Malawi's Sisters Page 13

  After the march, the Walker family sat in the hotel restaurant. No one said a word. Mama, Daddy, Ghana, Kenya, Charlene and Junior. Four glum faces staring at nothing in particular, while the children played games on their Nintendos. A young man with black straight hair and brown skin sat at a table by the window; Hispanic, Kenya thought. He stood as another man approached. A white man with curly brown hair. They embraced, kissing lightly on the lips and Kenya looked away, frowning. When she glanced back the pair were leaning into each other, hands clasped across the table. She checked to make sure her children weren’t seeing them. Two men kissing in public, that was just nasty. Two grown men acting like girls. They need to keep their perversion behind closed doors where no one could see.

  Kenya shifted her gaze to her sister and cleared her throat. “You were fantastic,” she said. “You looked amazing talking to the crowd. They really responded to you.”

  Ghana’s face brightened, though she didn’t smile. Energized, yet solemn and thoughtful. She nodded but said nothing. Her phone buzzed and Ghana gazed at it for a moment then turned it off. Her eyes drifted to something in the distance, and Kenya wanted to bring her attention back, to ask her what was wrong, but she wasn’t sure how. Kenya guessed it was something not related to the march or to their little sister. Suddenly protective, she reached out, touching Ghana’s arm. Ghana shifted her arm away but offered a small grin, turning to Charlene to ask if she’d enjoyed the march. The girl shrugged.

  “I thought it was cool,” chimed in Junior, without looking up from his game.

  “This was an important day, you know,” Ghana said, leaning down to be close to her niece. Charlene looked blankly at her aunt, who rested her hand on the girl’s head for a moment, then leaned back in her chair and gave a heavy sigh. Ghana looked at their mother then at Kenya and back at their mother, as if to say, “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Mama sat with her sunglasses on, slouched in her chair not eating. Their father stared at the table as if defeated.

  “You okay, Daddy?” Kenya asked. He smiled and nodded.

  “Just tired,” he said. “I’ll be glad to get to bed tonight.”

  Kenya would rather be flying back with them on the six o’clock flight. Instead she and Ghana were staying to organize Malawi’s things at her apartment for shipment back to their parents’ house. An activity she didn’t relish, but it was better than hiring strangers to rummage through their sister’s possessions. She glanced back at the two homosexuals sitting by the window—young, in the prime of their lives. They should be with pretty young women. Two men in love; it was perverted. Then it occurred to Kenya that she hadn’t known if Malawi had been in love, that she’d never met any of her sister’s boyfriends or heard her talk of them. Ghana likely knew all about them. Sadness leaned into Kenya’s chest, and she tried to push it away with a deep sigh. The two men erupted into laughter. Why would anyone choose to be gay, she thought.

  24

  The sisters spent the morning cleaning Malawi’s apartment, washing dishes and packing them in boxes, pulling clothes out of closets and stuffing them into large plastic bags for charity, discarding spoiled food and toiletries, and tagging furniture to be donated.

  Surrounded by shoes, Kenya sat on the floor of Malawi’s bedroom, while Ghana pulled underwear and T-shirts from the chest of drawers. Charlene, seated on the couch in the living room, searched through several boxes filled with fashion jewelry with the direction from her mother to keep whatever she wanted. Outside, Kenya could hear Junior on the porch exclaiming a victory or loss with whatever electronic game he was playing—she’d given him specific instructions not to leave the porch. Periodically, he ran in announcing a gecko or lizard sighting, but for the most part, stayed rooted to the lounge chair playing his Nintendo.

  Ghana had said little most of the morning. She pressed a colorful shirt to her chest and said, “Two weeks today.”

  Kenya nodded, unable to summon any words. Then, “I wish I had known her better. I’m here in her space, yet it feels alien to me.”

  The furniture, the pictures on the walls, none of it reminded her of Malawi. Then Ghana talked about shopping trips and stores where they’d bought this dress or that T-shirt. Kenya listened, thinking how much more alike they all were than she’d realized. All of them, in many ways, more like Mama than she cared to admit.

  “Did you and Mama get into it?” she asked.

  Ghana remained quiet, shaking out a blouse and re-folding it for the charity pile. She jerked her shoulders and harumphed. “I went to see her last week at the house. She’s such a bitch sometimes. I swear she hates me.”

  “Don’t say that. That’s just Mama. She’s . . . she’s . . .” Kenya couldn’t think of how to describe their mother.

  “See, you can’t even defend her. What about self-centered? Dramatic?”

  Kenya started to smile and added, “Martyr.”

  “Cold.”

  They both laughed. “We have her genes,” said Kenya.

  “Maybe you do. I have Dad’s through and through.”

  “No. Malawi was like Daddy.”

  “Yeah, she was.”

  Kenya wiped dust off a pair of flats, then tried to squeeze them on her foot; a size too small. She couldn’t remember the last time she and Ghana had spent time alone and was unsure what else to talk about. Ghana held an olive green skirt against her and moved around as if considering keeping it for herself. “That suits you,” Kenya said.

  “Doesn’t seem right keeping her clothes. Feels weird, like we should keep everything in case she comes back. You know, like she’s not really gone forever.”

  A thickness filled Kenya’s throat, but she managed to say, “Yeah.”

  Her sister settled on the bed and looked out the window. Kenya dumped another pair of shoes into the donations bag.

  Ghana said, “Things are a bit awkward with Ryan right now.”

  “What do you mean awkward?”

  “He feels like I’m against him because I’m supporting the Black Lives Matter movement.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Ghana stopped and turned to her as if she’d said something stupid.

  “What?” said Kenya. “What did I say?”

  Her sister gave a slow blink. “He’s a cop.”

  Kenya instantly felt dumb. Perhaps she’d forgotten, or maybe she had never known what he did for a living. She struggled to picture his face and wondered if they’d ever met. It took a moment, but gradually a memory surfaced of meeting Ryan last year at the fourth-of-July cookout. Ghana didn’t seem like his type. A clean cut, Caucasian man with a focused look about him; the total opposite of her sister. She’d never thought they were a good match. The whole opposites attract thing just didn’t seem legitimate. And yet, they’d been together a while now.

  “The Black Lives organizers have been pretty focused on some of the shootings and abuses by cops across the country,” said Ghana. “And because I’m supporting them, he feels like I’m against him.”

  “Are you?”

  As before, Ghana flashed Kenya a puzzled expression. “What do you mean, ‘Am I?’”

  “Are you against him? Like you said, he is a cop.”

  “Of course I’m not against him.”

  Kenya knew she’d hit a nerve in her sister, and pushed deeper. “Then why does he think you are?”

  She couldn’t hold Ghana’s irritated expression, and returned to assessing shoes to go in either the donation bag or the trash bag. Finally she looked up, and said, “I’m just curious. I mean, why would he think you’re against him if you’re not? What have you said or done to make him feel that way?”

  “Why do you always blame me?” Ghana said. “I haven’t done anything.”

  Kenya paused before responding. She wanted to talk, to share, but she’d never been good at making conversation—it became either an interrogation or an indictment, according to Sidney. “I’m not blaming you, and I’m not trying to upset you. I’m just asking.” Try
ing to be a caring sister.

  “I’m not upset.” Ghana stuffed a pile of underwear into a bag for trash, then said, “I’m not against him. But, some cops are racist.”

  “Are you worried he’s racist?”

  “What are you, playing therapist now?” Ghana snapped a T-shirt in the air and folded it roughly. “Of course not. He wouldn’t be with me if he was racist.”

  Kenya stretched her legs out, feeling her knees start to ache. “Yeah, but I mean, some guys, you just don’t know how they really feel until something like this comes up.” She gestured with a shoe in her hand. “You never really know a person until there’s some kind of crisis. That’s when you really get to know someone.”

  “This isn’t a crisis.”

  “No? Okay.” Kenya tied a knot in the plastic bag with the shoes to be thrown out with the trash and added it to the pile of bags at the front door, then she opened the coat closet in the hallway. It was true, she thought, crises show a person’s true colors. Sidney didn’t think cheating on her was a crisis, but it had been a huge one that cracked their foundation, and even though he kept trying to plaster over it, Kenya could feel the fissure. You never really knew a person.

  “Oh, my god,” her sister yelled from the bedroom and Kenya rushed back there.

  “Look at this!” Ghana held a yellow blanket. “Remember this?”

  She shook the material and displayed it in the air, a yellow baby blanket trimmed with satin and a large teddy bear covering one quarter of it. The edges were frayed; loose threads and small holes made the bear appear sad, but the fabric was still soft, though worn thin. The blanket first belonged to Kenya and had been passed down from sister to sister, becoming a security blanket for Malawi, who refused to go anywhere without it.

  “I can’t believe she still has it,” Kenya said, reaching out to touch the satin with her fingertips.

  “And that she brought it with her to Florida.” Ghana pressed it to her face. “How adorable is that?”

  Kenya leaned in and smelled a sweet fragrance clinging to the fabric, Malawi’s perfume. She shifted closer and her head touched Ghana’s. They began to sway, their bodies bending ever so slightly left to right, left to right, a rhythm bringing comfort. Kenya wrapped her arms around her sister, feeling the warmth of her body, the firm muscles in her back, the solidity of her sister in her arms. Alive. Kenya squeezed tighter and tighter.

  With the few coats sorted, most of them in the charity bag, Kenya pulled down a suitcase from the closet shelf. The case was heavy. Kenya dumped it on the floor and tugged the zipper open, finding a plastic bag and a shoe box filled with notepads, cards and letters. The contents appeared so personal that Kenya hesitated to look through them. She spied Christmas cards from Mama and Daddy and people Kenya didn’t recognize. Then the handwriting on one of the envelopes seemed familiar and Kenya looked closer—her husband’s. Why would Sidney have written something to Malawi? Kenya couldn’t think of any reason; she was in charge of sending holiday and birthday cards—there was no occasion she could remember when Sidney would have written a card to someone other than to her. Kenya even bought and wrote the cards for his parents. She pondered what would have prompted him to write a card to her baby sister. After some thought, she opened the envelope and inside was a Valentine’s Day card with a silhouette of a couple in an embrace and the words, “You Are Special to Me” on the front. A card similar to one he had given Kenya. Her heart leaped into her throat. A Valentine’s Day card from Sidney to Malawi. She stared at the front for several moments then slowly opened it. Sidney’s signature was at the bottom, his wild scrawling S-i-d. She wanted to pinch herself, to wake up, but she knew she wasn’t dreaming. She read the printed words, expressing love and desire. Her breakfast gurgled in her stomach and threatened to inch up to her throat while all the blood in her head seemed to drain to her feet. She searched the box for an explanation, something to confirm this was a joke. Instead she found a hotel receipt from late January with Sidney’s name on it, and Malawi’s and Sidney’s initials scribbled in the corner inside a heart drawn in blue ink, all in Malawi’s handwriting. Kenya’s stomach lurched and she tasted food in her throat. This couldn’t be real.

  She thought back to Christmas when she’d caught Malawi and Sidney alone, talking quietly in the kitchen. Their close proximity to one another had made Kenya uncomfortable but she dismissed her thought as paranoia. Looking at the card and the receipt, she wondered if the other woman had been her sister. Was Malawi the AfricanQueen?

  Kenya rushed to the bathroom and vomited into the sink, chunks of eggs and bacon covering the porcelain, a sour taste lingering on her tongue.

  “Sis? Sis?” Ghana’s hand pressed on her lower back and Kenya felt dizzy. “What’s going on?”

  “Just let me sit for a minute,” Kenya said and lowered herself to the floor, leaning back on the bathtub.

  “Are you pregnant?”

  Kenya couldn’t respond but shook her head. She could see her husband with Malawi and she wanted to puke again. She could see him crying when she told him Malawi had been killed. He had shed tears for her. My God!

  “I just want to be by myself for a minute, okay? I’m fine. I just need a minute. Maybe the eggs were off from breakfast.”

  Ghana was reluctant to go and Kenya waved her away, insisting she was fine. Her stomach churned and she crawled to the toilet bowl, vomiting more chunks that splashed into the water.

  Entering the house through the garage, Kenya fussed with the kids, getting them to help with the luggage. Sidney’s car was there but she wasn’t sure if he was in the house. He may have been on the road. He usually took a limousine service to the airport when he traveled. She couldn’t keep up with his schedule anymore and they’d become lax about telling each other what they were doing. She and the kids were home late because of a delay with the plane and though there was no school in the morning, she wanted the kids ready for bed as soon as possible. Junior did have to get up for summer camp. They groaned but followed her command to get upstairs and wash up.

  On her way to her bedroom, she passed the office and Sidney was at his desk, earphones plugged into his ears on a video-conference call. He looked over and waved. Glaring at him, she fought the urge to smash his face into the computer screen.

  She took her bag into her room and unpacked, emptying the bag of dirty clothes into the laundry hamper then placing the clean items back into their respective drawer or closet. She did the same with her children’s clothes and as she walked back to her room, Sidney came out of the office.

  “Hey,” he said cheerfully. “Did you have a good time?”

  “It wasn’t a vacation,” she said and nudged past him into their bedroom. He followed behind.

  “Yeah, I just meant . . . well, you know. How was the march? I saw some of it on the news. Ghana was great.”

  “You going to befriend her online, too?”

  He was silent for a moment, then said, “Oooookaaay. You all right?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m good. Peachy.”

  “Okay, just give it to me.” He offered a loud exhalation. “Obviously you’re not peachy. What is it? What did I do now?”

  Kenya turned to face him. Shaking, her fury was palpable, consuming everything inside her. “You’re a piece of shit and I hate you.” He stepped back as if she’d slapped him, but said nothing. “I never should have married you. Mama was so mad when I got pregnant. Said if I didn’t get married as soon as possible, I’d be stuck. It was the right thing to do, only because she knew you had a wealthy family and a strong bank account. She said you would give me a comfortable life, but what kind of a life is this?” She felt breathless but continued on. “It’s broken and painful and now in pieces because of your selfishness, because you thought sleeping with my sister was okay.” She stood, heaving, trying to get breath. “You piece of shit. I hate you.”

  She could almost see the blood drain from his face. “What are you talking about?”

  “Do
n’t act like you don’t know.” She grabbed her backpack, her movements violent, and pulled out the card she found in Malawi’s apartment. She waved it in his face. “Remember this?” Then she pulled out the hotel receipt. “And this?”

  “She was my sister!” She screamed so loud her throat immediately began to ache.

  He was breathing hard but said nothing. She stepped forward and punched his chest, once, twice, and almost reflexively he slapped her back, his hand striking her cheek. Kenya stumbled backward and glared at him, though not shocked. This was not the first argument that had ended with a punch or a slap between them. She would pummel him with punches until he smacked her back, and that stopped her.

  As her hand rose, he said, “Don’t hit me again.”

  Spent, she flopped on the bed. Quietly now she said, “She was my sister. She was young and silly and vulnerable, and you took advantage of her.”

  He closed his eyes, covered his face with his hands and sat on the chaise longue at the end of the bed. “We had ended it. It was over.”

  “That doesn’t make it okay.” She collected the receipt that had fallen on the floor and laid it on the bed next to her. “You were with her in January, right after she’d been home for the holidays. In December you said the affair was over. But it wasn’t.” She could feel the hysteria resurfacing and tried to push it back with a deep breath. “You were sleeping with my . . . my sister.”

  “Kenya.” He reached out to her but his hands hung in the air.

  “For how long?”

  “Please. I’ve been so afraid you would find out. I don’t want it to destroy us. Please, listen to me. I was serious when I said I want to begin again. You and me. I don’t want to be with anyone else. That was for real.”

  “I can’t. I just can’t. You have to leave. You can’t be here. You have to leave.” The words seemed to get stuck like a needle on a record and she couldn’t stop repeating herself.

  “Kenya. Please.”