Chanda's Secrets (10 page)

“No,” Esther said. “We have to stay together. We're a family.”

“We're
all
of us family,” her Uncle Kagiso replied.

“I know, Uncle. But my brothers and sister and me, we need each other. If nobody can take us all, I'll look after things by myself.”

“How? The mine is taking back the house, the sickness and funerals have eaten your savings, and there's nothing to sell
except some old dishes and furniture. Where will you live? How will you eat? Where will you get the money for clothes, shoes, medicine, school...?”

Esther didn't have an answer. There wasn't one. And so her family was broken up.

One brother went to her Uncle Kagiso, the other to an uncle who was looking for herd boys. Her little sister went to an auntie with cataracts who needed help with sewing. The family knew that Esther's parents wanted her to finish school. Since the best one was in Bonang, and since she'd have a better chance to get married into families that already knew her, Esther was placed with her Auntie and Uncle Poloko. You could tell they didn't want her, but they couldn't say no.

That night I stayed with Esther as her brothers and sister were taken away. They clung to her. They wouldn't stop screaming. Her aunties and uncles had to pry them loose. If Soly or Iris were taken away like that, I'd die.

I get just as upset thinking about Esther's life with the Polokos. She's supposed to go to school, but according to her, they keep her like a servant. After cooking and cleaning and yard work, she has to babysit her nieces and nephews. There're six of them under ten. They hit her and scratch her and call her names, and if she does anything to stop them, they scream that she's hurting them, and her auntie hits her with a fry pan.

If she complains, her uncle gets mad. “You think you're a big shot like your mama and papa, with their running water and their flush toilet!” he yells. “Well, you're no more special than us. While you live under our roof, you do what we say.”

Whenever she can, Esther sneaks off. It's trickier on weekdays. Her uncle fixes shoes part-time on the pavement outside
Quality Fashions, and her auntie does shift work at KFC. She has to wait till they're both gone, and hope the monsters don't tell on her.

Sundays, escape is easier. The entire family goes to church at Bethel Gospel Hall. In the beginning, they made Esther come along too, but she wouldn't sing the hymns or pray. So now, for the sins of pride and blasphemy, they make her stay home and scrub the outhouse. Of course, she never does. Instead, she takes off to the cemetery to be with her mama and papa. And me.

Luckily, we get to visit for a long time, on account of Bethel Gospel has the longest services in town. From early morning to late afternoon everyone's singing, dancing, and speaking in tongues. Sometimes they fall down, “slain in the Lord.”

Once when her mama was sick, Esther got a performance in her own front yard. The Polokos brought over their congregation for an exorcism. I was helping with her mama when they danced up the road swishing their robes and thumping their tambourines. It was like a parade and a circus all at once.

The priest made a hullabaloo about sin and disease. “It's Satan has brought sickness to this house!” He blessed a tin cup of holy water and mopane ash, and said the fiend would be cast out and Mrs. Macholo would be saved if she'd come to the door and drink it. Esther said her mama couldn't move, much less come to the door; she was on her deathbed.

“That's the devil talking,” said the priest. “With God, all things are possible.” No sooner had the words left his lips than he was seized by the Spirit. He pushed his way inside and tried to force the holy water down Mrs. Macholo's throat. Esther felt dirty. I can't imagine how her mama felt. It was like the priest was blaming her for dying.

It's because of that that Esther doesn't pray or sing hymns anymore. Once she stood on her mama's grave and shouted: “If God could save Mama and Papa and didn't, I hate Him. And if He
couldn't
save them, He's useless. Priests and church ladies should go straight to hell.”

“Don't say that! Don't even think it!” I said. “Not all churches are like your auntie and uncle's. Our priest talks about joy and peace and everlasting love.”

“Blah blah blah.” Esther made a face. “God-talk is just superstitious mumbo jumbo.”

“That's not true.”

“It is so. Priests are no better than spirit doctors. The only difference is that you believe in one and not the other.”

I wish Esther wouldn't be like that, but I try not to judge her. I don't think God judges her either, not after what she's gone through. She doesn't have a home, a family, or anything to believe in anymore. No wonder she likes to get her picture taken at the Liberty. It's the one way she gets to feel important.

A
S USUAL, THIS
S
UNDAY
E
STHER'S ALREADY WAITING
for me when I roll up. She's lying on her mama's grave daydreaming, in those lime capri pants she picked up at the bazaar. They're filthy and torn. But that's not what I notice first. It's her right eye, all purple and swollen shut.

I hop off my bike. “What happened?”

Esther looks up with a lopsided grin. “Last night Auntie threw the iron at my head.”

“Why?”

She roars with laughter. “She told me to do the laundry. I told her to shove it up her ass.”

“That's not funny. You've been beaten before. Next time call the cops.”

“Don't be stupid.” Esther stretches. “Auntie'd say I was lying and I'd get another whupping from my uncle. Either that or they'd kick me onto the street. Then what would I do?”

“You could live with us.”

Esther groans. “Your mama doesn't want me around.”

“That's not true,” I lie.

“It is so. Anyway, I don't want to talk about it.” She cartwheels in my direction.

I leap out of her way. “You're worse than Soly and Iris put together!”

“I hope so,” she winks. Or tries to wink.

We walk to our favorite spot, an uprooted tree stump by a bend in the road. As we go, we collect flat, smooth stones. Once we've arrived, we hunch on the stump and take turns tossing them at the pothole on the far side of the bend. It's a game we started weeks ago. In the beginning, we thought we'd have it filled by rainy season, but at the rate we're going I wouldn't count on it.

I tell Esther about yesterday, and how Iris claims she's playing with Sara.

“If you want my opinion,” Esther says, “you should bring her to Sara's grave.” She lands a stone perfectly. “I mean it. Seeing where Sara's buried would make it real for her. Then maybe this imaginary friend would go away.” She lands a second.

“Mama says she's not old enough.”

“According to adults we're never old enough. For anything.” She lands her third in a row. “If it weren't for me, my brothers
and sister would still be asking when they're coming home.”

Esther's forehead wrinkles up. She's with me in body, but her mind is far away. We sit like this for awhile, Esther thinking and me watching her think. At last I say: “Any news from your brothers?”

Esther shakes her head. “It's not like the cattle posts have phones.” She looks away. “Anyway, maybe not hearing from them is better. I hate when blind Auntie travels to town with my little sister. When they go to leave, my sister hangs off my neck crying, ‘Keep me with you!' I tell her I can't, but she doesn't understand.” Esther gets up and pitches a stone as far as she can. “Well, things are going to change. I have a plan. This time next year we'll all be together.”

“How?”

“It's a secret.”

“Tell me.” But before I can get her to explain, she's let out a hoot and begun to run back to her parents' gravesite. “Race you to the bikes!”

“No fair,” I yell. “You have a head start.”

We say a good-bye to her parents and begin the long ride home. At the crossroads leading to Esther's section, we stop for a final chat, rocking on our bike seats, touching the ground on tiptoes. We're talking about nothing in particular, when Esther says: “I'm sorry your mama's not feeling well.”

“Who says she isn't?”

“Nobody,” Esther says carefully. “I just see her using a cane.”

“It's not a cane. It's a walking stick.”

“Whatever you call it, she uses it all the time.”

“So what? She doesn't want to sprain her ankle. It's pretty rocky around here. Besides, she likes it.”

Esther takes a long pause. “I'm only going to ask this once,” she says, “and please don't take it the wrong way, but you're my best friend, and I really love you, and I don't want anything bad to happen to you, and—”

“And and and. What are you trying to say?”

Esther looks down. She twists the rings on her fingers. “Does your mama have a will?”

For a second I can't breathe.

“Well, does she?”

“Why would you ask something like that?”

“No reason.”

“There's nothing the matter with Mama.” My palms sweat against the handlebar grips.

“All right, I believe you,” Esther presses. “It's just—if there was an accident or something, who'd get the house? Who'd get the garden?”

“Stop it. Talking about death and wills is bad luck.”

“That's what Mama and Papa used to say.”

“What do they have to do with
my
mama?” I wipe my hands on my skirt.

“Nothing,” she says. “It's only, at Sara's funeral I remember your Auntie Lizbet. I hope the rest of your relatives are nicer.”

“Shut up, Esther. I hate you.” I punch her hard. She topples over onto the ground.

I can't believe what I've done. “I'm sorry,” I blubber. I help her up. Her hands are scraped. I'm certain she'll want to fight, but she doesn't. She checks her elbows. There's a trickle of blood. I pull out a tissue but she won't take it. She gets back on her bike and rides off without saying anything.

“Esther, don't go!” I shout. I cycle hard to catch up with her.
“Don't go till you tell me everything's okay between us.”

She slams on her brakes. Her bike skids on the gravel to a sideways stop. “Fine,” she says. “Everything's ‘
okay
,' Chanda. Everything's perfect. Happy? Now leave me alone.”

I
HATE HAVING FIGHTS WITH
E
STHER.
When she decides to get mad, she can stay mad forever. And she hates to apologize for anything—even when a fight is partly her fault.

In the old days we never used to fight. At least not about anything important. It was always over little things. Such as, once before high school I told her she should spend less time on her looks and more time on her books. She made a face and told me if I didn't stop reading I'd go blind.

“Good. Then I wouldn't have to look at your stupid clothes,” I shot back. “All those big clunky heels and halter tops. The least you could do is cover your navel. You're going to get a reputation.”

“All the better to get kissed,” she squealed.

I said she was a flirt, she said I was a nun, and that was about it.

Since high school the fights have gotten real. A few months after Sara was born there was a dance. Esther ran up the next day all excited and told me what she'd done with her date in the bushes behind the soccer field. I was half-horrified, half-curious: “I hope you're making that up.”

“Why would I make it up?” she said. “There's nothing wrong with a little fooling around. Just because Isaac Pheto was a pervert doesn't mean you have to hate men.”

I went crazy. I called her names, wrestled her to the ground, and ripped the combs out of her hair. “I should never have told you about that!” I cried.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it.” It's the one time she's ever apologized right away.

“It's not like you're right, either,” I said, when things had settled down. “What Isaac did gives me nightmares. But I loved Papa more than anything, not to mention Mr. Dube and my older brothers. Then there's Soly, Mr. Tafa, Joseph and Pako from math class—and Mr. Selalame, of course. I like lots of men.”

Esther paused. “So why don't you ever go out?”

“I'm busy. Haven't you noticed? My new sister's got colic, and Mama needs help. Iris and Soly are no use, Jonah never lifts a finger, so that leaves me to do everything.”

It's been two years since I said that, and I'm still stuck. I try not to think about it, but sometimes I get mad at Mama for being tired and leaving me to take care of everything. Then I feel guilty for being selfish. Then I get mad for feeling guilty. What's the matter with me?

Anyway, it was easy to patch things up when Esther came to school. Seeing each other all day, I'd know when it was safe to start talking again. Now I have to guess. But what if I guess wrong? I've promised never to go to her auntie and uncle's. So if she's still angry and I bike over, she'll bite my head off. Or if I stake out the Liberty, she'll accuse me of spying.

That means I'm left waiting for
her
, wondering if she's forgiven me yet. The not-knowing makes me anxious. Which makes me upset. Which makes me mad at her all over again.

Right now I'm
really
mad. It's been almost a week since I shoved her off her bike. I didn't expect to see her on Monday
or Tuesday, and I understood her staying away on Wednesday and Thursday. Even on Friday. But now it's Saturday morning. Is she really angry or just punishing me? Either way, it isn't fair. I shouldn't have pushed her, but she shouldn't have talked about Mama as if she was dying either.