Chanda's Secrets (14 page)

Maybe.

I chain my bike to a link fence next to the hospital's emergency wing and run inside, almost knocking over a man on crutches. The lobby is packed. Even the window ledges are full. Women rock howling babies, men hold rags to open wounds, old folks squat on the floor, and screaming children run wild. Beyond, the corridors burst with stretchers: some surrounded by relatives, some covered in death sheets waiting to be taken to the morgue.

“Number 148?” The voice is coming from behind a counter. I see a sign that says Reception. A few dozen people bunch in front of it. I push my way through.

“I need an ambulance, right away,” I say to the receptionist.

“Are you 148?”

“No. But this is an emergency!”

“So is this,” she says, with a glance at the ward.

“I'm 148,” says the woman behind me. Her face is covered in blisters.

I retreat and take a number from the peg on the nearby wall. Number 172. I'll be waiting forever.

Forever passes in a whir of orderlies, patients, nurses, cries, wails, buzzers, bells, and worries. When it's my turn, the receptionist buzzes me through the door beside her counter and into a room full of privacy screens and filing cabinets. Between the partitions, nurses are taking notes from patients and relatives. Some are hysterical.

I'm greeted by an older woman with wire-rim glasses. The
name tag on her uniform says “Nurse B. Viser.” She leads me to her desk. It's covered in file folders, stacks of multi-colored forms, and a box of tissues. There's only one chair, a card table chair. She offers it to me and props herself against the end of the desk.

“If I could get a little personal information,” she says, picking up a pen and clipboard.

I give her my name, age, street, and section number.

“Good,” she smiles, and taps the end of her pen against her chin. “Now then, what can I do for you?”

I fill with fear. I can't say the problem out loud. I don't want it written down or connected to my family.

“A man's been beaten,” I say. “He's bleeding under a wagon in front of my house.”

“Have you called the police?”

“No. He doesn't need the police. He needs a doctor.”

“I'm sorry,” says Nurse Viser, “we don't have enough doctors for house calls. Call the police. If his injuries are serious, they'll bring him over.”

“No, they won't,” I say. “They won't touch him. They won't even go near him. Nobody will.” I hold my breath and pray no one's listening. “He's very thin,” I whisper.

Nurse Viser understands. She puts down her clipboard and takes my hand. “I'll put him on the list for a caseworker,” she says. “But the earliest she can come is a week Monday. Your patient will still need a place to stay. There's no room for him here. Who are his family?”

“He doesn't have one anymore.” My eyes begin to well. “And he won't come inside.”

Nurse Viser hands me a tissue. “No, thank you,” I say. “I'm
fine.” I give directions to get to our house, and describe what it looks like so the caseworker can find it.

She writes it all down. “Until we can see him, make sure he's covered and given plenty of water.”

“I've already done that.”

“Good. The caseworker can give him an AIDS test to confirm your suspicions. In the meantime, be safe: use these whenever he needs changing.” She reaches into a cupboard and hands me a box of rubber gloves.

I lower my eyes.

“It's hard, isn't it?” Nurse Viser says gently. She hugs me.

It's past sundown by the time I leave the hospital. The main strip is bright with neon lights, but the side streets are dark, except for the headlights of slow-moving cars trolling for hookers. The strip ends at the edge of downtown. I keep to the main roads, streaking through the patches of night that fall between the street lamps.

All the while, I think: should I have told Nurse Viser about Mama? About her problems? About my fears? I don't know. It's too confusing. Let sleeping dogs lie.

I reach my section. Something isn't right. It's too quiet for a Saturday. Where's the singing? The yard parties? Nowhere, that's where. Even the Lesoles' boom box is still. Two blocks from home, I spot a funeral tent. At last, I think, people. I ride up expecting to see some life. But the mourners sit around the firepit, frozen as corpses.

A cold knot grows in my stomach. It gets bigger the closer I get to home. A lamp glows in the main room. Soly and Iris are at the window, peeking out from between the slats of the shutters. Everything is as it should be. And yet...

Before heading in, I go to the wagon. Jonah's bowl is overturned by the yard-side wheel. I kneel and peer into the darkness underneath. “Jonah?”

I listen hard for a chatter of teeth, a whisper of breath, a rustle of blanket. Nothing.

“Jonah?” I say again.

A voice comes out of the night behind me. “Jonah's gone.”

I whirl around. It's Mama.

“What are you doing out here?” I gasp.

“Waiting for you.”

“Where's Jonah?”

“I don't know.” Mama's voice is far away. “They say he wandered off at sundown.”

“Who's ‘they'?”

“Mrs. Tafa.”

My mind races. “Oh my god, Mama, he's dead, isn't he? Somebody came back and did something.”

“Why would anybody do anything? He left on his own. He wanted to go. To be alone. Mrs. Tafa said so.” Mama leans heavily on her walking stick. “Now come inside,” she says. “We've got a visitor.”

O
UR VISITOR IS
M
RS.
G
ULUBANE.
The local spirit doctor. She lives in the mopane hut across from the dump with her aging mama and a grown daughter, born without eyes.

Normally Mrs. Gulubane wears a cotton print dress, a kerchief, an old cardigan, and a pair of rubber sandals. But tonight is a business call. She has on her otterskin cap, her white robe with
the crescent moons and stars, her red sash, and her necklace of animal teeth.

Our kitchen table and chairs have been pushed against the side walls. Mrs. Gulubane's reed mat has been unrolled in the center of the room. When I come in, she's sitting on it cross-legged. To her right is a whisk broom of yerbabuena stalks and a pot of water; to her left, a wicker basket and a handful of dried bones. This is how she presents herself on weekends at the bazaar, where she tells tourists their fortunes while her daughter hunches next to her weaving grass hats.

It's fun watching Mrs. Gulubane play with the tourists. Most traditional doctors try to keep their customers happy. Not Mrs. Gulubane. When she's in a bad mood, she'll tell them that their wives are cheating with the neighbors, and their children will be ripped apart by wild dogs. If they want their money back, her daughter rips the bandages off her eye sockets and threatens to attack them with her cane. It's amazing how fast tourists can run—even when they're loaded down with souvenirs and videocams.

Tonight, though, I'm not expecting fun. Here in the neighborhood, Mrs. Gulubane takes her rituals seriously. So do a lot of people—even people who know better. No matter what sounds come out of her hut, nobody ever says a word. I don't know how many people believe in her powers, but nobody wants to be at the end of her curse.

Mrs. Gulubane stays seated. “Good evening, Chanda.” The lamplight shines off her two gold teeth.

I bow my head in respect, but what I'm thinking is: Why is she here?

She reads my mind. “There is bewitchment in this place. I have come to see what I can see.”

I look uncertainly at Mama. Why did she ask her here? She doesn't believe in spirit doctors.

“It wasn't your mama called me,” Mrs. Gulubane smiles. “I was sent for by a friend.”

“Good evening, Chanda,” comes a voice from the corner behind me. I turn. It's Mrs. Tafa. She closes the shutters.

Mrs. Gulubane indicates the floor in front of her mat. “Now that the family is together, shall we begin?”

Mama nods. She hands me her walking stick and takes my arm. I help her down and sit beside her. Soly and Iris squeeze between us. Mrs. Tafa sits in a chair; I suppose she's afraid if she sat on the floor she wouldn't be able to get up again.

Mrs. Gulubane lowers the lamp flame. Shadows dart up and down the walls. She takes an old shoe polish tin from her basket. Inside is a small quantity of greenish brown powder. She chants a prayer and rubs the powder between her fingers, sprinkling it into the pot of water. Then, stirring the water with the whisk brush, she dances about the room flicking a light spray into the corners, and over and under the windows and doorways.

I'm not sure what Mama is thinking, but Soly and Iris are frightened. “It's all right,” I whisper. “It's just a show.” Mrs. Gulubane stops in her tracks, tilts her ear toward us, and growls at the air. Soly buries his head in my waist.

Mrs. Gulubane returns to the mat. She pulls a length of red skipping rope from her basket, folds it in two, and begins to whip herself. Strange noises rattle up her throat. Spittle flies from her lips. Her eyes roll into her head. “HI-E-YA!” She throws back her arms, stiffens, and slumps forward in a heap.

A moment of silence. Then she sits up slowly and reaches for the bones. They're flat and worn, sliced from the ribs of a
large animal. Mrs. Gulubane takes three in each hand. Chanting, she claps them together three times and lets them fall. She peers at the pattern they make. Something upsets her. She puts two of the bones aside. More chanting as she claps the remaining four and lets them fall. Her forehead knots tighter. She sets a second pair of bones aside and picks up the remaining two. A final chant. She claps them together. One breaks into three pieces in her hand. The fragments fall on the mat. She studies them closely, muttering heavily and shaking her head.

She looks up. Under the lamplight, Mrs. Gulubane's face contorts into the face of an old man. Her voice changes, too. It's low and guttural. She swallows air and belches words. “An evil wind is blowing from the north. There is a village. I see the letter ‘T.'”

A pause. “Tiro,” Mama says. Her voice is tired, resigned.

“Yes, Tiro. It is Tiro. Someone in Tiro wishes you harm.”

“Only one?” asks Mama. I look over. Is there mockery in her voice?

Mrs. Gulubane glares. “No. More than one,” she says. “But one above all others.” She moves the bones around, cocks her head, and makes a deep whupping sound. “I see a crow. It hops on one claw.”

Mrs. Tafa's breath seizes. “Lilian's sister has a clubfoot,” she whispers from the corner.

Mrs. Gulubane claps her hands in triumph. “The bones are never wrong. This sister of yours,” she says to Mama, “she has visited your home?”

“She came for the burial of my child,” Mama replies. “And when I buried my late husband.”

“Death. She has come for death,” Mrs. Gulubane growls. “And to steal for her spells.”

“Lizbet?” Mrs. Tafa gasps.

Mrs. Gulubane nods darkly. “When she has left, what things have been missing?”

“Nothing,” Mama says.

“Nothing you remember. But maybe an old kerchief? An old hankie?”

“I don't know.”

“The evil one is clever!” Mrs. Gulubane exclaims. “Each time she has come, she has taken a hankie, a kerchief, something so old it hasn't been missed. And she has snipped a braid of your hair—oh yes, each time a single braid—while you lay sleeping. With these she has bewitched you. She has put a spell on your womb. Even as we speak, the demon is coiled in your belly.”

Without warning, Mrs. Gulubane lunges across the mat and punches her fist into Mama's guts. Mama howls in pain. The spirit doctor twists her fist back. Wriggling from her grip is a snake. She throws it against the wall and attacks it with Mama's walking stick.

The air is alive with magic. From every corner, animal noises blare, trumpet, and squawk. Mrs. Gulubane spins about, striking the reptile. Finally she leaps upon it, grabs it by head and tail and ties it in a knot. She lifts the lifeless body above her head. Its shadow fills the wall.

“I have killed this demon,” she says. “But there will be others. The evil one has your hankies, your kerchiefs, your braids of hair, to make more spells. She has sewn the hankies into dollies, stitched on eyes and mouths, and filled them with cayenne. Therein the pain to your body. At night, she has singed your braids of hair. Therein the pain to your mind. Beware. You must retrieve what she has stolen or you and your children will surely die.”

We stare in dumb silence as Mrs. Gulubane drops the snake into her pot, returns the pot, whisk brush, and tin to her basket, and rolls up her mat. She tucks the mat under her arm, takes the basket, and makes her way out the door.

Mrs. Tafa rushes after her. “For your troubles.” She presses a few coins in Mrs. Gulubane's free hand. “Tomorrow, I'll have the family bring you two chickens for a sacrifice.”

Mrs. Gulubane nods and vanishes into the night.

“W
ITCHCRAFT
!” M
RS.
T
AFA TURNS TO
M
AMA.
“What did I tell you? We have to talk.”

Mama gets up slowly and follows Mrs. Tafa outside. They huddle together on a pair of upturned pails. Mrs. Tafa waves her arms and babbles incoherently. Mama stares into the night.

Soly and Iris watch her from the front door. “Is it true?” they whisper. “Are we going to die?”

“No.” I pull them back inside. “None of us is going to die.”

“But Mrs. Gulubane said—”

“Mrs. Gulubane likes to hear herself talk.”

“No,” Iris gasps. “She talks to spirits!”

“She's a fake. Sorcery is just in books. At school, Mr. Selalame tells us all about how traditional doctors do their so-called magic.”