Jezebel barks in response to the voices.
Zodwa continues digging but when that drawer doesn’t yield anything, she quietly opens another. She’s about to give up on that one too when she feels the reassuring shape of the remote squashed into the side of it. She almost cries with relief. Instead, she pulls it out, pressing the button repeatedly. She expects an alarm to sound but nothing happens. No light blinks in response to her touch and she wonders if the battery is dead.
Please. Please. Please.
She presses it a few more times out of desperation.
“Where is that dog barking from?”
“Must be that room. It’s the only one closed.”
“She locks the security dog inside? What kind of idiot does that?”
They both laugh and Zodwa can hear them walking through the house checking in every room. Mandla remains blessedly quiet. He leans his head against Zodwa’s chest as though wanting to go back to sleep.
The telephone suddenly rings, startling her. It must be Ruth calling to check up on Mandla. The men ignore it. Zodwa counts seven rings before it stops. It feels like an eternity.
“Check that room.”
“No way, man. The dog is in there.”
The phone rings again but is silenced as it crashes to the floor. One of the men must have knocked it off the kitchen counter.
“I still can’t fucking believe she brought that disease into our town. We could all get it.”
“Mimi said it was the first case they’ve ever had at the hospital. Bad enough having to treat a filthy kaffir, but an AIDS-infested one at that?”
AIDS. The word is like a wasp buzzing around Zodwa’s head. AIDS. AIDS. AIDS. She has to shake it off to concentrate.
The handle is suddenly pushed down and Zodwa’s heart lurches. They’re right outside the door.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Ruth
6 January 1996
Rustenburg Golf Club, South Africa
I’m going to go find a pay phone,” I lean over and whisper to Dee as the auction bidding starts for a weekend getaway to Hermanus.
“Why?” Dee whispers back.
“I told Zodwa I’d check in at half past eight.”
“She has the number to reach us here and she’ll call if Mandla doesn’t feel well. Besides,” Dee says, checking her watch, “it’s only just after eight.”
I wish for the dozenth time that I’d brought my own car. I don’t want to offend the fund-raisers by leaving early, especially since they’re doing all of this for Mandla’s orphanage, but I’m really not able to enjoy myself. Why didn’t I just send a check and be done with it?
“It doesn’t matter if I call a bit early,” I reply, rising from the table.
Lindiwe smiles at me from the front of the room where she stands next to a table of auction items. They’ve raised a fortune so far and all the money is going toward expanding the HIV ward, now that it needs to house far more than just two babies. I smile back at her and motion that I’ll talk to her later.
There’s a pay phone near the men’s room. I don’t have enough change in my purse and am just about to head back inside to ask Dee if she has any, when I find a lucky coin in the return slot of the call box. After dialing the number, I’m relieved to hear the phone ringing on the other side.
It’s probably going to wake Mandla and I’m sorry about that, but hopefully Zodwa will answer quickly enough not to disturb him. After seven rings, the call cuts out. Relief sours to worry.
Maybe she’s fallen asleep on the couch. Maybe she’s in the bathroom. Maybe I dialed a wrong number.
The coins tumble out into the return slot and my fingers tremble as I feed them back in. I’m careful this time, dialing more slowly, and I hold my breath when the phone starts ringing again.
Dee rounds the corner just then, looking exasperated when she spots me. I hold up a hand to silence her.
Come on, Zodwa. Pick up.
And then the ringing stops as the phone is answered. “Hello? Zodwa?”
There’s no reply. It sounds like static in the background.
“What is it?” Dee asks, beckoned over by the expression of concern on my face.
“It first just rang and now it sounds like it’s been answered but no one is there.”
“Probably just the lines acting up.”
“But then how can Zodwa call if something’s wrong? I think we should leave.”
Dee takes the phone from my hand and puts it back in the cradle. “Riaan has made a bid on a quad bike. Can we wait half an hour to see if he’s successful and then we can go?”
I sigh. “Okay, but just half an hour.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
Zodwa
6 January 1996
Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa
The handle turns as the door rattles and it sets Jezebel off barking again. Before Zodwa can put her hand over Mandla’s mouth, he starts crying.
“The kaffirtjie is in there!”
“The door’s locked. She must be in there with him.”
“Hey, bitch,” one of them calls. “We know you’re in there. Open the door.”
They begin banging at the door and Zodwa cries out in desperation. “Madam Ruth isn’t home. It’s just me here looking after the baby.”
There’s silence for a moment.
“Who are you?”
“I’m just the maid, baas.” The word curdles in Zodwa’s mouth but she hopes that being deferential will help defuse their anger.
“Black bitch is in there with the kaffirtjie.”
“Good. That’s even better. She can hold it so I don’t have to touch it. We can take them both.”
They bang on the door again and now Mandla is screaming. Jezebel barks furiously, spit flying from her muzzle. Zodwa backs away to the farthest corner of the room. She’s clutching Mandla so tightly to her chest that he cries out even louder. She tries to loosen her grip, scared that she’s hurting him.
They’re kicking the door, saying something she can’t hear, and then it goes quiet. She hears receding footsteps and barely has time to wonder if they’re leaving before she hears them coming back.
“Found the firewood ax.”
There’s a grunt and then the door splinters, wood chips flying everywhere. Jezebel yelps and shrinks away from the debris. Another thwack. There’s now a gaping hole in the door through which torchlight shines. An arm reaches in and grapples with the lock until the door crashes open.
Zodwa turns to face the wall, putting her body between Mandla and the men. A hand grabs her and begins to tug at her but she resists. There’s a snarl and then the man swears, letting go of Zodwa as he kicks out at Jezebel, who’s bitten him. It’s a temporary reprieve and then he’s on her again, his arm wrapped around Zodwa’s neck as he pulls at her from behind.
“Come, you stupid kaffir bitch.”
He yanks so hard that Zodwa topples backward. His bicep is tight around her throat and she can’t breathe. Still, she won’t let go of Mandla. She cradles him against her chest to stop him from falling as his terrified screams cut through the night. From her vantage point near the floor, Zodwa can see a pair of legs that Jezebel is lunging at. They lash out at the dog, connecting with her ribs, and she yelps in pain.
Zodwa’s vision closes in. The room is getting completely dark. She fights for consciousness, trying to scramble back onto her feet. As she writhes, Zodwa thinks she sees a set of legs and then another running toward the room. They’re wearing blue pants and leather boots, and she can hear shouts accompanying their advance.
“Let go of her and put your hands up!”
When her head hits the ground, all Zodwa knows is that Mandla is still in her arms. They didn’t take her son from her. He’s safe. Mandla is safe.
CHAPTER SEVENT
Y-NINE
Ruth
7 January 1996
Verdriet, Magaliesburg, South Africa
Light begins to seep through the curtains just as Mandla and Zodwa fall asleep curled up together in my room. There’s an empty space at the foot of the bed where Jezebel should be. She’s being kept for observation at the emergency vet but they say she should make a full recovery, thank God.
Dee hands me a mug of coffee as I join her in the kitchen. She looks terrible in her rumpled dress. What little makeup she put on for the fund-raiser is now smudged into shadows around her eyes. I’m sure I look worse. At least the power is back on. They must have fixed the substation that the Coetzees disabled.
We only returned from the hospital a little over an hour ago when Mandla and Zodwa finally got the all-clear to come home. Mandla’s fine physically, though who knows what trauma now lurks in his psyche. Zodwa’s neck is in a brace as a precautionary measure and she’s covered in bruises.
My mind keeps returning to the image of her hands crossed in her lap in the emergency room. The nurse had whispered to me that victims of near strangulation almost always have flesh embedded under their fingernails, defensive wounds from when they claw at whatever is cutting off their air supply.
But instead of fighting off her attackers to save her own life, Zodwa clung to my boy, stopping them from taking him from her. That’s how the police said they’d found her after the security company notified them of the panic alarm being activated: unconscious but with Mandla clutched in her arms.
Why would she do that? Risk her own life for his. It doesn’t make any sense. Surely no one is that altruistic.
“I’m sorry I made you wait,” Dee says. “We should have come home as soon as you wanted to.”
“How could you have known? Thank God the panic alarm worked.”
We’re both lost in thought when a voice comes from the doorway of my room. “Does Mandla have AIDS?”
I turn around, not having heard Zodwa get up. “What?”
“Those men said Mandla has AIDS and he’s going to make everyone in the town sick with it.”
Damn that Mimi Coetzee! Damn her to hell. I think of the girl’s fist-ruined face and shake my head. She probably gave up the information to her husband to save herself in some way. Still, when it comes down to it, everything is a choice and she chose to put an enormous target on Mandla’s back.
“Zodwa, please come.” I hold out my hand and she walks over looking like a little girl in Dee’s nightgown. The neck brace must be uncomfortable.
Zodwa sits down next to me. “So, it’s true?” she asks.
“He’s HIV positive but it hasn’t yet advanced to full-blown AIDS. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you about his status. We were trying to protect him because there’s so much stigma around the disease. I promise that you’ve never been at risk of contracting the virus at any point. I made certain of that. Those idiots don’t know what they’re talking about. There’s no way Mandla could infect any of them, never mind the whole town. Ignorant bastards.”
Zodwa’s face is a picture of misery and I feel such a rush of affection for this girl who’s saved my boy’s life not once but twice. She’s his guardian angel, there’s no doubt about that. “We’re about to get him onto a cocktail of medication that should help him. It’s only just been approved but they’re seeing good results—”
“There’s medicine that will cure him?”
“It can’t fully get rid of the HIV but it means he can live longer. It’s very expensive and we’re having to get it from the United States but it’s worth a try. He doesn’t stand a chance without it, so the timing is really lucky. If he’d been born a year before, there probably wouldn’t have been any hope for him.” I take her hand. “If you want to leave and work somewhere else, I’ll quite honestly be devastated but I’ll understand completely. You need to do what feels right for you.”
“No,” she says fiercely. “I’m staying with Mandla.”
I wish I don’t wonder why, but I do.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
Zodwa
3 February 1996
Magaliesburg Clinic, Gauteng, South Africa
Zodwa Khumalo?” the nurse calls into the waiting room.
Zodwa stands. “Here I am.”
“Please come with me.”
Zodwa follows her down the now-familiar hallway but the nurse turns into a different room than the one she did Zodwa’s blood test in a week ago.
“Is there someone here with you?” the nurse asks, and Zodwa lies and nods.
And then the nurse tells Zodwa what she already knows. “I’m afraid that your test came back positive for HIV.”
The nurse talks for half an hour, giving Zodwa brochures.
She thinks of Thembeka, who also has to be HIV positive, though she will have contracted the virus from sexual intercourse willingly entered into with Mongezi. Or, at least as willingly as Zodwa had when she’d had sex with Ace, who she will have infected because he refused to wear condoms.
The ripple effect is astonishing. In a country built on discrimination, a pandemic is breaking out because of a virus that does not discriminate. When the nurse advises Zodwa not to fall pregnant because of mother-to-child transmission, she has the strangest urge to laugh.
“Do you have any questions?” the nurse asks.
“How long do I have before I get sick?”
“It’s different for everyone. It can happen a year after infection or as long as seven years later.”
“I’ve heard about medication. HAART therapy,” Zodwa says, testing out the words she’s heard Ruth use now that Mandla is about to start taking his cocktail of drugs.
The nurse looks impressed at Zodwa’s knowledge but then frowns. “It’s not available here and even if it was, it costs many thousands of rands a month. It’s a drug for the rich. I’m sorry.”
It’s as Ruth said.
Zodwa thanks her for her time and leaves. She thinks of all the times she was tempted to grab Mandla and run, the plans she had of disappearing into KwaZulu with her son so that they’d never be found. Had she done that, she would have signed Mandla’s death warrant.
There’s no chance for Zodwa now. She thinks back to Gertie in the squatter camp and how quickly she deteriorated. The last time Zodwa saw her she was covered in cancerous growths and you could see every one of her bones. She’d opened her mouth to cough and Zodwa had cringed at the sight of the white thrush that coated her tongue.
That’s the fate that awaits Zodwa. She will die from the disease, or at least from complications that arise because of it, but her son stands a fighting chance. As long as he stays with the sisters who have the money and resources to fight for his life, he has a shot at living.
That was Leleti’s gift to her grandson when she left him on those women’s doorstep. She may not have known it then, but that single act took away her grandson’s death sentence.
Thank you, Mama. Thank you.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
Ruth
3 February 1996
Palace of the Lost City, Rustenburg, South Africa
Are you sure I can’t tempt you with something sweet?” Vince asks.
We’re having lunch at the sprawling Sun City resort because Vince is staying at the Palace of the Lost City hotel while he’s in town for work. At least, that’s what he says. I suspect he’s here just for me.
“No dessert,” I say. “But thank you.”
“Is there anything else I can tempt you with?” He wriggles his eyebrows suggestively because it’s been that kind of lunch, just like old times except I’m not three sheets to the wind.
I laugh in response. “Don’t think I’m not tempted. A good old roll in the hay is probably just what the doctor ordered.”
“Whoever this doctor is, I like him or her. And don’t f
orget that the hay you’ll be rolling in is an enormous bed with Egyptian-cotton sheets in the Royal Suite,” he says, playing to my weakness for opulent hotel rooms and high thread counts.
“Damn you. You’re not making it easy to say no.”
He smiles to show he’s mostly teasing and signals to the waiter for the bill.
The truth is that the old Ruth wouldn’t have hesitated. The old Ruth would have had her tongue in Vince’s ear during appetizers. Who am I kidding? She wouldn’t even have let Vince make it out of his room to lunch. But the old Ruth is long gone and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
What the hell happened to me?
When the bill arrives, I take it and give the waiter my credit card.
“Ruth, come on, let me get lunch. It was meant to be my treat.”
“Thank you, but no. I still owe you for the hospital bill.”
“You don’t—”
I hold my hand up to shush him. A large investment is maturing in two months’ time and I’ll be paying him back. With interest. No negotiations. I pull two documents from my handbag and hand them across to Vince. “This is actually a working lunch and so I’m paying you for your time.”
He takes the first envelope, opens it, and flips through the pages, his eyebrows shooting up. The expression is not unlike Dee’s, whose eyebrows have a tendency to do the same thing. The two of them actually weirdly remind me of each other. “A will? You wrote a will?”
“Yes.”
“But you always refused to talk about estate planning whenever I broached the subject. You said it was morbid and that thinking about death was likely to attract it.”
“Did I? Doesn’t sound like me at all.”
Vince snorts and then his expression turns to concern. “You’re fine, though, aren’t you? I mean, you’re not—”
“For God’s sake. How many times must I tell you that I wasn’t actually planning to commit suicide? I was just trying to get you to stay with me.”
If You Want to Make God Laugh Page 30