Fly Away Home

by Vanessa Del Fabbro

  Now she noticed Anna walking up Main Street toward Mama Dlamini’s, her youngest child—an eighteen-month-old daughter—wrapped in a blanket on her back. Sighing at the sight of the baby, Monica turned away from the window and sat down heavily in her chair as Dudu walked in with the coffee.

  “I’m going to try something new with the layout of this week’s issue,” said Dudu. “I’ll do it early so I can change it if you don’t like it.”

  Monica had noticed lately that Dudu had stopped reporting the escapades of her children. Monica didn’t know what was worse, casually curious people who unthinkingly asked when she was going to have a baby, or the unnatural caution of those like Dudu.

  “What’s Phutole been up to lately?”

  Dudu’s youngest had been diagnosed with attention deficit and hyperactivity disorder in his second year of school.

  “His teacher says she couldn’t ask for a more disciplined child. I’m going to take him to Dr. Niemand to see if it’s time yet to reduce the dose of his medication.”

  Dudu never used Zak’s first name. Most people in Lady Helen were on first-name terms, but some felt that doctors ought to be the exception.

  Dudu didn’t offer any more information about Phutole. Monica was about to tell her that Sipho had been accepted as an exchange student when the switchboard telephone rang, and Dudu hurried out to answer it. Sipho had only two days to decide whether to take the opportunity or not. Even at her strongest, Monica would feel panicked at the thought of letting him go, but as fragile as she was now she could barely bring herself to even consider it. Last night in bed Zak had pulled her close, but he knew her well enough not to rehash the events of the day or offer words of hope for the future, and so he’d merely held her until he’d drifted off to sleep.

  She looked at her watch. Nine o’clock. He would be in his office drinking a cup of coffee and checking his mail after his morning rounds. She dialed his number.

  “Will going to America really help Sipho get into medical school?”

  Monica heard Zak swallow a sip of coffee before answering her. In other countries, students completed a bachelor’s degree before applying to medical school, but in South Africa students went to medical school for six years straight out of high school.

  “His grades are good enough to get in, but he doesn’t have any other interests.”

  “What about wildlife?”

  “Yes, but that translates into hours wandering around in the bush alone, examining insects, birds and plants, and then coming home and studying books.”

  “He’s in the Young Conservationists Club.”

  “But the members don’t really do anything, aside from sitting around talking about dwindling species. If Sipho goes to America it will show that he has a sense of adventure, that he’s up to the challenge of living with people he’s never met before, that he has inner strength.”

  “Mr. D. said his grades are the best in the province.”

  “Sipho wants to go, Monica.”

  She was silent.

  “The two issues are not related, sweetheart,” said Zak softly.

  She began to cry. “I know they shouldn’t be. It’s so hard.”

  “I feel it, too.”

  Monica sniffed. “He’ll be devastated if we say no.”

  “He’s a good boy. If we have a valid reason to say no, then he’ll come to understand.”

  “But we don’t, do we?”

  “A mother’s concern is valid.”

  “But he’ll be staying with a mother, his host family’s mother.”

  Zak was so good at this—making her fill in the holes of her own argument.

  “And we could visit him. I’ll find a locum to replace me at the hospital.”

  “But what about Sipho’s end-of-year exams?”

  The South African school year, which had started in January, was more than halfway through, but the American school year started in just over a month’s time.

  “You know Sipho, he could take his exams now and still get straight A’s.”

  Monica heard another voice in Zak’s office.

  “Sweetheart, Daphne needs me in the ICU. We’ll talk when we get home.”

  Zak’s nurse, Daphne, had a three-year-old son, Victor, who was in awe of Mandla. Another eight-year-old might find the attention of a toddler tedious and embarrassing, but not Mandla. He’d showed Victor how to fly a kite, how to play “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” on a drum set of kitchen pots and pans, and he was currently encouraging Victor to take the training wheels off his bike—which made Daphne very anxious, but Victor was itching to do it.

  Monica replaced the telephone receiver and looked at her to-do list again. Nothing piqued her interest. Where had her predecessor, Max Andrews, obtained his inspiration all the years he had been editor of the newspaper? If he would just finish writing his memoirs she would find out. He’d been working on them since she took over his job five years ago, and Monica sensed that he didn’t want to complete them because he feared that as soon as he did his life would end.

  She got up and looked out the window again. The wind must have picked up, since Mama Dlamini had taken down the umbrellas. Spring was still at least a month away, but the warm sunshine had obviously fooled Mama Dlamini into thinking that it might be close. Spring officially started in Lady Helen the day the migratory birds returned to the lagoon. Usually that was after the first of September, and so, while the rest of the country marked the change of season by the calendar, the residents of Lady Helen eagerly scanned the skies for a sign of the homecoming. Sipho would miss the return of the birds this year if he went to the United States. Since coming to live in Lady Helen he had always been at the lagoon when the birds made their return, except once.

  Spring was nature’s perfect time for birth, but clearly, not for her. And perhaps not ever. She had to consider that it might not be in God’s plan for her to give birth. Eggs would be hatching, on Peg’s dairy farm there would be glossy-eyed new calves, but Monica’s store of lovingly collected baby receiving blankets, booties and onesies would remain in their hiding place, on the top shelf of her closet behind her sweaters, gathering dust and tempting fish moths.

  Making a face at her list, she pulled on her jacket and buttoned it up to her chin. She needed a walk in the park, with the wind blowing her hair into the crow’s nest that always made Mandla laugh.

  Her friend Oscar was leaving the park as she arrived. In the days after her arrival in Lady Helen, he had been a comforting source of help and advice, and he had remained close to the family after Monica and Zak’s marriage.

  “The wind’s unpleasant here, Monica,” he said. “What’s up?”

  She shrugged.

  “You aren’t going for a walk in this weather because you’re bursting with the joys of life.”

  Oscar knew things without being told. And he never repeated anything when it was confided to him. She explained about Sipho, but didn’t mention the failed fertility treatment.

  “I hitchhiked all the way to Egypt the year I finished school,” Oscar said. “My mother didn’t get a letter from me for six months.”

  “Sipho will be with a family.”

  “My point exactly. You could phone him whenever you wanted. It will be good for him.”

  It was no secret that Oscar found Sipho a trifle studious, whereas Oscar and Mandla behaved like raucous sailors when they were together. Ever since Mandla first laid eyes on the tattoo of Medusa on Oscar’s forearm, he had been intrigued by the man.

  “You’ve got to let them go sometime.”

  Oscar had no children. He had never even married. But he was probably right.

  Oscar had once been in love with a woman from Trinidad, but her father would not let them marry. Since Oscar, a white man, was not allowed to marry a black woman in his home country, the father felt Oscar should not wed his daughter in Trinidad. And then Oscar had fallen in love with Francina while tutoring her for her school exams, but Hercules had snatched her awa
y. He’d arrived in Lady Helen to ask her to give him a second chance, and Francina had agreed.

  “Sipho will hold it against you for the rest of his life if you don’t let him go,” Oscar said now.

  “Thanks for the advice,” said Monica. She waved and walked off into the wind.

  It was colder out than she had anticipated. Winters in Lady Helen were often mild, but there seemed to have been more biting cold days than usual this year. One morning, snow had even appeared on top of the koppies. To Mandla’s disappointment, the sun had melted it before the end of the school day. Monica wondered if there would be changes to the weather this summer, which was usually perfect, with hot, dry days, a natural drop in temperature at dusk and cool ocean breezes.

  She had forgotten her sunglasses, a necessity even in winter in Lady Helen. The achingly bright light always made the landscape look as though it were begging to be painted. Within fifteen minutes, she could no longer feel her toes because of the cold. She turned and, with her hands stuffed deeply into her pockets for warmth, trudged back to the office.

  Sipho didn’t say a word about the exchange program when she returned home that afternoon, and for a while she wondered—and hoped—that his enthusiasm had dimmed. But then she saw the acceptance letter waiting for her on the dining room table, which he’d set for dinner. She took her time preparing the salad.

  Monica was the last to sit down at the table. Sipho and Zak were staring at the letter. She shook her napkin out slowly and placed it in her lap. Then she poured a glass of water for herself from the carafe.

  “I hope I didn’t put too much balsamic vinegar in the salad again tonight,” she said.

  “Mom, please tell me. Am I going or not?”

  Monica looked at Zak. Mandla stopped pouring chutney onto his bobotie.

  “Do you really want to?”

  “Last night I almost chickened out.” Sipho’s voice caught. “It will be hard for me to leave.”

  “We’re coming to visit you at Christmas,” said Mandla.

  Zak put up his hands. “I said if Sipho went we could visit.”

  Sipho smiled broadly at his brother.

  “You can go,” said Monica quietly.

  Sipho turned his smile on her, but it was not as broad this time. “Thanks, Mom.”

  She heard the nervousness in his voice and reached across the table for his hand. Now that the decision had been reached she had to make an effort to bolster his courage.

  “It will be an experience you’ll remember for the rest of your life.”

  Monica hoped and prayed that his memories would only be happy.

  Chapter Four

  On Saturday morning, Francina awoke to the sound of rain falling, and hoped that Zukisa would call off their visit to her aunt in Cape Town. She did not want to leave the warmth of her bed, where Hercules lay as still as a post with the heavy down duvet pulled up to his ears. Francina would never get used to rain in winter. It just didn’t seem right. How could the rest of the country get rain in summer and only a small part along the southwestern tip get rain in winter? She hurriedly wrapped herself in the thick cotton dressing gown she had made, while her feet found the fluffy slippers Zukisa and Hercules had given her on her last birthday, and then she left the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

  “Good morning, Mom.”

  Zukisa was already dressed in a corduroy skirt, thick tights and a sweater knitted by Mrs. Shabalala. The sleeves were a little long, the body a little short, but Francina would never have thought of pointing out these faults to her mother-in-law when the creation had been a labor of love.

  “I’ve made porridge, but I didn’t want to start the eggs until you and Dad were both up.”

  Zukisa did not need to mention her aunt. She was ready and eager to depart for Cape Town.

  “Should we phone your family to warn them we’re coming?”

  Zukisa blushed. “I already did. My aunt said to come anytime.”

  “I’ll wake your father then.”

  Entering her bedroom, Francina felt trepidation, which she tried to brush away by remembering that it was perfectly normal for a good girl such as Zukisa to want to visit her sick aunt. As a Zulu, Francina understood the pull of blood ties. She didn’t often dwell on the fact that Zukisa was not her biological daughter, except for times like these when she experienced an irrational fear that the situation could rob her of the girl.

  While Hercules dressed, Francina ate the porridge Zukisa had prepared. Mrs. Shabalala emerged in her dressing gown and joined them at the dining room table with a sigh.

  “Bad dream?” asked Francina.

  Mrs. Shabalala shook her head. “I wish Mama Dlamini hadn’t given me such a big slice of cake last night. I didn’t sleep well because of it.”

  Francina wanted to tell her mother-in-law that she didn’t have to eat the whole slice, but instead she just smiled. It was difficult for a woman continually trying to lose weight to be close friends with the owner of the best restaurant in town. As two of only a small group of Zulus in Lady Helen, it was obvious that Mrs. Shabalala and Mama Dlamini would become friends, but Francina sometimes wondered if her mother-in-law would make an effort to see her friend every day if the visit didn’t include cake and pie. Mrs. Shabalala’s marketing always ended with a stop at Mama Dlamini’s to catch up on the day’s news. Whatever weight Mrs. Shabalala lost through honestly valiant attempts at dieting never stayed off.

  “Do you want to come with us to Cape Town, Gogo?” asked Zukisa, using the Zulu term for grandmother.

  “I can’t. I have to help out at Mama Dlamini’s. She’s…” Mrs. Shabalala gave a sheepish smile and didn’t finish her sentence.

  Francina was able to read people, despite her lost eye, and she could tell that her mother-in-law wished that her tongue had not slipped and mentioned Mama Dlamini.

  “Why does she need extra help at the café?” she asked casually.

  “Oh, it’s going to be busy today.”

  “Is something special going on in town that I don’t know about?”

  Mrs. Shabalala concentrated on stirring two tablespoons of brown sugar into her porridge.

  “Is there something on at the amphitheater today?” Francina persisted.

  “Promise you won’t tell anyone,” said Mrs. Shabalala, looking directly at her.

  Francina thought of the irony of needing to keep a secret about Mama Dlamini, who was the town’s most efficient reporter of everyone’s personal news. “What’s Mama Dlamini up to then?” she asked.

  Mrs. Shabalala lowered her voice as though there might be someone listening at the second floor window. “She’s moonlighting as a chef at the golf resort.”

  This was news Francina did not expect. “She’s working for Mr. Yang, the fraudster who tried to have everyone evicted from their homes in Sandpiper Drift so he could build another golf course? I thought he was in prison.”

  “He just got out. His sentence was shortened for good behavior.”

  “I wonder if Monica knows,” said Francina.

  Monica, who had helped uncover the fraud that had almost caused the residents of the small neighborhood on the inland edge of the lagoon to lose their homes, had been banned from the golf resort for life. A hostile standoff had existed between the residents of Lady Helen and the resort management ever since Mr. Yang went to prison. Even the two residents of Lady Helen who had washed dishes at the resort and acted as the town’s spies had been too disgusted to return. What on earth was Mama Dlamini doing fraternizing with the enemy?

  “If she performs well she’ll be made head chef of the five star restaurant,” said Mrs. Shabalala, answering her daughter-in-law’s unspoken question.

  “I see,” said Francina, when, in fact, she didn’t.

  “You of all people should understand what that might mean to a woman who grew up poor in a village in KwaZulu-Natal.”

  There were still mornings Francina wanted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t d
reaming when she saw the shadow cast on the shiny floor of her shop by the gold lettering of the name on the window. But her mother-in-law’s observation was only partly astute, because Jabulani Dressmakers was more than enough for Francina, and the café should have been enough for Mama Dlamini. If the woman became head chef at the resort, where would she set her sights next? On cooking for the president? Francina was in favor of ambition if the goal was self-improvement, but runaway ambition was dangerous. And it appeared that Mama Dlamini was afflicted with the dangerous kind. How could Francina not tell Monica?

  The flat-topped mountain rising above Cape Town, with its veil of soft white clouds, never failed to impress Francina. Johannesburg had its flat-topped golden mine dumps, but the sight of them had depressed Francina whenever she’d returned from a visit to her beloved province of KwaZulu-Natal. Johannesburg had been her address for more than twenty years, and yet it had never been home. She had resided there to earn a living, because there weren’t any jobs close to her village. Her situation had not been different from that of thousands of men who had left their families in the villages to go to Johannesburg to work underground in the gold mines.

  It was not natural for men to live in dormitories, separated from their wives for eleven months of the year. Johannesburg was full of girls who had forgotten the lessons their mothers had taught them back in the villages, who did not think twice about going out with another woman’s husband. A girl could be seduced by a man who offered a distraction from a life of drudgery pushing a broom down deserted office corridors. How different things might have been if people did not have to leave home to find employment. How many individuals might have been saved from this terrible disease, this pandemic that was stealing more than eight hundred people a day, most in the prime of life?

  Hercules said that one day this would all be a chapter in a history textbook, the type of textbook that he used in his classes, teaching his pupils. People didn’t realize, he claimed, that they were a part of history in the making, and that the course of history could be changed. If Francina gave Hercules half a chance, he could go on for hours about how this war could have been avoided if only so-and-so had done this instead of that, or the citizens of that country could have been living like kings if only they’d realized sooner that their such-and-such head of state was leading them toward starvation. But to change the path of history, Francina believed, required strong leaders, and no matter where in the world you looked nowadays you could not find ones like the Zulu kings of the past.