Slash and Burn

  When she saw him approaching, she once again told him it wasn’t the right time. He laughed. He swore it wasn’t about that. She knew. He wanted a name, didn’t he?

  He wanted to help.

  How so?

  He’d get her out of there. She could take the girls wherever she liked. He could afford to, because of the shop.

  If she stayed, people would insist she name a name. When one of the other victims did (and he was certain they would), the man who’d trod on her roof would be killed. Once he was, his father would die. Then his wife would make sure one of her son’s sons avenged their deaths by killing her, seeing as she’d been at the center of the highest-profile case, and the only victim to put up a fight. And the sons would come again and again until they succeeded. Who’d look after her daughters then? She didn’t own a gun anymore. He knew this because the word around town was that a neighbor had lent her his own to defend herself. Which had seemed strange to him considering that, as the partner of the man who’d been her husband, he’d have thought she’d have decent weapons at home. Or that she could get hold of better weapons than the one she was lent. He knew who had guns and where. He knew of others who would’ve come through, and more discreetly, than the man who owned the gun she’d used. Himself, for example. He would’ve gladly gotten her whatever she wanted and asked for nothing in return. Why hadn’t she come to him? Did she not trust him? He would even have waited right there for the man to arrive on the day he threatened to come. He swears the man wouldn’t have finished climbing onto the roof before he’d have started falling.

  What would people have said then?

  What?

  That they were together.

  Or that they were still compañeros.

  She doesn’t think so. Most likely, they would’ve said there was something going on between them or that he was sleeping with one of her daughters. She didn’t want those sorts of problems. She didn’t have the energy. What’s more, she didn’t need any help looking after herself.

  That’s not what he’d meant. He was just putting himself at her service. If she wanted, he’d leave right that instant and end the man. He knew who he was. He didn’t need a name, just her permission.

  Like the others.

  No. He didn’t want permission to act in her name, but in his own.

  She refused to give it to him. She told him never to ask again and to keep his nose out of her business. If what he said was going to happen happened, his visit to her house would be enough to implicate her. People would say they were accomplices and go after him, too.

  He wasn’t scared. Hotheaded as they might be, the man’s sons didn’t stand a chance against him. They didn’t have the training or the discipline. If they ever managed to do anything, it’d be when his back was turned, because no man can defend himself against a coward. But if they were men of honor, like their grandfather, he’d have them face to face and would subdue them without breaking a sweat. Everyone knew he could. Word was he’d kill a man while smiling and wishing the people walking past on the sidewalk a good day.

  Though it had never happened, it was good that people were saying this about him, because that way he could avoid any unnecessary trouble. Maybe it’d help if they spread rumors about her that would keep the man’s family at bay. Or they could move house. Maybe if she lived somewhere more central, she’d stop having the problems she was having.

  Why had her husband chosen that place? It was the least convenient. There, on the community’s outskirts, they were exposed.

  She supposes it was because, during distribution, no one had wanted it. It was the least appealing and most unkempt. Her husband had waited until everyone had taken their pick. He said they’d earned it in combat. He’d also earned himself the right to choose, but he decided to relinquish it, perhaps because he’d spent so long making decisions for other people. Because of this, some were no longer with them while others were still alive and could choose a parcel of land on which to sow their future, even though, these days, just a handful of years later, they didn’t seem to remember much, or care.

  If she liked—and so she wouldn’t think there were any ulterior motives—he could buy the land off her.

  That might’ve been a good option, except it was in the girls’ name and none of them were old enough to sign it away. She thanked him for the thought. All she needed right then was for him to leave: she didn’t want them to connect him with what might happen in the future.

  It was too late, though. Her neighbors had already seen him arrive at her house and, when the man’s body was found near his cropland, wasted no time in venturing that the two of them might have plotted his death that very day. This conjecture reached the ears of the dead man’s mother, who told her grandson about it so that he’d never forget and so that he could tell the man who’d killed his father that he’d kill him, too, when he grew up.

  The man had responded that he’d best grow up fast and train hard. He’d be waiting for him on the day he felt he was ready. If he liked, he could even give him some advantage so that he wouldn’t feel too down on himself right before he died.

  The young boy never did confront him. Instead, he decided to send word to the girls’ mother that he’d settle his father’s death with her, and to intimidate those lone women by jumping on the roof of their house.

  His steps weren’t like his father’s. Which is why the girls’ mom didn’t even get out of bed when she first heard them. Her youngest daughters, on the other hand, were upset and ran to fetch her. The girls didn’t understand what was happening. They cried loudly. They would never have survived in the hiding places where they’d holed up during invasions. They’d have given up their positions and emboldened the men pursuing them. In fact, they were pleasing the one currently on their roof, who grew larger on hearing them and jumped harder to terrify them.

  The mother let him, so he’d gain confidence and so that next time, when he returned, he’d be more cocksure and less careful. She’d thought she would do with him what she’d planned to with his father, even though the shopkeeper said it was too much, that the son was a coward. He was doing all that just to frighten them. He didn’t think the boy had the guts to break in. To his mind, all she had to do was shoot her gun into the air to frighten him off or confront him on the street. She needn’t teach her daughter how to use a gun.

  The daughter wasn’t interested either. She may not have cried like the eldest, or quaked, but she just didn’t want to do it. Shooting wasn’t her thing.

  Would she rather be afraid?

  She’d rather sell what they had and leave. She was old enough to sign away their land. They could start again anywhere.

  And lose everything she and her dad had fought for?

  And survive.

  Like cowards?

  She doesn’t think her sisters would object.

  She can’t believe she’s speaking for them.

  They could use some of the money to pay for her sister’s education.

  She shouldn’t use her sister as an excuse.

  So what should she do?

  Up until then, all she’d done was grumble about everything and barely chip in. If she were anything like her father’s other daughters, or her own father, or her, she’d have pitched in some more. Maybe she could even study at university, too, or enroll in some course.

  She wasn’t asking her to take care of the house. She wasn’t asking her to help her sister. She was asking her to help herself. To propel herself in some direction. To do something with her life other than coveting what belonged to others and crossing her arms. She couldn’t stand her being the sort of person who thought life was just a matter of waiting for it to pass. She asked her to at least take the gun and learn how to shoot the man who was threatening to kill her mother and might attack her younger sister, or even her. If the daughter born before her had been there, she would’ve handled it herself.

  Why didn’t she call her, then? Why didn’t she tell her to drop out
of university and come back to look after them?

  She ought to feel ashamed of her selfishness. Her sister did what she did to get them all out of there without having to give up everything they’d gotten. What was she doing? What had she ever done?

  What could she do?

  She could learn to shoot, for a start. Then whatever else she thought might be helpful.

  Which is when she decided to go to that other country in her sister’s place.

  31

  Before the third daughter she’d raised went away, she took her to her mother’s house to say goodbye, in case she never returned from her travels or her grandma passed before she came home.

  She would’ve liked her to say goodbye to her paternal grandmother, too, but couldn’t get the woman to see them. When she told her the news over the phone, the woman said she didn’t care what the girl did with her life. She wasn’t even sure she was her son’s daughter: she’d heard from his mouth that things between them hadn’t been going well around the time the girl was conceived.

  The fact she was the female version of her murdered son proved nothing. And she wasn’t interested in getting a DNA test done either. As far as she was concerned, the girl was probably the daughter of some lover her mother had had at the time. Maybe even of the man who’d murdered her son. It wouldn’t surprise her if it turned out she was the one who’d plotted his death. There must be some reason why she hadn’t cried inconsolably at the funeral, like any other wife would’ve.

  It wasn’t her job to explain herself. Besides, that wasn’t why she’d called. And she didn’t want her to give the girl money either, or a dress for her travels. She’d got in touch because the traveling girl’s dad would’ve liked them to inform her, to take her into account.

  How did she know? What gave her the impression she knew her son?

  Because they’d been together a long time. Though most of it had been in short bursts over an extended period, it’d been enough to get to know the sort of person he was. An understanding that had been confirmed during the time they lived together after the war.

  Hearing her talk about her son like that annoyed her. The mother thought this woman must be desperate, that she was almost certainly saying these things as a way to get close to her and win her trust, so that later she could lament how poorly he’d treated her in the hopes of getting some money in return. But she wouldn’t get a penny out of her. What little she would’ve left her son would go to those who deserved it: the children from his first marriage, the children born to the woman she approved of. It didn’t matter that the woman was already married to somebody else who’d taken the kids to live in another country. If they ended up not claiming it, she’d give it to charity instead. The church could make good use of what little she had. She’d better mark her words and not think of ringing her again. With her son dead, there was nothing binding them together anymore.

  The girls agreed. Whenever their mother insisted on taking them to that woman’s house to say hello and show her how big they’d grown, like their dad used to, they’d plead for a rain check. They’d come up with any excuse not to go so often because it was never a pleasant experience.

  It would’ve been worse but for their grandmother’s husband, who was always happy to see them and play with them. He asked them about school and the chickens they raised. Now and then, he gifted them a dress that was never in their size or to their taste, and they always thanked him because their mom had taught them to be polite to everyone, even when they weren’t polite back. About their grandpa, she said they had to understand that he was an elderly man and had never had any daughters. What they should appreciate about the presents he gave was the effort involved. The best thing they could do to show their appreciation was to give him a gift in return. Something they made themselves.

  The eldest took him her drawings. The second granddaughter picked wildflowers for him from the side of the path and radishes from her vegetable garden. The third always said she’d do his hair. She offered to make it look like her mom’s or like any of her sisters’. The littlest girl offered to be his assistant—even though her sisters’ grandmother had made it crystal clear she wasn’t their granddaughter—because she thought he was nice and he always lifted her up in his arms like the other girls. He’d crouch down so they could run the brush through his hair, make a mess of it, and tell him he looked exactly like the model they’d selected for that day. Then he’d hand them some sweeties and send them out to play a while with the animals they kept in their backyard, so he could have a chat with their mom.

  He’d ask her how she was doing and if there was anything she needed or any way he could help. She always turned him down, claiming she was fine. She didn’t want his wife to think they came to them out of self-interest, or for him to take on his son’s duties. Had the son died with no intention of leaving her and his daughters, she might have accepted his support. But he’d been on the cusp of leaving them, and so she thought the right thing to do was to act as if he had.

  Though the father insisted he’d have taken responsibility for their futures even if his son had left them, and she should accept his offer for this reason, she refused to let herself be helped. She didn’t want any trouble, or for there to be any more tension between her and her mother-in-law. A day came when he didn’t want it anymore either and quit. Just as his son would have done with his own wife. That day, he packed his things and left without saying anything or leaving an address.

  They didn’t hear news of him until he died. He’d sent someone to let her know where he was buried in case any of the girls wanted to leave flowers or drawings for him. To his wife, he said only that she shouldn’t come see him, not even to his grave. He didn’t want her disturbing his peace. To this end, he’d prepared all the paperwork needed in order to sort out the matter of his belongings and his new marital status.

  The mother assumes he left something for the girls and the grandmother hasn’t wanted to give it them. She believes this is why she’s always on the defensive, insisting they’re no relations, and treating them as if they were strangers. She’s been told she can find out in the public records, that all she needs is to hire a lawyer to handle it for her. But she doesn’t want to. She keeps her word and asks nothing of that family. What’s more, lawyers are expensive and end up holding on to half or all of what little is at stake. She’d rather use the money—if she ever gets it—on something that would help her daughters get ahead or at least ensure she could feed them one more day.

  Nor has she requested her pension for participating in the war, even though she’s been told to. She thinks others are more deserving. She can still work and come up with the money her daughters need by other means. She’s considering getting a job once the third daughter she raised has left the country. She’s even contemplated working as a live-in for a moneyed family who pay their maids handsomely. The only thing stopping her is the littlest daughter. She’s scared she’ll be left unprotected while she’s at work, that the people she could entrust her to won’t care for her as she would.

  The people seeking help with cleaning their house won’t let her bring her little girl. Her own mother agrees. She says it isn’t decent. She thinks her husband would have wept to know she’d accepted that sort of job. He’d say that everything they fought for had been in vain. She doesn’t think her littlest’s other grandma would like the idea much either, even though neither the woman’s son nor anyone in their family had fought in the war. Her mother asks her to think it over, not to rush things. For now, she should concentrate on helping the girl who’s leaving. She has to teach her everything she hasn’t yet so that she’ll still be a good person when she’s far away. Though she doesn’t know anyone from France, she can’t imagine they’re good people. Had they been, they would never have taken her firstborn away. She doesn’t think nuns are any good either.

  After she learned of the fate of her daughter’s daughter, she was never the same again. She never returned to church. A pri
est, who noticed her transformation and estrangement, went to speak with her. He explained that it wasn’t a godly matter—it hadn’t been his fault, and she shouldn’t be upset with him over it—and that she really must stop calling him a traitor. Because the priest had shown her some consideration, she behaved as pleasantly as could be and asked whose fault it was, then, seeing as she and her family had done everything the catechists had told them to do and everything God supported. She couldn’t understand how that church could have done that to them. Which is why she was angry with the Church. And with God, too, but not as much as she was with them.

  His argument about how God allowed certain things to be done for his glory didn’t convince her because, until then, she’d seen no signs of it. Nor did she think he was somehow working in mysterious ways. If that were the case, he’d be better off sending clearer signals or a bit of explanation: she and her daughters deserved it. And she didn’t want him doing it through intermediaries either. She didn’t trust them.

  The priest, in any case, told her she’d be welcome back in the parish whenever she was ready. He promised her. And she believed him. So much so that, as a result, she asked her daughter to make sure they didn’t try and anoint her when she died. Unless, of course, the names of the nuns who’d taken her daughter from her were brought to light and they were put to justice.

  She must promise her.

  Since when did she worry about those sorts of things? Why was she asking her this?