If You Want to Make God Laugh

by Bianca Marais

  There’s a noise outside again, one we’ve both heard because Dee’s head snaps in the same direction. It’s piercing and sinister, like cats mating.

  Dee gets up and heads for the door.

  “Wait! Don’t open that. We have no idea what it is.”

  “We have to,” Dee says, reaching for the handle.

  “Jesus, wait!” I run to the bedroom and take Da’s old Winchester rifle off the wall before rushing back. Sarie mentioned an increase in farm attacks, and two women alone on a rural property would be easy targets.

  “Is that even loaded?” Dee asks dubiously. It dates back to the Anglo-Boer War.

  “No idea but it may be enough to scare someone off.”

  I’m standing behind Dee with the rifle when she slowly unlocks the door and then pulls it open. I look over her shoulder but can’t see anything. There’s no one on the veranda. “Must just be horny cats,” I say, trying to pull Dee back. The sooner we can close and lock the door, the better.

  But Dee won’t step back. She’s staring down at something and I have to nudge her aside to get a better look. When I spot it, I know the booze isn’t making me see things because Dee can see it too.

  It’s a big black dog. And it’s guarding something.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Delilah

  10–11 May 1994

  Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa

  Oh my God,” Ruth exclaimed, trying to push past.

  The large dog rose up on its haunches in response, the hair on its back raised as it gave a low warning growl, and Ruth froze next to me. The creature was black as tar and looked like a cross between a Rottweiler and a Labrador. It licked its lips, eyeing Ruth warily, before settling itself back down again next to the crying bundle.

  I turned from the dog to the little wriggling creature on our doorstep. “It’s a baby,” I said stupidly.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Ruth whispered, staring at it in awe.

  I bent down slowly and held my hand out, palm down, for the dog to sniff. It did so cautiously, and then, seemingly deciding that I didn’t pose any threat, it stood up and shook itself before pacing to the edge of the veranda, where it stared off into the darkness, whining softly.

  Ruth stepped back inside to put the rifle down and when she returned, she reached out to the bundle with trembling hands, scooping it up as though she was afraid it was an illusion that, when touched, would dissolve into nothing but smoke. The dog rushed to her side but didn’t show any further signs of aggression.

  I stepped past Ruth to go outside. Two plastic bags had been placed to the side of the door and I shot a quick glance inside them. They were filled with what looked like baby things and didn’t appear to contain anything sinister. I craned my head around the veranda and the parts of the garden I could see.

  “Hello?” I called out into the darkness. The sounds of crickets and of cars whooshing by on the main road were all that answered. Behind me, the dog whined plaintively, but the baby had thankfully fallen silent. “Is anyone there?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Dee! Stop calling out like that. No one’s going to answer you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s not like he was left here accidentally.”

  “He?” I eyed the pink woolen blanket that the baby was swaddled in. “Looks like a girl to me.”

  “It’s a boy,” she said firmly.

  “But it has a pink blanket.”

  “Trust me. It’s a boy,” Ruth repeated.

  She walked inside to the couch and gently laid the baby down. I trailed behind her with the plastic bags. As Ruth unwrapped the blanket, the dog trotted to her side, where it sat next to the child, who’d begun to mewl. The dog licked the baby’s cheek and it stopped fussing.

  “Don’t let it do that,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Cover it in dog slobber.”

  “The dog’s soothing him,” she said. “See? He’s stopped crying.”

  The baby was wearing a mint-green Babygro that had fasteners all down the front. Ruth rubbed her hands together to warm them before reaching down and undoing each snap. She pulled the baby’s legs free of the cotton leggings and then undid the safety pin of the cloth nappy.

  “Aha!” she cried. “A penis! I told you so!”

  I walked over and looked down at the baby, who was, indeed, a boy. “How did you know that?” I asked incredulously. “Do you have some kind of penis sensor?” I was only half joking.

  Ruth shrugged. “I saw a sign the other day.”

  “A sign?”

  “Yes, a blue bootie attached to one of Ma’s knitting needles.”

  “So what? What did that have to do with this baby?”

  “I told you. It was a sign pointing to the arrival of a boy. I just didn’t understand it at the time. Now I do.”

  There she went spouting that psychic nonsense again. “Well, the odds were in your favor,” I said. “It could only be a boy or a girl. You had a fifty percent chance of being right.”

  “As did you, but you were wrong.” And then she laughed. “Will you look at that? He has a birthmark on his butt that looks just like Africa.”

  I peered over and had a look. “Looks more like a cauliflower to me.” I noticed that the baby was still covered with a thin layer of vernix—the white substance babies are born with—and that the piece of thread that had been used to tie off the umbilical cord looked a bit grubby. It was unlikely that the baby had been born in a hospital.

  The dog padded over to Ruth and put its head on her knee, sniffing the baby as if to make sure she hadn’t hurt it. Something about the creature niggled at me.

  “Is it just me,” Ruth asked, “or does this dog look almost like the one you used to have when we were kids? What was his name again?”

  I smiled despite myself. Of course, that was it. Ruth was right. “Shadow,” I replied. And then the strangest thing happened. The dog’s ears perked up in response and it turned to me as though I’d called its name.

  Ruth laughed. “It certainly seems to think it’s Shadow. Maybe it’s a ghost come back to haunt you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, walking to the telephone. “I’ll make the call. You sit with him and keep him calm.”

  “What call?”

  “To the police.”

  “The police? Why on earth do you want to call them?”

  “A baby has just been left on our doorstep, Ruth. Of course we need to report it.”

  “No!” She said it so forcefully that she startled the baby, who started crying again. “We’re not calling the police.”

  “Abandoning a baby is a crime. Whoever did this needs to be found and held accountable—”

  “It’s not like his mother left him at a garbage dump or in a field somewhere. She left him on our doorstep where she knew he would be safe.”

  “The baby needs to be taken into custody—”

  “Listen to you! ‘Taken into custody.’ He’s not a criminal. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “For God’s sake. Will you please stop interrupting me? I was going to say he needs to be taken into custody so that he can be transferred to a place of safety.”

  “And then what?”

  “First, they’ll look for his mother—”

  “Oh, please! How will they ever find her? It would be an impossible task! And even if they do by some miracle, it doesn’t matter, really, because she clearly can’t care for him since she left him here.”

  “Believe me when I tell you that most women who give up their children regret it immensely.”

  “Then it makes more sense to keep him here. That way she’ll know where to find him if she changes her mind.”

  “We can’t just keep him, Ruth. He needs to be processed into the system.”


  “Which means what, exactly?”

  “He’ll go to a children’s sanctuary—”

  “You mean orphanage!” Ruth snapped. “Stop trying to sugarcoat it, Delilah.” She took a deep breath. “Look, I say we let the poor child have one night of peace and decide what to do in the morning.”

  With that, she turned her back on me and returned to the couch, where she sat down and placed the baby on her lap before reaching for my wineglass and taking a long sip. There would be no rationalizing with her, not just because of the drama of the evening, which Ruth was clearly enjoying, but also because she’d been drinking.

  Instead, I marched over and snatched the glass from her. “No drinking while you’re looking after the baby. Or else I’ll definitely be making that call.” I glared at her, daring her to challenge me. She pulled a face but let me take the glass without any resistance.

  I went through the plastic bags, pulling out a bottle and a tin of formula. “This looks like it’s for older babies but no shops nearby will be open at this time. It will just have to do until tomorrow.”

  “Will you make it up while—”

  “No, this is all on you. You want to keep him for the night, you take care of him. And the dog too. I’m going to bed,” I said.

  The baby’s sudden appearance felt ominous, as though my past was following me into my present, whispering that it couldn’t so easily be forgotten. I’d just left hundreds of orphans behind in Goma even though they desperately needed me, and the guilt I carried was already a constant reminder of that. I didn’t need another abandoned baby in my life.

  * * *

  • • •

  He’d started screaming at three a.m. and hadn’t stopped since. Not even a pillow pulled over my head could drown out the noise. I’d considered coming to their aid but since Ruth clearly saw herself as some maternal fairy godmother, I’d decided against it. I didn’t know why she’d responded to the child as strongly as she had—if it was just another example of her white savior complex or if something else was at play—but the sooner she was stripped of those notions, the better.

  When I came through to the lounge the next morning, I found Ruth exactly where I’d left her: sitting on the couch with the baby swaddled in her arms and the dog lying next to her. Her eyes were bloodshot but, for once, it wasn’t from alcohol. Judging by the sound of things, they’d both had a rough night.

  “Oh good, you’re up,” Ruth said. She looked so happy to see me that I had to turn away and busy myself with making coffee.

  I wished she wasn’t there. I was used to my morning ritual of calling the ICU in peace. It would have to wait now. “Have you been up with him all night?”

  “I managed to put him down for a few hours after you went to bed, but then he woke up in the early hours and nothing I’ve done has been able to soothe him. I don’t think the formula agrees with him,” she said while standing up and ambling over. “He vomited most of it up. He must be starving by now.” As I turned to face her, she tried to pass the baby across to me. “Hold him while I dash to the loo and take a quick shower. I need to get to the shops to get him the right formula and proper supplies.”

  “Ruth, we need to call—”

  “We can’t hand a starving child across to the authorities, can we? Jesus, where’s your compassion?” Her expression was one of such judgment that I couldn’t find words to reply. Instead, I turned back to the sink, washed my hands, and then took the baby from her.

  His cry was reaching that quavering, heartbreaking note that only newborns can produce as he gasped for air. Not knowing what else to do, I stuck my finger in the baby’s mouth to try to soothe him.

  He latched on immediately, sucking so ferociously that it almost undid me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Zodwa

  11 May 1994

  Big Hope Informal Settlement, Magaliesburg, South Africa

  When Zodwa awakens, it’s to the strange sensation of her organs shifting back into their natural positions. She rolls over and the motion aggravates the tenderness in her swollen breasts and groin.

  That’s when she remembers the baby.

  She uses her elbows to prop herself up and looks around the shack. The baby is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Leleti. Her mother must have taken him away so that she could rest.

  Zodwa lies back down again and closes her eyes. The present is too painful a place to inhabit, but the past is a well-worn path she can choose to walk whenever she wants. That’s where she seeks refuge now, in those moments prior to her life splitting into a “before” and “after.”

  She conjures up the image of how Thembeka looked on the day they first met and it’s an instant balm to her pain. She was so beautiful, with her high forehead and rounded cheekbones, with her wide smile exposing pink gums and glistening white teeth. Her eyes were a lighter shade than Zodwa’s, more rust than brown, and though they had a sleepy quality to them, they twinkled with mischief.

  What she felt for Thembeka then was love at first sight and guilt at first sight; it was shame and fear and joy at first sight.

  How clearly Zodwa can see it all now: how everything began and ended the very second she laid eyes on Thembeka. How strange that a person can look back on her life and see all the tiny decisions and actions—even the moments of inertia in which nothing appeared to be happening at all—all the trailing comets of them hurtling forward like fireworks, not into nothingness or insignificance, but toward a future moment, a split second, in which everything came together in an explosion of certainty and unity so that you could only gasp: Oh! So that’s where it was all leading to.

  There are so many bright memories with Thembeka to choose from, and Zodwa hops between them like a magpie, picking out the shiniest ones with which to distract herself. She sees Thembeka, soon after they met, on the day Zodwa was teaching her how to balance a bucket of water on her head.

  “You city girls think you know everything,” Zodwa teased. “And while knowing how to catch a taxi to Pretoria has its uses, knowing how to carry water while still keeping your hands free to carry firewood is even more important.”

  Thembeka laughed but still she tried it, yelping in pride when the bucket didn’t immediately topple off.

  “Okay, now walk,” Zodwa encouraged.

  After four shuffling steps, the bucket tilted sharply and before Thembeka could get her hands up to steady it, it tumbled down, soaking both her and Zodwa in the process. They fell against each other, weak with hilarity, and Zodwa felt Thembeka’s heart beating against her palm for the very first time.

  The second time was just before the rape, when she and Thembeka were sitting on the bed in Thembeka’s shack doing their homework. A long piece of plyboard was balanced on their knees, serving as their makeshift desk, and a textbook was laid out before them.

  Zodwa finished all the exercises on the page and took a break while Thembeka copied the last two sums down. As Zodwa waited for Thembeka to finish, she pulled a small tin of Vaseline from her shirt pocket, opened the lid, and dipped her finger inside before spreading the shiny substance over her lips.

  The motion of her finger was so meditative that she got lost in a trance, spreading more Vaseline on than she normally would. When she snapped out of it and turned to Thembeka, she found her friend watching her, her eyes fixed on Zodwa’s mouth.

  “I want some too,” Thembeka said.

  Zodwa held the open tin out to Thembeka but before her friend could take it from her, Zodwa accidentally dropped it. She instinctively reached out to grab it, trapping the tin between her hand and Thembeka’s chest. Zodwa flushed at the sensation of the swell of Thembeka’s breast against her palm, the steady heartbeat counting off the seconds of contact, and snatched her hand away so that the tin fell and got lost between them.

  Thembeka merely laughed and then shook her head. “It’s okay. I don’t need th
e tin.” She leaned in with exquisite slowness, gently touching her lips to Zodwa’s. Zodwa closed her eyes, hardly daring to breathe as she savored the sensation of Thembeka’s mouth pressed against her own.

  Is this a kiss? Are we kissing?

  A dog barked from somewhere down the lane and a metal spoon grated against a pot’s surface in a shack nearby. The scent of frying onions competed with the smell of Vaseline and the talcum powder Thembeka used. Zodwa’s entire universe expanded and then contracted, and if ever there was a perfect moment in her life, then that was surely it.

  “There,” Thembeka said. “You put too much on. That’s better.” She smiled at Zodwa, holding her gaze for a few moments as she smacked her lips together before returning to her homework.

  It was such a tiny moment, just a few seconds, but it was so intimate that Zodwa couldn’t imagine that it could be anything else than a coded gesture. It was enough to make Zodwa work up the courage two days later to write a letter declaring her feelings, which definitely weren’t the platonic kind but rather were fevered and all-consuming.

  It was this letter that Thembeka’s boyfriend, Mongezi, somehow managed to intercept before Thembeka could read it. And that was the beginning of everything unraveling, the moment when Mongezi decided that Zodwa should be taught a lesson about the kind of desires women should and shouldn’t have.

  Zodwa wonders if there could ever have been a happy ending for a love so unnatural that it angered the ancestors enough to curse her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Ruth

  11 May 1994

  Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa

  When I get home from the shops, I’m laden down with bags of feeding bottles, teats, multiple brands of formula, dummies, disposable nappies, bum cream, lotions, wipes, and various other baby paraphernalia including a bassinet and a tiny bathtub.