Chanda's Secrets (15 page)

“But the animal sounds—”

“Mrs. Gulubane makes them herself. It's a cheap ventriloquist's trick.”

“But the snake—”

“Hidden in a pocket up her sleeve.”

“Then why didn't her sleeve wriggle?”

“The snake was dead the whole time. She made it look alive the way she flicked it with Mama's stick.”

“But—”

“But But But But But!” I explode. “You're not going to die, and that's all there is to it. Now brush your teeth and go to bed!”

As I tuck them in, I curse Mrs. Gulubane. And I curse Mrs. Tafa for bringing her. Thanks to those old crows, Soly will be peeing his diaper forever. I give them a big hug and a kiss. “I'm sorry I yelled at you.”

“That's okay,” Iris says. For a change, her arms stay tight around my neck. “Chanda, please don't get mad again—but if Mrs. Gulubane is a fake, why does Mama believe in her?”

“Mama doesn't believe in her,” I say. “Mama just pretended to believe in her so she'd go away.”

Iris considers this. “If Mama was just pretending,” she whispers, “why is she still outside with Mrs. Tafa?”

“She's being polite.”

Iris frowns. So does Soly.

“Would you like a lamp?” I ask.

They nod.

By the time I have them settled, Mama's come in and gone to her room. The curtain is drawn across her doorway.

“Mama?”

When she doesn't say anything, I peek inside. She's crumpled on her mattress. A pillowcase stuffed with clothes is sitting next to her.

“I'm going to Tiro tomorrow,” she says.

I clutch the door frame. “What?”

“I have to. Mrs. Gulubane read the bones.”

“No, she didn't. She repeated gossip. Things she could have heard from Mrs. Tafa or anybody.”

Mama rubs her temples. “This house is bewitched.”

“You don't believe that.”

“Don't I?” Mama dares me. “Then look me in the eye and tell me why my Sara died. Tell me why my Jonah is dying. Tell me why my joints ache and my head splits apart.”

My mind burns with the truth. I long to take the dare—but saying it will make it real. Here. Now.

“Mrs. Tafa's offered to keep an eye out,” Mama says. “She'll help you with Iris and Soly.”

“No, Mama. You're not going anywhere. You're not well enough.”

“Nonsense. The fresh air will do me good.”

I'm about to beg when I smell smoke. Hear a crackling of burning wood. It's coming from the front of the house. I race to the window of the main room. The wagon by the road is ablaze.

I run into the yard, Mama beside me, Soly and Iris too. The street is empty. Whoever did this has fled into the night. I look to Mrs. Tafa's house. Her shutters are closed. So are the shutters of all the neighbors up and down the street. They're watching from the darkness—I can feel it—but none of them come out.

Mama throws back her shoulders like she did the day we left Isaac Pheto's. She tosses away her cane. “Let the wagon burn,” she says. She turns as powerful as a queen in the firelight and leads us back into the house.

Once Soly and Iris have been comforted back to bed, she collapses. I sit at the side of her bed and hold her hand.

“You see, Chanda?” she says. “It doesn't matter what I believe. Mrs. Gulubane has paid us a visit. If I don't go to Tiro like she says, who knows what some lunatic may do next?”

S
ATURDAY NIGHT TURNS TO
S
UNDAY MORNING.

We sit at the kitchen table eating our porridge in silence. I clear the dishes and Mama tells Soly and Iris she has an important announcement. Before she can say another word, Iris says: “You're going away, aren't you?”

“Just for a little,” she nods.

Iris turns to Soly. “I told you.” She shoves her chair away from the table and heads to the front door.

“Iris, come back, I haven't finished,” Mama says.

Iris ignores her. She flounces outside and flops cross-legged on the ground.

I get up. “Mama's talking to you, Iris.”

Iris pays no attention. She talks to the chickens who strut around looking for feed. I'm about to drag her back in, but Mama stops me.

Meanwhile, tears roll down Soly's cheeks. They drip off his chin. He doesn't bother to wipe them.

Mama wraps her arms around him. “It's only a trip,” she comforts.

His little shoulders heave. “When people go on trips, they don't come back.”

“Well,
I'm
coming back. I just have to see some relatives in Tiro. Isn't that right, Chanda?”

“Absolutely.”

Soly's eyes are so big I think they'll fall out of his head. “Promise?”

“Promise.” Mama kisses his forehead. “While I'm gone, Chanda will be in charge. She'll need your help. Can you help her for me?”

He nods, his breath catching as if it's all too much to bear.

“There's nothing to worry about,” Mama continues. “If worst comes to worst, Mrs. Tafa's next door with her phone.”

“When will you be back?” he asks.

“A few days. Maybe a week.”

A pause. “How long before you go?”

“This afternoon sometime. After the cemetery tour.”

“Can I go with you?”

“Tiro's pretty far for a little man.”

“No, but to the cemeteries. I want to be with you as long as I can. Please? Chanda gets to go. Why not Iris and me?”

Mama looks to me.

“They're old enough.” I shrug. “Besides, it might help somebody deal with S–a–r–a.”

Mama fetches Mrs. Tafa for the cemetery tour, while I get Soly and Iris ready. I thought this would be an adventure for them—a sign they were all grown-up—but Iris stays bratty: “I don't want to go to any cemeteries.”

“If you come, you can wear your Sunday School dress.”

“I hate my Sunday School dress.”

“No, you don't.”

“Yes, I do. It's not really mine, anyway. It's from the church bin. It's somebody else's who didn't want it. I don't want it either.”

I cross my arms. “Iris, you're coming and that's that. Now get up and get moving.”

Iris stops arguing. In fact, she stops doing everything. She stands in her room like a rag doll and makes me dress her, one arm and leg at a time. I even have to bend her knees and elbows.

She's no easier on the drive. Mama talks privately with Mrs. Tafa in the cab, while Iris, Soly, and I squat on the flatbed. For once, Mrs. Tafa drives like a human being. Maybe she's quiet on account of Mama's conversation, or what happened last night, or not wanting to send us kids flying. Whatever the reason, I only have to knock twice on the rear window to get her to slow down.

The ride distracts Soly. He points at birds and waves when we pass children traveling by foot, bike, and buggy. Head over the side of the flatbed, the wind in his face, he's king of the county. Iris, on the other hand, is queen of the grumps. She doesn't even get excited when we pass a three-legged dog running around a warthog.

At Papa's cemetery, I lift Soly off the flatbed. I go to help Iris down, but she refuses to budge. “Why can't I stay in the truck? He's not
my
papa.”

“Do it for Mama and me.”

She wrinkles her face. “My stomach hurts.”

She's the same at Mr. Dube's. Even at Sara's.

Mama gathers us around Sara's marker. “This is where your sister lives,” Mama says. “This is where we come to be with her and to remember happy times.”

While Soly copies everything Mama does, Iris acts like she couldn't care less. She rocks on her heels. I yank her out of earshot.

“Show some respect,” I say. “Sara's resting there.”

“No, she isn't,” Iris says. “Sara's someplace else.” In a quiet singsong voice, she chants: “
I know something you don't know. I know something you don't know
.”

“If Sara isn't there,” I say, “where do you think she is?”

She puts a finger to her lips. “It's a secret. I promised her I wouldn't tell.”

I thought Iris's imaginary friend had disappeared, but she's back with a vengeance. I want to tell Mama. I should. But I can't. The worry would drive her crazy. A hole opens in the pit of my stomach. I bottle up the terror.

Back home, Iris, Soly, and I wait with Mama for the bus. The wagon's stopped smoking, but there's a smell of charred wood in the air.

Mama pretends not to notice. She tells stories to make us laugh. We try, to make her happy, but laughing's too hard. Even breathing is hard. Soly looks like he's going to cry. Mama catches him. “Soly, what did I tell you?”

“‘Never let them see you cry,'” he whispers.

“That's right,” she says gently, wiping a tear from his eye. “You can cry in the house. But not outside. People will think something's wrong. We don't want that, do we?”

He shakes his head.

“Good.” Mama adjusts his jacket. “If you feel the tears coming, just close your eyes and tell yourself a story. A little dream can make the world a happier place.” She looks at us solemnly. “Now, one last time before I go: People may tease you about why I'm away. If neighbors ask questions, what do you say?”

“Everything's fine,” we repeat dully. “Mrs. Gulubane's solved everything. She's sent you to Tiro to break a spell.”

“And what do you say to people who don't believe in traditional doctors?”

“You're staying with our sister Lily. She's had a new baby. You're helping her out.”

“Good.”

The Tafas' screen door bangs shut. We look over to see Mrs. Tafa coming our way. She's hauling a picnic basket in one hand and a shopping bag in the other. “Lilian, I must be losing my mind,” she pants. “You're almost away and I forgot to give you these.”

She plants the bag and basket at our feet. First she raises the checked cotton cloth covering the picnic basket. Inside are things from the tourist shops—things we'd never be able to afford. Jams, jellies, chocolate bars, tinned meats, canned apples, fancy skin lotions and perfumes, and a bottle of aspirin.

“You don't want to show up at your relatives empty-handed,” Mrs. Tafa says. She reaches into the shopping bag and pulls out a brand-new dress. It's a bright yellow covered in blue parakeets. “I want you to change into this at the last rest stop. If you don't mind my saying so, the dress you're wearing has seen its days.”

“Oh, Rose,” Mama says, “this is too generous.”

“Nonsense. Your Joshua always wanted you in new clothes, remember?”

I want to give Mrs. Tafa a hug. I want to kiss her for being so good to Mama. But after Mama's thank-yous and five minutes of chitchat, I start wanting her to disappear. She's taking over our final good-byes with Mama—time worth more than all the jams and jellies in the world. I stare at her hard, to drill thoughts into her head. Thoughts like: “Go away, you stupid cow. We need Mama for us. Just for us.”

Mrs. Tafa doesn't get the message. Instead, she settles in. My stomach heaves, knowing she'll be here till Mama's gone.

“I've put Chanda in charge,” I hear Mama say. “But I've said that if there's a problem you're right next door.”

“That's right,” Mrs. Tafa beams at Iris and Soly. “Your Auntie Rose will take care of you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Tafa,” I say. “But I'm sure I can manage.” I'm not sure at all. In fact, I'm scared sick. But I don't want Mrs. Tafa barging around with her nose in our business.

Mama's bus arrives.

We all get up except Iris. Mama kneels down and gives her a hug. Iris hangs limp. Not Soly. He gives her a world of hugs. “I miss you already.” He closes his eyes tight.

I help Mama to her feet. She grips my arms. “I'm counting on you,” she says, searching my eyes. “Keep them safe. Make me proud.”

“I promise.”

She gives me a squeeze. The driver and I help her onto the back of the truck. Mrs. Tafa passes up her bundle and the basket and shopping bag.

“Don't you worry, Lilian,” Mrs. Tafa says. “I'll keep an eye on everything.”

Mama smiles and ignores her. “I'll be back soon,” she waves to us. “I love you.”

And she's gone.

T
HE REST OF THE DAY IS STRANGE.
When I pretend Mama's inside resting, everything seems normal. But when I think of her on a bus hundreds of miles away, my insides ache to bursting.

I have to talk to Iris. About her behavior. About her wild talk at the cemetery. But what do I say? What would Mama say? I don't know. I can't think. This is crazy. Lately I've done all the work around the house. But Mama was here in case I made a mistake. Without her, even the simplest chores seem enormous. I'm almost afraid I can't boil water. What'll I do if something important goes wrong?