Читать книгу Praise Song for the Butterflies - Bernice L. McFadden - Страница 16

5

One day, a few weeks after Grandmother arrived, Ismae came wobbling into the house supported by her husband and a pair of crutches.

Grandmother spat, “That is what happens when you wear those awful high-heeled shoes.”

Ismae ignored the comment. “It was the silliest thing,” she stammered. “I go up and down those steps at least once a week. How I missed the last step, I don’t know. Thank God I wasn’t carrying Agwe!”

Wasik helped Ismae onto the couch and placed a pillow beneath her injured ankle.

Grandmother studied the cast. “How long will you have that thing on your leg?” she asked, running her finger across the hardened plaster.

“The doctor said six weeks.”

“Six weeks?” Grandmother responded with a huff.

“Yes.”

Grandmother shrugged, turned, and walked into the kitchen grumbling about high-heeled shoes and tight skirts.

Ismae thought how helpful it would be to have Bembe there during her time of need. But the poor girl had crumbled under Grandmother’s tyrannical reign, and had found employment elsewhere.

One afternoon during the second week of Ismae’s convalescence, she was sitting on the couch flipping through a magazine when Wasik arrived home early from work.

Ismae gazed at her husband’s wan and worried face. “What is it? What has happened, Wasik?”

He dropped his briefcase on the floor, went to the glass tray of liquor, and reached for the bottle of schnapps. “They have suspended me,” he squeaked.

Ismae tossed the magazine aside. “Did you say suspended?”

Wasik took a gulp of the schnapps, swallowed, and nodded.

“But why?”

“They think I have something to do with the money that was stolen.”

Ismae already knew about the theft, because news of it had reached the papers. Even as the reports gained momentum, however, Wasik had kept the fact that he was being investigated a secret from her. But now the truth was out in the open.

“That’s ridiculous. You’ve been working at the treasury department for years, and not a cendi has ever gone unaccounted for.”

Wasik drained his glass and poured another. When he’d emptied the glass a second time, he brought it close to his face and peered at the empty bottom as if his life had fallen down into it.

“How long will you be suspended?”

“Until the investigation is complete and they find me innocent.”

“And how long will that take?” Panic pealed like bells in Ismae’s voice.

The schnapps circulated quickly through Wasik’s bloodstream, raising his body temperature, burning away the worry. He poured a third drink. “I don’t know,” he replied dryly.

“What will we do for money?”

Wasik swirled the liquid round and round in the glass. His head felt as light as a leaf. He sighed. “I will still be receiving some of my salary.”

“Some?”

“Half.”

“Half? We can’t live on half!”

Wasik downed the drink, reached for the bottle a fourth time, but thought better of it when Ismae cried, “Wasik, for goodness sakes!”

“We have our savings,” he mumbled, “but I can’t imagine this investigation will go on long enough for us to have to dip into it.”

Ismae let out a bitter laugh. “Have you forgotten where you live? This is Ukemby. What might take a few weeks in other countries can take months or even years here.” She shifted uncomfortably on the couch and then timidly added, “I could go back to work.”

Wasik made a face and pointed a long finger at her cast.

“It’ll be off soon.”

He shook his head. “No, you need to be here with the baby. Don’t worry.”

In the kitchen, Grandmother tiptoed away from the doorway where she had been eavesdropping, went to the stove, and turned the burner on under the pot of cold stew.

* * *

Days later, Agwe developed a cough, followed by a fever that raised boils the size of quail eggs all over his body. Wasik took him to the pediatrician, who prescribed a salve and antibiotics.

The fever broke the next day, but the boils remained.

Grandmother did not trust doctors or their medicine, so she went to the market and bought herbs, which she then pounded into a paste and put in a pot of boiling water. The concoction produced a stench so strong it could be smelled for blocks.

Ismae appeared at the doorway of the kitchen with her hand pressed over her nose and mouth, speaking through the slats of her fingers: “What is that?”

“Medicine for the child.”

“Bush medicine?”

“What else would it be?”

Ismae hobbled over and stared into the pot. “Is he to drink that?”

“No, it is for him to wash in.”

Ismae backed away from the bubbling mixture, went to the window, and flung it open.

“I-I,” Ismae began respectfully, “I don’t think this is a good idea. The medicine the doctor prescribed will start to work very soon, so . . .” Her words dropped away under Grandmother’s icy gaze.

“You trust some doctor’s medicine over that of your own kind?”

Ismae blinked. “Own kind?” Dr. Lama was black and African just like her. Just like Grandmother. “Well, I think that—”

Grandmother slammed the spoon down onto the stove. “What do you think? Tell me, Ismae.”

Grandmother had never before used that hard and brittle tone with Ismae and it rattled her. The blood drained from her face, her lips continued to flap, but no words came from her mouth. Finally, wounded, she retreated to her bedroom, took an aspirin for the throbbing headache the encounter had brought on, and soon fell fast asleep.

Hours later, she was startled awake by Agwe’s terrified screams. For a few moments Ismae floundered helplessly in and out of sleep, unable to decipher whether or not she was dreaming. When it became clear that Agwe was in peril, she jumped from the bed and landed on her wounded ankle. The pain shot up her leg and exploded behind her eyes. She fell back on the bed, cradling her foot.

Agwe’s wails came again, cresting like waves. Ismae hurriedly reached for her crutches and hobbled out of the bedroom.

“Mama! Mama, what are you doing?” Ismae screamed as she entered the bathroom.

Grandmother had Agwe in the bathtub, one meaty arm wrapped tight around his squirming body. The other hand clutched a sponge dripping with the concoction she’d brewed. She dragged the sponge over the boils on Agwe’s shoulders, creating a seeping trail of ruptured flesh.

The baby boy screamed again, his howls bouncing off the tiled walls like Ping-Pong balls.

Ismae lumbered forward, throwing herself at Grandmother, who was shorter than her, but wider and stronger. The old woman barely shuddered when Ismae’s body slammed into hers.

She caught hold of Grandmother’s wrists and tried to twist the hand holding the sponge away from Agwe, but Ismae’s own hand slipped and slid on Grandmother’s wet flesh. Grandmother shoved her aside, plunged the sponge into the pot of bush medicine, and prepared to swipe it over Agwe’s head.

Ismae righted herself, ignored the fresh wave of pain erupting in her ankle, and lunged at Grandmother a second time, sinking her fingernails into the fleshy underside of her arm. The old woman bellowed in agony and surprise before she toppled off the stool and hit the floor with a thump.

When Wasik arrived home from his hearing at the treasury department, Grandmother was seated on the veranda, solemnly plucking the feathers from the body of a decapitated fowl.

“Mama,” Wasik said in a tired voice, “I’ve asked you a hundred times not to do this on the front veranda. If you must buy and kill live fowl, you can clean it in the backyard.”

Grandmother raised her head; her lips were pressed into a thin, angry line.

“What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Wasik asked half-heartedly. He had come to terms with his mother’s incessant discontent. It seemed that nothing could please her. So he no longer tried. He simply accepted his role as a sounding board for her daily complaints. He just needed a glass or two of schnapps to get through it.

“Wait, don’t tell me,” he said, raising his hand. “Let me get a drink first.”

“Your wife hit me,” she blurted out before he could take a step.

Wasik was sure he’d heard wrong. He set his briefcase down on the empty chair next to his mother. “Sorry?” he offered as he loosened the knot in his tie.

Grandmother flung her arm out at him, revealing the torn flesh. An astonished Wasik gazed stupidly at the gaping wound.

“Ismae did this?”

“Yes,” Grandmother snapped.

Wasik’s life was bad enough. The officials at the ministry of finance claimed to have incriminating evidence as well as an eyewitness who could confirm Wasik’s involvement in the theft. When he asked to see the proof and the name of the eyewitness, the officials denied both requests. Instead, they’d thrust an affidavit under his nose and demanded he sign it. We can make this go away for you, Kata. No prosecution and no jail time, just dismissal.

Wasik quickly understood that they didn’t have anything on him, but were looking for a scapegoat to take the fall. Talk was, they’d discovered that the real coconspirator was related to the prime minister and thus virtually untouchable.

Wasik knew if he signed the document he would destroy his career and his reputation. He shoved the paper away, excused himself from the meeting, and went straight to an attorney to whom he paid a 10,000-cendi retainer—a quarter of what was in their savings account. And just when he thought the day, his life, couldn’t get any worse, he’d come home to find that his wife had assaulted his mother.

Wasik left Grandmother on the veranda and stormed into the house. Abeo was seated at the dining room table immersed in her homework. Her head bounced up when he entered the room.

“Hi, Papa,” she chimed.

Wasik forced a smile. “Hello, my beautiful daughter.” He’d greeted Abeo this way every day of her life. But this time the words were strained. If Abeo noticed, she didn’t react.

“Did you have a good day, Papa?”

Wasik glanced at the wall that separated the dining room from the master bedroom. “I did.”

“I think Mama and Agwe are taking a nap. I haven’t seen them since I got home from school.”

Wasik’s face flushed with relief. He was glad that Abeo hadn’t been there for all of the ugliness between Ismae and his mother. He bent over and planted a kiss on the top of Abeo’s head. “Yes, Mommy is very tired,” he said, before asking, “So, did you learn a lot in school today?”

“Oh yes.” Abeo leaned over to retrieve her book bag, but when she was erect again, Wasik was already walking out of the dining room.

The bedroom door was closed and locked. Wasik knocked, and when Ismae did not immediately respond, he knocked louder.

“Ismae, open this door now,” he hissed. “Do you want Abeo to see us behaving in such a way?”

The lock clicked open and Wasik charged in. Ismae was seated on the edge of the bed, her hair splayed about her head like a madwoman. Her eyes were red from crying. Agwe was sound asleep, naked save for a diaper.

“What have you done?”

“What have I done? What have I done?” Ismae screeched. “Look, look at your son’s skin. Look at it!”

Wasik gazed down at the gaping purple craters on Agwe’s body. Before he could catch the words, they flew out of his mouth: “They look like they’re healing. Isn’t this what we wanted—”

Ismae hurled one of her crutches at him. It clipped his chin and clattered to the floor.

“I-Ismae!” Wasik cried, backing away from her.

Never once in all the years they’d been married had their disagreements turned physical. In fact, Ismae was as nonviolent as they came. Yet here she was, somehow transformed into a ball of ferocity, committing two acts of violence in one short day.

Wasik didn’t know what evil had swooped down on his life, or what devil had taken possession of his wife; what he did know was that he needed this bad luck and bad behavior to come to an end.

He bent over, calmly retrieved the crutch, and set it against the wall. “Ismae,” he started gently, “can we talk about this civilly?”

“There’s nothing to talk about, Wasik. She did what she did and I did what I did. There’s no going back to change any of it. And I’m not sorry, so don’t ask me to apologize, because I won’t.” Fresh tears welled up in Ismae’s eyes. “I want her out of this house. Today. This minute. Get in your car and drive her back to Prama.”

Wasik’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. He was caught between two bookends, between two women he loved and cherished. He had no idea what he should do.

* * *

That evening, Grandmother ate her dinner in the kitchen. The cold silence in the dining room was more than Abeo could bear. Eager to escape the tension, she scoffed down her food and excused herself from the table.

Sometime during the night, Abeo woke to use the bathroom and heard the hushed voices of her father and grandmother. They were conversing in Twel, a Ukemban patois that Abeo was not fully versed in. She was able to catch a few words, including her name and Serafine’s, which was mentioned several times.

Grandmother made a remark about bad luck, followed by a million words Abeo did not understand.

Although she could not grasp what was being debated, Abeo did recognize the urgency in her grandmother’s tone, even as Wasik’s responses sounded unsure.