Malawi's Sisters
Also by Melanie S. Hatter
The Color of My Soul
Let No One Weep for Me: Stories of Love and Loss
Malawi’s Sisters
Melanie S. Hatter
Four Way Books
Tribeca
Copyright © 2019 Melanie S. Hatter
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Hatter, Melanie S., author.
Title: Malawi’s sisters / by Melanie S. Hatter.
Description: New York : Four Way Books, [2019]
Identifiers: LCCN 2018028723 | ISBN 9781945588303 (pbk. : alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Domestic fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3608.A8656 M35 2019 | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018028723
LOVELY DAY
Words and Music by BILL WITHERS and SKIP SCARBOROUGH
Copyright © 1977 (Renewed) RELANA DENETTE FLORES PUB DESIGNEE, CANDACE ELIZABETH SCARBOROUGH PUB DESIGNEE, PLAID FLOWERS MUSIC, SWEET COOKIE MUSIC and GOLDEN WITHERS MUSIC All Rights for RELANA DENETTE FLORES PUB DESIGNEE, CANDACE ELIZABETH
SCARBOROUGH PUB DESIGNEE, PLAID FLOWERS MUSIC, SWEET COOKIE MUSIC Administered by WARNER-TAMERLANE PUBLISHING CORP.
Used by Permission of ALFRED MUSIC
All Rights Reserved
This publication is made possible with public funds from the National Endowment for the Arts
and from the New York State Council on the Arts, a state agency.
We are a proud member of the Community of Literary Magazines and Presses.
ISBN-13: 978-1-945588-34-1 (electronic)
To the countless children, women, and men of color, who lose their lives every day because of fear and racism.
Prologue
Malawi felt good about Connie, a ruddy-faced white woman from Alabama with a Southern accent that made Malawi laugh. She drank gin straight-up and said the word “fuck” so often no-one would ever guess she was a high-school math teacher. She’d taught in the Palm Beach County school system for almost as long as Malawi had been alive. That first week at school, when she heard the woman give a belly laugh in the teacher’s lounge, Malawi instantly adored her. And Connie had felt the same about Malawi, inviting her to dinner and sharing dirt on their colleagues. Malawi had only a handful of white friends, most of them liberal hipsters around her own age. Connie was well into her fifties, had voted for McCain in 2008 and for Mitt Romney in 2012. Malawi forgave her for that, putting it down to her Alabama upbringing.
They gathered at Connie’s house once a month. Sometimes they played Scrabble or watched a movie, but mostly they drank gin (Malawi added Coke—she liked being different) and talked about their students, good teaching strategies, their co-workers. Malawi could ask Connie advice on just about anything related to teaching. She made Malawi’s decision to move to West Palm Beach worth it. A spur-of-the-moment decision she had worried was the wrong move. But, so far, her new life was working out. She could imagine settling down here, making a home for herself. Maybe even having a family. With the right guy.
Malawi had driven to Connie’s house in Greenacres on Saturday night, calling her sister, Ghana, on the way there. They talked at least three times a week and texted almost every day. Malawi shared everything with Ghana—even the real reason she’d moved to Florida, though she didn’t reveal his name. That was a secret she’d take to the grave.
Ghana hadn’t talked to Mama or Kenya in months. Malawi understood perfectly well why. Yet a feeling, small, like one of those tiny chocolate eggs at Easter shifted in her stomach—a discomforting recognition that those cracked spaces between them all shouldn’t be left to grow. She’d needed to get away from the family, but the distance—while it had given her some clarity—had become greater than the miles. They should be better to one another. She would make an effort when she went back for a visit. Malawi made a promise to herself to bring everyone together.
For now, though, she’d met a new guy and wanted to get to know him better. Wanted to enjoy being in a relationship she didn’t have to hide from everyone. Her new man was a physical therapist at the medical center. Tall, brown-skinned, and fine as hell. Marriage material, even. Malawi had a thing for older men, but he wasn’t that much older, at least not compared to some of the others. He was smart and ambitious—traits she found sexy in a man, and he seemed to carry little baggage—no wives or other girlfriends, no kids, no strings she’d detected in the few months they had dated. Yeah, she could see this as a long-term thing.
He was disappointed she wasn’t spending the evening with him and asked her to come over later, no matter how late it was. When Malawi left Connie’s house well after midnight, she called to tell him she was on her way. “I got something for you,” he said, and she squirmed in her seat. He wouldn’t say what it was. “Just don’t take all night.”
The GPS on her phone kept cutting out and she suspected she’d made a wrong turn somewhere, but with each turn she seemed to find her way deeper into a neighborhood she didn’t know. The signal was weak and when she tried calling her man, the call dropped before she could say hello. One hand on the steering wheel, the other moving the phone around, trying to get a signal, and when she looked back at the road ahead something ran out in front of her. Looked like a bobcat. Just the other day she’d read about a recent sighting in the area. Instinctively, Malawi swerved and next thing she knew the airbag exploded in her face. Stunned, she sat for several moments as the airbag deflated, shaking, thinking maybe she shouldn’t have had that last gin and Coke. She’d been sipping water throughout the night and didn’t consider herself drunk, but couldn’t remember exactly how many drinks she’d had.
Malawi rubbed her palms across her hot face. Carefully, she opened the car door and grimaced at the sight of the buckled front end of the Camry lodged against a light pole. Her immediate thought was to call her father, but instead she dialed her guy’s number—still no service. Frustrated, she stood looking up and down the street. No traffic. No lights in any windows. It was after one a.m. She started walking, hoping to either get a signal on her phone or find someone still awake who would let her use theirs. Holding the cell phone out in front of her, she wandered a few minutes down the street until she saw a light in the front window of a small bungalow.
Malawi gave a sigh of relief and walked up the path.
1
The trilling of the phone stirred Bet from sleep, but it was the thudding of her heart that opened her eyes. An inexplicable dread rising in her chest before she looked at the clock to see the time—three in the morning. She glanced at Malcolm, who had pushed the covers to the bottom of the bed as he often did in his sleep, especially in the summer. He lay on his side, his face turned away from her, his snore chugging into the air. She offered a silent prayer that the call would be nothing bad. Leaning on her right elbow, she reached with her left for the phone on the bedside table, another prayer for a wrong number, that she could snuggle into her husband’s back and savor the memory of last night’s kisses.
She grabbed the phone just before it rang a third time, her heartbeat erratic in her chest. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Walker?”
“Yes.”
“This is Sheriff Wheeler of the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office. Do you have—”
His words faded and Bet pressed the phone closer to her ear. The voice was low and deep. She reached over and turned on the lamp, the light pinching her eyes.
“What? What did you say?”
“Do you have a daughter named Malawi Walker?”
“Mrs. Walker, there’s been an incident. Your daughter has been shot.”
“What?” Bet swung her legs off the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress pressing the phone into her ear. “What?”
She couldn’t breathe, yet a scream burst from her throat. Malcolm jumped up, his arm automatically reaching out to her. “It’s Malawi,” she yelled. “She’s been shot.”
Malcolm took the phone from her hand. “Hello? This is Judge Walker, Malawi’s father.” He listened and stared at Bet for what seemed an age, before responding. “Thank you, Sheriff. Yes, we’ll get on the first flight we can.” He touched her arm and the pressure of his hand was reassuring. “She’s at the Palm Beach Hospital. The sheriff said it’s a shoulder injury. You pack a bag. I’ll call the hospital. Maybe they can give us an update. I’ll find a flight.”
Malcolm rushed downstairs to his office while Bet remained seated on the bed, struggling to bring into focus what he’d said. She had to pack. They were going to Florida. They were going to see Malawi. Pushing herself to move, she ransacked closets and drawers for necessities. She stumbled over the cat as Kitty silently appeared from one of her hiding spots, meowing at the sudden disturbance in the house. In a moment, Malcolm advanced back up the stairs, shouting that he’d booked an early flight leaving National in a few hours. He handed her the phone. “I’m on hold with the hospital.” He gestured for her to take over listening to the tinny elevator music and stepped into the adjoining bathroom, closing the door behind him. She tried to picture her daughter being shot in the shoulder—over-dramatized scenes from movies clouded her mind; not images of Malawi. Bet took a deep breath.
She padded downstairs and put on a pot of coffee. Kitty followed and sprang from the floor to the chair, then up onto the counter and daintily pranced across to Bet, who tut-tutted and dumped the cat back on the floor with unnecessary force. She switched the phone from her right to her left and adjusted the salt-and-pepper shakers, aligning them just so. Her fingers were shaking. A voice came on the line and Bet threw out her daughter’s name, stumbling through an explanation that her daughter had been admitted a few hours ago, a gunshot wound. The voice couldn’t find Malawi’s name and suggested Bet call again in an hour. Bet huffed and glowered at the phone as if the voice could see her irritation, but the line was dead. She dialed Kenya’s number and her oldest answered after the third ring, her voice muffled and sleepy.
She tried to explain, but her words got tangled around her tongue as if fighting against her mouth.
“Mama, slow down. What happened?”
Bet’s head felt like it was in a tumble dryer and she was about to vomit. “We don’t know yet. I’ll call you when we know. I just—just wanted to let you know we’re going down there.”
“Do you need me to do anything?”
“Call Ghana for me. I can’t— I just—” Tears blurred her vision. Before hanging up, she repeated her promise to call when they got to Florida. “Oh, and stop in and feed Kitty, will you?”
The room was thick with shadow, only a glow of light came from the bulb above the stove. When the coffee was done, she poured a large mug and sat at the breakfast table trying to stay calm.
2
Kenya poured a second cup of coffee knowing she would be wired all day, but what do you do at four in the morning after your mother calls to say your sister has been shot? She had tried to go back to sleep but had lain with the weight of her thoughts pressing on her, closing her eyes just to have them open again. So she got up quietly, trying not to disturb Sidney, put on her robe and tiptoed downstairs, her head wrapped in a silk scarf to keep her hair smooth. She left a message for Ghana, emptied the dishwasher, took out chicken pieces to thaw, and sat at the breakfast bar nibbling at a hangnail as daylight gradually filled the kitchen.
As she gazed through the window at the bushes in the yard, irritation nipped the back of her neck at having to postpone the surprise party. And what to do with the huge sheet cake decorated with her parents’ smiling faces and the words “Happy Anniversary” in purple icing? Kenya bit harder at the skin around her nails. She wanted to be magnanimous toward her sister, and yet this feeling that Malawi always ruined everything kept shoving its way into her thoughts. She didn’t want to think this. Malawi was in pain, suffering a gunshot wound, for God’s sake. It’s not that she wasn’t worried about her baby sister—of course she was—it was just that Malawi had always been a drama queen. Always had to be the center of everyone’s attention. This was just another stupid cry to be noticed. Probably not even a shooting, but something else entirely.
She remembered missing her first-ever girls-and-boys party because Mama went into labor with Malawi. Instead of wearing her new dress and kissing her first crush, Kenya spent the night at Grandma’s house with Ghana. She had imagined dancing the night away in her crush’s arms, but instead, when she got to school the next day she heard he’d danced with Bethany Gilbert and kissed her goodnight. The kiss should have been Kenya’s. From that night on Malawi became the center of their lives—and the bane of Kenya’s.
Mama and Daddy always ran to her rescue, even now that she lived in Florida, off they went. They’d find she hadn’t been shot. Just Drama Queen creating a crisis. Malawi moved south claiming a desire to be free of the family. As if the family was some kind of mafia she needed to escape. But Malawi wasn’t the good girl their parents thought she was. For one thing, she was no stranger to smoking weed, and Kenya wondered if her sister had been experimenting with something stronger. Had fallen in with a bad crowd. Didn’t seem that long ago Malawi had called their parents in the middle of the night from West Baltimore because she’d hit a stop sign, apparently trying to reach her phone on the floor. So she said. She couldn’t start the car and needed money to get it towed and repaired. When asked what she was doing in West Baltimore in the early hours of the morning, all she said was, “just visiting friends.” Of course, Daddy immediately drove in the middle of the night from D.C. to save her, as if she couldn’t have called Triple-A.
Kenya’s coffee was cold now and she frowned at her thoughts. Everything would be fine. This was just Malawi being ridiculous, as usual.
Sidney came into the kitchen and murmured, “Good morning.” She could tell he was tired from his slow gait and low voice. His hair had grown into a short afro and she wished he would get it cut, yet couldn’t find words to say anything. She shifted her gaze to the window as he settled on a stool next to her, wearing white shorts and a striped Polo shirt, his skin tanned to almost black. He slurped his coffee—a sound she hated—and read the Post while waiting for a bagel to pop out of the toaster. He had returned yesterday from a business trip to South Africa. She knew that much to be true. As far as she could tell, he had never lied about where he had been, just who he’d been with.
The bagel popped up and Sidney remained still, reading. She wouldn’t spread the cream cheese for him. She knew that’s what he wanted, because that’s what she usually did. The cheese should be spread as soon as the bagel popped up so it melted. She hated for anything toasted to sit and get cold. But she refused to do it today. Not anymore.
He glanced at her. “You okay, Babe?”
“Um hmm.”
She took a sip of cold coffee, aware of his eyes on her, then he got up and spread the bagel himself. Between bites, he said, “I’ll be heading out soon. Meeting Jon for a round of tennis.”
Flooded with a combination of thoughts and emotions she didn’t know what to do with, Kenya said nothing. This morning, everything was irritating her. She decided not to mention her mother’s call until she heard more. She acknowledged his comment with a nod, her teeth still nibbling at the skin around her nails, her mind on having to call everyone on the invite list to cancel the surprise party—surprise!—and thinking about her parents rushing off to Florida to rescue her sister. She listened but didn’t hear the crackling pages of the newspaper, Sidney crunching the
bagel, the hum of the refrigerator.
After a while, Sidney said, “Okay, then,” and placed his mug on the empty plate, the clink bashing her ears. “I’ll see you later.” He left her with a kiss on her forehead.
3
Malawi has been shot. The words rolled and collided like marbles on a wooden floor; Ghana could make no sense of them. She deleted Kenya’s rambling message then called Malawi’s number but it went straight to voice-mail.
She sat on the couch in the dim morning light, her locs tied up with a scarf into a loose pile on top of her head, her latest tattoo, a vine of flowers curling over her shoulder and along the back of her neck, peeking around just below her right ear. She had wandered, naked, into the living room in search of her phone. The dull ache of a hangover squeezing her brain as she listened to her sister’s message. Grabbing Ryan’s T-shirt from the cushion next to her, she covered herself then pulled her feet up onto the couch, straining the cell phone’s charging cord. She leaned her arm on her knees and listened to the phone ring so many times, Ghana expected to get voice-mail, but her mother finally answered.
“Mama. What’s going on?”
“We’re in Florida. Me and your father.” Her mother sounded weary. “Malawi’s in the hospital. We’ve just landed at the airport. Once your father gets a car we’ll go straight there.”
Ghana tightened her knees into her chest. “Is she okay?”
“They said it was a shoulder wound. Look, I need to go. We’ll call when we know for sure what’s going on, okay.”
Ghana ran back to the bedroom and jumped on the bed. Ryan lay on his stomach and shifted his head from left to right, but didn’t open his eyes. He’d worked well past his regular evening shift and hadn’t gotten home until after two a.m. She hesitated to wake him, but needed to talk. As a cop, he might have some perspective to help her understand what was happening with her sister.