his mother. His

  sisters. Somebody. She decided that

  these things—the devil’s work—strike

  as a kind of test. She would have to

  deal with it immediately.

  It was evening on the sixth day.

  According to the calendar, the sunset

  was in forty-five minutes and there

  were far too many things to do

  before then. She wanted to write

  something about it all on the lines

  rovided under this week’s Bible

  study notes. A prayer. Something

  about masculinity. Something about

  loss. But it was all too fresh. She

  hadn’t ever seen him cry before that

  evening. He told her that he was

  sorry, again and again. Kept telling

  her that she was all that he needed.

  There were things to be done.

  By nightfall that evening she was on

  her knees praying because the

  Sabbath was upon them. The lunch

  boxes had been packed for church

  and their boy was in bed, dreaming

  about Jesus and spaceships.

  What did this mean for her now?

  What would they do next? Was it safe

  to have the father continue living

  there? She felt guilty at the thought.

  Right after it happened, Samuel took

  the car. Didn’t know quite where he

  was going. Drove awhile. Drank

  some soup by the roadside. Decided

  that the only place to go right now

  was Benny’s.

  He didn’t dare consider what he

  might have lost. Each time he tried to

  process what had happened, his

  breathing became light and his

  temples thudded until they were sore.

  Benny didn’t say anything when he

  came to the door. He stepped aside

  to let Samuel in and didn’t speak,

  except to ask him if he needed to

  breathe into a paper bag and if he

  wanted some Scotch. Samuel declined

  the drink but took the bag. Benny left

  him sitting on the bed in the back

  room, staring hard at the mirror on

  the wall.

  A short while later Samuel could

  hear Benny moving about in the

  kitchen, whistling and sweeping up

  the porch. He was tired. He heard the

  television. He wondered if he should

  fast and pray on this. But he already felt

  weak of heart and spirit. His

  vision was blurred. He wondered

  what it was that he needed to do

  from now to make everything right

  again. But had it been right before?

  Benny was looking at the television,

  but he wasn’t watching it. He was

  thinking about the situation regarding

  the man in the back room, namely the

  man’s wife and the little boy.

  Wondering what would happen. If

  she would talk. That said, he didn’t

  know how much Samuel had told

  her. He was wondering why this type of

  thing had to be such a big deal. If he were

  braver and didn’t value his

  own privacy so much—if he was

  younger, angrier, he might have been

  an activist. Self-expression is a tricky

  thing. Just as you start to feel

  comfortable with yourself after years

  of not, you then have to justify

  yourself to other people.

  He was sure that Samuel would come

  out of the room when he was ready.

  He continued squinting at the TV,

  peering at the shapes and people

  moving around, staring at the corners

  of the set and the metal and the

  digital lines, began to dream.

  He had always known what he

  wanted to do, but had waited

  patiently until his father died. His

  father would have called it evil. Most

  people still did but generally those he

  helped would keep private things

  private. He wondered what Samuel

  had said. Hoped that his wife wasn’t

  going to take it to those crazy people

  in the church tomorrow, because he

  believed those people to be the most

  dangerous. His father had been a

  long-standing member at the church

>   and had raised the children there.

  He sucked in a lungful and exhaled,

  the smoke rings unfurling in the air.

  It had all started with shoes. As a

  young boy, he had developed a

  wonderful fascination with the

  curve of a woman’s foot in a shoe.

  He drew them on paper over and

  over again. A heel. A boot. Benny

  had always loved to make clothes for

  his sister’s dolls and could not

  understand why everyone was sot

  horrified. He had grown up with

  three brothers, two sisters and his

  blind father, who beat the hell out of

  him when he announced that he

  wanted to make women’s clothing.

  Never mind the fact that most of the

  famous designers up in Europe and

  America were all men. His father told

  him that he wasn’t raising that kind of

  boy and that he would learn to do

  something else with his life.

  Nobody argued with his father, ever.

  Benny started creating aged thirty, the

  same day they buried his father. He

  took a lover for the first time too, a

  twenty-three-year-old from the next

  parish, who assured him that he could

  make a business out of his gift. He took

  the advice and between

  dancehall wear and alternative outfits,

  began to be known in the area for his

  costumes and undergarments.

  Known to those who knew. Some

  men would go to him to buy outfits

  for their wives, in larger sizes than he

  knew their wives to be.

  Samuel was lying down in the back

  room. If he were home now he

  would be polishing Michael’s little

  black shoes on the blue tile steps to

  the doorway, the warm

  aroma of peanut porridge wafting

  from the kitchen. He wanted to go

  home and sort out the mess he’d

  made. Beg for her forgiveness and

  put all of this behind him. He had

  slipped. He usually kept apparel

  hidden at Benny’s and one moment

  of carelessness had caused all of this.

  He opened the right-hand door of the

  wardrobe and took out a shoe. A

  court shoe. A delicate, high-heeled

  court shoe. Elegant, even in his size.

  A blue satin court shoe with a silver

  insole. It was so beautifully done.

  He cradled it against his chest,

  thought of Tessa and fell asleep.

  In the little house, Tessa was listening

  to a gospel CD and trying to study

  the Bible. Trying to speak to God.

  She was trying to do everything at

  once. Each time she thought about

  what happened earlier she wanted to

  throw up.

  She called him over when she saw the

  plastic bag containing the underwear

  stuffed underneath a roll of bin liners

  in the boot of the car. A black bustier

  with gold embellishments on it and

  French panties. Not her size.

  She had been angry and hurt at the

  thought of another woman but in the

  end she would have handled it fine.

  Another woman she would have been

  able to take. She had married him

  fully prepared for it. Supposed that

  with this beautiful man a whole foot

  taller than her with smooth dark skin,

  a square jaw and high cheekbones,

  it would only be a matter of time. In

  town, women stared at him all the

  time.

  People had always considered him

  too attractive. Said she was looking

  for trouble with a man so handsome.

  So when she heard the ludicrous

  explanation she couldn’t believe it.

  Maybe it was someone at church.

  Yes, maybe that was it. But he had

  never lied to her about anything

  before. And that pain in his face, that

  shame. When he had stared at her

  and said, “They are mine,” she

  wanted to laugh. But one look at her

  husband and she had known that it

  was true.

  She wondered if they just couldn’t

  put it all behind them. Perhaps with

  prayer and help from the church as a

  collective. Her stomach churned

  again as she imagined him dressed up

  as somebody’s woman. How dare he.

  How dare he ruin what they had

  spent years building, with a beautiful

  little boy and good jobs, both of

  them. How could he? Couldn’t he put

  away this perversion when his family

  was at risk?

  Samuel woke up with an ache

  between his ribs and saw that it was

  the shoe heel. He could hear Benny

  snoring from the living room. On his

  knees he began to pray for any sign.

  He wondered if he should leave the

  country. Follow his sister to Miami

  and send the child money from over

  there. What kind of role model was

  he, anyway? What kind of man was

  he? He was a man who was in love

  with his wife, loved his son and

  wanted to be who he was. He wanted

  all of those to coexist. Was that

  wrong?

  In the morning, Tessa got up and

  prepared herself for church. She got

  Michael dressed and ready. There was

  no car to take them to church so they

  walked.

  The two of them arrived there after

  the early morning Bible school. The

  bottom of Michael’s trousers were

  dusty and they were both sweating a

  little. She took her place on a pew,

  and ushered Michael towards the

  front to sit with the other children.

  She heard one of the ladies behind

  her whisper that they wouldn’t let

  their son leave the house with such

  dirty shoes. The other lady whispered

  that the little boy’s hair was looking

  rough and should have been combed

  out better. Tessa’s face burned and

  she stared straight ahead, putting a

  hand to her own hair, which was

  shining and pressed into obedience.

  She wished that she had combed hert

  child’s hair better and that her

  husband didn’t like to dress in

  women’s clothes. She wished that she wasn’t going

  to lose everything.

  Perhaps he was not mentally sound.

  He had never been like other men,

  wanting to run around and father

  children all over the place. He never

  looked at other women.

  Indeed, she should have known. He

  was God-fearing and quiet and always

  ready to help. Had she been

  i
nadequate as a woman maybe?

  Perhaps she had let him help around

  the house too much? She had been

  unwell for a while. Yes, her head had

  become quite sick after she gave birth

  to Michael and hardly wanted to look

  at the child. Samuel was left with the

  baby, having to play the mother’s

  role. Perhaps it was that. She shivered

  in the house of the Lord and begged

  forgiveness. Most days she still

  looked at the child and although she

  wanted to care for him so much, she

  didn’t feel what she imagined she

  should. But that was between her and

  her God, not her and the child.

  A lady in church was giving a

  testimony about how she became a

  Christian, how she had put away her

  friends who had vices, how she

  preferred to live alone rather than

  around improper influences.

  Tessa decided to take this to the

  church. She felt moved to speak

  freely among her brothers and sisters

  in Christ.

  When she rose to her feet to speak, a

  respectful quiet ran through the

  church. Her voice rang pure and clear

  as she called on the Father, the Son and

  the Holy Spirit, asking for help from the

  Trinity and the heavenly

  angels surrounding them. She told

  them. Asked for their guidance,

  comfort and support. There was a

  silence. Somebody offered to anoint

  her. She felt hands on her, from her

  head to her shoulders, waist and legs.

  She was vibrating, pulsing with the

  energy of the church family. It was

  quite unlike anything that she had felt before.

  Everybody was murmuring

  and praying and holding hands. Some

  ladies were speaking in tongues. One

  of them fainted and one was violently

  sick but nobody was perturbed

  because it was all down to the will of

  the spirit.

  No soul was left unmoved in the

  church building that morning. This

  epidemic, they all decided, was cause

  for grave concern. The brother in

  need had to be saved. It was the

  church’s responsibility as a unit, a

  body. They couldn’t allow another soul

  to be destroyed. They needed to talk,

  needed to pray, needed to get rid of

  those demons that were around

  infecting everybody’s children and

  some people’s husbands and ruining

  the country economically, spiritually

  and politically. It just wasn’t right.