Malawi's Sisters

by Melanie S. Hatter

  Bet kept her eyes closed. She didn’t want to get up. Didn’t want to do anything, least of all go through Malawi’s belongings.

  Bet sat across from Malcolm at breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant, though she wasn’t eating. The vegetable omelet and wheat toast Malcolm had ordered sat uneaten on the plate before her. Instead, Bet stared blankly at some distant point to her right.

  “Bet,” he said, trying to contain his irritation. “Elizabeth!”

  She looked at him with that same empty expression she’d held since . . . since identifying their daughter.

  “Elizabeth. Honey. Please eat something. You need to eat.”

  Her eyes drifted away to where they had been. After a moment she took a sip of tea. Malcolm pressed his lips together and held in anything that would indicate what he was feeling. Something between utter frustration, sadness and impatience. A flash of Malawi, or what had once been Malawi, laying on the table in the hospital morgue stabbed him and he shook it away.

  “Okay, look, we need to get her car from the towing company and then get to her apartment and see what needs to be done there. We’ll need to figure out what to do about that. All her things.” They need to check on the place, he thought, and eventually hire someone to clean and move things out. “We’ll need to make funeral arrangements.” He rubbed his forehead, stretching the skin toward his temple. “Can you do that, Bet? Can you call the funeral home? I’ll handle the car and the apartment, but I need you to handle the funeral. Bet?”

  She made no response.

  The nurse had given him a plastic bag of items Malawi had when the ambulance brought her in to the hospital: her bloody clothes, a cell phone and keys to her car and apartment. He cringed to think he didn’t know her address; she had told him, but he left it to Bet to record such things. She was the keeper of all information on the girls: clothing sizes, addresses, details on their significant others. Phone numbers he had because each girl programmed them into his phone. Bet couldn’t remember the street name when he asked for Malawi’s address—it was in her smartphone but she was slow to give him the passcode.

  “Then we’ll need to get to the airport,” he said. “I need to get back to work.”

  Bet glanced at him then, a look of scorn. He wasn’t supposed to want to go back to work. But he had to. He’d go mad otherwise.

  At the towing company, Malcolm assessed his daughter’s car, a 2005 Toyota Camry. Drivable, but not worth repairing. He paid the balance due for towing from the accident site and got a discount for “selling” the car back as scrap—he promised to find the title and get it back to the towing company as soon as possible. He retrieved Malawi’s purse, two pairs of dress shoes, a gym bag, a rain jacket and miscellaneous papers from the Camry. His daughter’s things. Normally he would think nothing of these items, but now, they were weighted by what her life had been. A life he didn’t really know much about. He bundled everything into the gym bag and carefully slid the zipper closed.

  In the rental car, he programmed Malawi’s address into the GPS and they found the apartment near downtown West Palm Beach with no trouble. It was a quaint garden apartment, the building a muted pink, and Malcolm remembered her on the phone, her excitement palpable through the line.

  “I live in a pink house, Daddy. You have to come visit. Promise you will.”

  “I promise,” he had said chuckling, her joy infectious. He had planned to fly down months ago but kept putting it off because of work.

  A gecko scurried along the outer wall as he unlocked the front door, which opened into a spacious living room with a compact kitchenette to the left. Bet shuffled in behind him and made a short gasping sound then fell silent. A short hallway ahead of them led to a bedroom and bathroom. Malcolm wandered aimlessly through the space—Malawi’s home for just one school year. A few pots and dishes soaked in the sink. Clothes were strewn around the bedroom and the bed was unmade, everything left as if she would walk in at any moment.

  Much to his surprise, Bet began to clean up, sorting magazines into a neat pile then tackling the dishes in the sink. She ran water until hot, plugged in the sink and squeezed a generous amount of liquid soap. Her movements were determined and brisk but gradually became slower and slower until she abandoned the dishes and headed to the bedroom. Malcolm followed, afraid of the emotional slide his wife was making to somewhere dark, yet unsure how to stop it. She picked up a blouse from the bed and held it to her face, inhaling deeply. Malcolm stepped back. He didn’t want to smell his daughter’s scent, knowing that if he did, he would lose all control. Bet picked up a T-shirt and repeated the action, holding both items of clothing to her face. Her sobs came softly and transformed into a deep, dark moan and she fell forward, curling into a ball in the midst of Malawi’s unmade bed.

  Malcolm placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said, thinking it was okay for her to cry, that she didn’t need to clean up, they could contact a cleaning service, but she jerked away, scrambling to the other side of the bed and snapped at him: “It’s not okay.” Kneeling, she clung to the clothing in her hands and yelled, “You have no idea. No idea at all. You go about like nothing has happened. She’s dead, Malcolm. Our baby girl is dead and you don’t care.” Bet threw the T-shirt and the blouse to the floor and rushed past him, through the living room and out the door, back to the safety of the rental car.

  Malcolm followed as far as the living room. His shoulders slumped and he stood hopelessly in the empty apartment trying to accept that his baby girl was never coming back.

  The flight home was a blur. Bet dragged herself up the dark stairs to their bedroom. All she wanted to do was sleep. Malcolm flipped on a light that burned her eyes. He was talking about the funeral arrangements.

  “Call Sully in the morning,” he said.

  Sully of Sullivan’s Funeral Home. Sully’s wife, Joy, always wore the prettiest suits. But Bet didn’t want to call the funeral home and talk about burying her daughter. “I’m not calling them,” she screamed, then slammed the bedroom door behind her. Hysteria lived in her throat, in her head and burst out of her mouth at every opportunity.

  The door opened instantly, and Malcolm stood, a dark silhouette in the threshold. “I have to get back to work in the morning,” he said with that self-important tone. The Honorable Judge Walker, so very important master of his domain, she thought. She almost spit at him.

  “How can you just go back to work, as if everything is normal? As if we were just gone for a few days’ vacation at the beach?” She glowered at him, but he said nothing. “You are heartless, Malcolm Walker. You always bury yourself in work when things get tough. Not this time! This time it’s our daughter.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her and shook his head, then turned and walked out of the room. Like he always did. Walked away at the slightest hint of discord. He wouldn’t stay and talk, face the truth. She screamed after him, “You’re a piece of shit, Malcolm Walker. The honorable piece of shit.” Who didn’t feel anything. Not ever.

  They had been having sex when Malawi was dying. Had spent the day celebrating their thirty-seventh anniversary. They had made no special plans, ate breakfast in bed, and later, walked along one of the trails at Great Falls. And in the evening, Malcolm had looked at her with an interest that stirred a flurry of sensation in her chest and stomach. A rush of enthusiasm engulfed her as she crawled across the bed, pausing briefly to be sure she was interpreting his expression correctly—it had been so long. Then she leaned into him and kissed his open mouth. Slow to respond, his hands fumbled beneath her silk nightgown, exploring the lumps and lines of her hips, her waist. Gone were the taut muscles and tight skin of her youth, replaced by the sagging lumps of age. His large hands gripped her back, pulling her closer. She’d almost forgotten the strength of his touch, and the thrill of it. In recent years, their relationship had slumped like a forgotten cushion in a room rarely used. Talking only when needed. Touching as a practical matter. Malcolm’s work consuming his days, and most o
f his nights. Existing, like brother and sister in the same house, the same bed. And for an evening, she thought their world had shifted. And it had. Just not in the direction she had desired.

  Bet rushed into the bathroom and made it just in time to vomit into the toilet. Nothing but bile. She settled on the floor and leaned against the bath tub convinced she was dying. “Take me, God. Take me and bring Malawi back.” She had taken several over-the-counter sleep aids and had slept for several hours but woke with a dull ache in her shoulder and nausea in her stomach. “Take as needed,” the label read. She considered taking all the pills at once, certain that God was punishing her for not being a better mother. Her throat was dry. She dragged herself up to standing and ran cold water into the sink, cupping her hand and lapping from her palm. She had eaten little in the last few days, and whatever she ate came back up. On the flight home, Malcolm had suggested a visit to the doctor, but Bet couldn’t get herself motivated to go anywhere.

  She felt again the sting of entering Malawi’s apartment. Her daughter’s flowery fragrance on her clothes and her presence in every room. She had wanted to be strong, to tidy up, gather and organize Malawi’s things, perhaps take some items home and tag what should be shipped and what should be thrown away or donated. But then she couldn’t do it. She just wanted her daughter back.

  In the distance, she heard the house phone ringing; Danita’s voice leaving another message about the upcoming fundraiser for the Arts Foundation. Danita had left four messages, asking if Bet had found a location, as if that was of any importance now. Who cared about the Arts Foundation anymore.

  She grabbed a washcloth hanging on the shower door. She sniffed it, then smelling nothing sour, rinsed the cloth in warm water, wiped it over her face and staggered back to bed, burying herself entirely under the covers.

  All these years being faithful to the church, and now this. And as for Malcolm. She couldn’t deal with his “life goes on” philosophy, his almost obsessive need to maintain control. Going about his business as if it were a mere acquaintance who had died. He couldn’t just continue on as he always did, not when it was his daughter.

  The phone rang again, loud at the side of the bed. Bet curled into a ball and pulled the covers over her ears. She wished she was like him. Like she didn’t feel anything, at all.

  11

  Malcolm gazed at his mother who stood beside her dining table, holding her glasses in her hand although they were strung around her neck. She chewed the inside of her mouth as if contemplating something, preparing to speak, but when she looked at him she simply shook her head. No words. There were no words, he thought. They had shed tears together when he called her with the news, quiet sobs; her soothing words of comfort stopped him from unraveling. Seeing her now, the first morning back from Florida, he imagined himself a child again, running through her house, the home he grew up in, oblivious to the chaos erupting around the world. When the concept of death and destruction didn’t yet exist in his mind.

  Finally, she said, “How are you holding up?”

  He jerked his shoulders.

  “Okay,” she said, turning toward the kitchen. “Let’s get some coffee. Have you had breakfast?”

  He didn’t want coffee but he’d stay because this wasn’t so much for him. It was her way of feeling like she was doing something. Being productive, something to focus on. She had experienced the death of her husband. Ten years ago now. She had been in this emotional space before.

  “You have to keep pushing forward,” she had said the night his father passed away. They sat vigil in the hospital for two days after his father collapsed from a sudden heart attack. Malcolm had been peeing when his father died. He had been given bypass surgery, but a hidden arterial clot revealed itself and he was gone before Malcolm got back from the bathroom. He had stepped away, took just a few steps down the hall, and was gone less than five minutes. The worst five minutes of his life. Malcolm had cried uncontrollably, yet his mother comforted him as if she hadn’t just lost the love of her life. That’s what his parents’ relationship had been: the love of a lifetime. She said it often. “He’s the love of my life.” Malcolm admired that about his parents, their absolute dedication to each other. Who’s to say if there had been dalliances in the marriage. They had stuck through almost sixty years together remaining, more than anything else, friends.

  He watched her now, busying herself in her kitchen. At eighty-two years young, she was majestic. Willowy, straightened short white hair framing a slender face with light brown eyes that almost blended into her eyelids. He wanted to take her hand and wrap his arms around her. Stop her movements. Slow her down. Let her grieve. But he wouldn’t. She would shoo him away. “Don’t be silly,” she’d say and swat at him like a child underfoot. She would make no great display of grieving because what was life without death? Life must go on, she said, or all is lost. So he would face each day with the strength he admired in his mother. He would be strong for his family, because that was his role. He was the father. The man. And he would grieve alone.

  Sitting at his desk, Malcolm read the same sentence several times. A young man—a teenager—had been charged with possession and distribution of cocaine. A young black man. He sighed, removed his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Another young black man brought in on drug charges. When will it end?

  The door to his chambers opened and his friend and colleague Joe Willis stood in the doorway, his face distraught, asking without words, if Malcolm was okay. Malcolm’s chest tightened and he nodded, sliding his glasses back onto his face. Joe came forward and Malcolm rose to receive a tight embrace.

  “Brother—” The word came as a whisper from Joe’s lips. “I just saw it on the news.”

  “It’s on the news?” Malcolm’s throat constricted. He leaned against his desk. “National news?”

  “Yeah. They’re talking about Trayvon Martin and how this is another senseless shooting of an African American. The Black Lives Matter folks are all over it.”

  Malcolm couldn’t speak. He didn’t want his daughter to become a headline, didn’t want the media intrusion on his family. Cynthia appeared at the door. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’m getting call after call from news outlets asking to talk to you. I’ve just been telling them you’re not available.”

  “Brother, you need Teddy on this one,” Joe said. “You want me to call him?”

  Malcolm looked from Joe to Cynthia and back to Joe. “Jesus.” Teddy Livingston—the man who had betrayed his friendship by sleeping with Bet—was the last person he wanted in his life right now. “No, I’ll call him.” But Joe was right. Teddy, Malcolm and Joe had gone to law school at American University together, and despite being an asshole, Teddy was now one of the premier public relations guys in the District. Anybody who was anybody called James “Teddy” Livingston when they had a public crisis. Even if he was an asshole.

  “Cynthia, can you get him on the line for me?”

  She nodded and closed the door behind her. Malcolm leaned back in his chair. Joe took a seat opposite and waited several moments then said, “You need to take a leave of absence.”

  “No.” Malcolm swallowed a lump in his throat. “No, I’m fine. I’d rather be here. I can’t be at home right now.”

  “How’s Bet?”

  Malcolm shook his head. “She’s . . .” He could feel himself begin to gasp. Then the phone rang and it was Cynthia. She had Teddy on the line.

  “I’ll leave you to talk,” Joe said, “but let me know if you need anything. I’m waiting to hear back from a friend of mine in Florida who may be willing to take on your case. We’ll talk later, okay?”

  Malcolm nodded and took a deep breath.

  “My man, it’s been a long time.” Teddy’s voice was subdued. “I was thinking about calling you. I saw the news, but I didn’t know if you . . . if . . .” He fell silent.

  Malcolm’s throat was closing again. He wanted to shut his eyes and make everything stop. Of all people. Of all si
tuations. That cheating motherfucker would be the one to help Malcolm through this. He took another breath. Time to put the past in the past.

  “Looks like I’m gonna need your expertise on this one.”

  “Look. Stay there and I’ll come to you. I got an eleven o’clock, but I’ll cancel it. That’s no problem. It’s best we talk in person.”

  Malcolm stared at his desk, the papers and folders blurred, and he closed his eyes.

  12

  Kenya pulled up behind her mother’s car in the driveway of her parent’s red brick Crestwood home. Her mother wasn’t answering the phone. Kenya had called twice this morning with no answer.

  The massive chestnut tree stood guard, as it always had, at the driveway’s entrance. Two gray squirrels chased each other up the trunk and disappeared into the branches above. The house sat snugly on a quiet cul-de-sac backing up to Rock Creek Park, surrounded by trees and shrubbery. A fairly modest home compared to many in the neighborhood. Years ago it was a haven for upper-class black families. Today it was more diverse. She scanned the house, judging, looking for signs of age. The stone driveway was cracked where it met the road and needed repair, but the rest was in good shape. The white columns on the front porch could use some paint. A family project before winter, she thought. That, and clearing out the garage so her parents could park both cars inside.

  Kenya let herself in. Kitty came running and rubbed herself against Kenya’s shins. She gave a brief scratch to the cat’s head.

  “Mama? Mama, you home?” She peeked into the sitting room then walked through the kitchen to the den and through the dining room. The door to her father’s office was closed, but the chance her mother was in there was slim to none. She called down to the studio in the basement; still no answer.