Laugh with the Moon

by Shana Burg

  I’ve already taught the standard one class to count to ten in English, so I figure Innocent’s ready to learn one of my favorite childhood games. “I one the cake,” I say. “Now you say, ‘I two the cake.’ ”

  “I two the cake,” Innocent says, and giggles.

  “I three the cake,” I say.

  “I four the cake.” He catches on.

  But after he says “I eight the cake,” he doesn’t laugh.

  “Get it? You ate the cake!” I say.

  He stares at me blankly with his enormous brown eyes, so I have to spend the next five minutes explaining why it’s funny while Memory translates. After that, we play all over again. This time Innocent laughs. Hello, Dimples!

  By the time the minibus arrives, we’ve finished our water. The driver opens the back door and I dole out enough money for us all. Even though Saidi offered to pay for Memory and Innocent, I let him know that my father insists he save his money. There’s a smelly goat standing in the aisle. Innocent plops down on his sister’s lap, and I squeeze between the two of them and the window.

  Once we’re all settled, the driver moseys into the Slow but Sure Shop. It isn’t long until he returns with three sacks of maize. He shoves one under my feet and one under Memory’s feet. Then he plops one bag onto my lap without even asking if it’s okay. I want to throw it on the floor but it weighs a ton, and there isn’t room for it anyway.

  Somehow I manage to turn my head to glance at Saidi, who’s stuck in back beside Agnes. “Poor thing,” I say. Memory turns to take a look for herself.

  “Poor boy!” she agrees.

  The driver starts the engine, and I take another quick peek. That’s when I notice something strange: Saidi’s got a big fat grin across his face. “Look!” I tell Memory. After she does, we both gag out loud. We can’t decide which is making us sicker: seeing Saidi so happy, or the smell of the goat mixed with the heat and the bumps.

  I think about asking Memory all my questions: about whether she carries a bucket of tears inside her heart, and whether the bucket gets lighter or heavier as the years pass. I want to tell her about my mother, but I don’t really know how to begin. Instead, as we wind through Machinga, Memory and I make Innocent practice his lines for the play, but our leading man falls asleep right at the start of our rehearsal. So, for more than an hour as we bump along, Memory and I discuss the casting, the costumes, and the set.

  At last, I spy a thin line of turquoise out the window. The line gradually expands to a glimmering, sparkling lake that’s so big it looks like an ocean. Two moped drivers whiz by. Memory nudges Innocent awake. “I ate the cake,” he mumbles before he opens his eyes. Memory and I crack up.

  The second I step out of the minibus, a warm breeze blows through my hair. I inhale the clean, fresh air. Restaurants built on stilts dot the side of the beach, and sunbathers relax under the palm trees on the warm gray sand.

  We walk down to the beach, where I unbuckle my sandals. It sure does feel super to squish the sand through my toes. I spread out my towel under a palm tree and take off my shirt and skirt. “Want to go swimming now?” I ask.

  That’s when I notice Agnes and Memory staring at me, and Saidi looking out at the water for a long, long time. “It is interesting, this purple uniform, with your bare skin for all boys to see,” Agnes says.

  In an instant, I feel sunburned all over, like I don’t even have a bathing suit on. No wonder Saidi is staring at the lake. He’s embarrassed! Even though Agnes has had several bottles of storebought water in her life, apparently this is her first trip to the lake. I must be the first person she’s ever seen up close in a bathing suit. I’m mortified! I grab my shirt and pull it over my head. I put my skirt back on as fast as I can while Memory says, “It is interesting this swim clothing. All the tourist have this, Agnes.”

  Agnes looks around and I do too. Memory’s right. There are lots of people on the beach in their bathing suits, but I won’t be one of them. I don’t want to be a tourist. I guess my friends were planning to swim in their clothes.

  “I think Innocent need some water,” Memory says. He’s fallen back to sleep in her arms.

  “Malawi kwacha,” Agnes says, and holds out her palm. “I shall do the job. I shall fetch the clean drinking water for my friends.”

  Saidi is obviously saving his money for something else, so I reach into my backpack and pull out a few bills. I give them to Agnes just so she’ll leave me alone. She takes the money and walks over to the Chomp and Chew Stop while Memory sits on the sand, rocks Innocent, and sings to him like she’s his mother.

  I stretch out on the towel and let the sun wrap me in its rays. I close my eyes and think about how good the last few weeks have turned out. I’ve already made friends, and I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time.

  Ten minutes later, though, the sand castle of good feelings I’m building crumbles. My lips are parched. My tongue is dry. I need a drink, and Agnes still isn’t back with our water. “Did she fall in the lake?” I ask.

  Saidi decides to explore. He walks across the sand and into the Chomp and Chew Stop. When he finally comes out, we can see that he’s furious. Agnes is with Saidi, but she isn’t carrying any bottles. Instead, melted chocolate ice cream dribbles down her face. “I do apologize,” she says, and giggles. “It looked divine. I could not refuse.”

  “Where’s my money?” I glower.

  “I do apologize,” Agnes says again. “But you did not give me enough kwacha for water as well.”

  I grab my backpack and stomp across the sand to the shop, where I buy another water bottle for everyone except the crook. Memory holds one to Innocent’s lips. “Imwa, Innocent,” she says. Innocent takes a couple of sips. Then we all follow Saidi down to the shade beneath the Chomp and Chew Stop.

  Chained to the wooden stilts that prop up the restaurant are four wooden rowboats, each a different color. “What is your best color, Innocent?” Saidi asks as he rolls up the cuffs of his pants.

  Innocent points to the green rowboat. “Biriwira,” he says.

  “You must not steal a boat,” Memory tells Saidi.

  Saidi puffs out his chest. “I have paid the fee inside the Chomp and Chew Stop. Remember, I am a businessman.”

  Saidi unwinds the rusty chain that ties the rowboat to the stilt. He must have spent a lot of his income from his weekend work on this trip, so Memory and I say, “Zikomo kwambiri,” which means “thanks very much,” and Agnes says, “This is a man who provide.”

  Sand swishes under the bottom of the rowboat as he pushes it down the beach and into the water, where he holds the boat steady. Memory sets Innocent on the sand and wades in. She lifts the skirt of her chitenje and hoists herself into the rickety boat. I slosh in too, and set my backpack in the rowboat. The water is incredibly cool and refreshing, and I dive right in with my clothes still on. When I stand up, I wring my hair out with my hand. A bright yellow fish with orange spots circles my waist. “Look, Innocent!” I point. “A freckled fish.”

  Innocent doesn’t come to see. He stays there on the beach, staring into the distance. Leave it to a six-year-old to do exactly the opposite of what you request.

  Saidi slogs out of the lake, scoops up our little friend, and places him on a bench inside the boat. After Saidi gets into the boat himself, he reaches over the edge to help pull me up. It’s not like I mean to notice that his hand is strong and warm, but it is, and I do, and when I hold on to it, a strange wave rushes through me.

  Even though I want to sit next to Saidi, I wouldn’t do that to Memory, because she adores him. So I sit beside Memory and Innocent instead, and when Agnes gets in, she sits next to Saidi up front. And of course, I don’t want to be jealous of Agnes, but I can’t help it, I am.

  Saidi picks up the two oars lying at the bottom of the boat. “I can paddle,” I tell him. It’s true. Our entire seventh-grade class went canoeing on Walden Pond last spring. By the end of the field trip, I wasn’t half bad.

  “I shall like t
o try,” Memory says.

  “You girls begin. When you are tired, then my turn.” Saidi hands us the oars.

  “What about Agnes?” I ask.

  “I am queen. I do not row,” she says. “Saidi know that.”

  I look to Saidi. He only shrugs like there’s nothing he can do. Then he points to a cluster of brightly colored rowboats wobbling way out on the horizon. “This way to wonderful little fish,” he says.

  So I show Memory how to hold the oar and how to slice it into the water, but for the first ten minutes, we only manage to go backward or in circles while Agnes snickers. Once we finally get going, Agnes lifts her chin to the sun and closes her eyes. It’s a good thing, because that way she doesn’t notice the faces Memory and I make behind her back.

  Soon it’s too hard to make faces. Memory and I are out of breath. “I need a rest,” I say, glancing back at the beach. From here, the sunbathers look like dolls.

  “I must rest as well,” Memory says.

  We hand our oars to Saidi. “The expert is here,” he tells us. He’s not kidding! A fierce breeze blows through my hair, and suddenly, we’re cruising. And I’m staring. How can I not? Every time Saidi pulls back on the oars, the muscles in his biceps bulge.

  Memory reaches over the side of the boat, scoops up some lake water, and splashes it onto her brother’s forehead.

  By the time Saidi decides that even the rowing expert could use a break, the beach is a strip in the distance.

  Innocent sleeps while I teach Saidi, Agnes, and Memory my little game. And when Agnes says, “I eight the cake,” Memory, Saidi, and I crack up, but Agnes says, “What is funny? Do not laugh.”

  “Number two student should understand,” Memory says.

  “Number one student should explain in Chichewa,” Agnes replies.

  So Memory explains the game in Chichewa, and when she finishes, Agnes says, “A baby game. Why must a woman such as me understand this game for babies?”

  Memory and I roll our eyes. Saidi picks up the oars again, and an orange rowboat teeters into view. The people in the boat are pointing to a big rock in the shallow water near land. “What are they staring at?” I ask, when all of a sudden the rock shoots out of the water and lets out a thunderous roar. The ugly beast’s mouth is big enough to swallow us in a single bite.

  I’m still shrieking when it sinks under the water again. Agnes, Memory, and Saidi laugh so hard that our rowboat wobbles, which doesn’t make me feel any better. Agnes wipes a tear from her cheek. “Do you like our—how do you say—mvuu?”

  “Hip—hip—hippopotamus!” I grab on to the side of our rocking boat.

  “Mvuu. Most dangerous animal on planet Earth,” Saidi says. “Never get more near as this.”

  I gulp.

  “It is a good thing we are still far,” Saidi says. “If we are close, I will be screaming with you, Clare.”

  “Black mamba snake only poisons people,” Agnes says. “The hippo eats …” Another rock lifts itself out of the water.

  Memory gives Innocent a gentle rub on the belly. “Look, Innocent. Mvuu!” she says. Innocent doesn’t move. “Innocent!” When he doesn’t answer, Memory shakes him harder.

  Innocent’s eyes flutter. Memory’s voice turns shrill and tight. She speaks to Saidi in Chichewa. A few seconds later, Saidi climbs to the front of the boat. He grunts and groans as he cuts the water with the oars.

  Agnes leans her elbows against the edge of the boat and says something in Chichewa.

  Memory grits her teeth.

  Agnes turns to me. “All I say is, I do not see why we must ruin our day on the lake. Innocent is a tired boy. Nothing more.”

  I tell myself maybe Agnes is right. Maybe he’s just very sleepy. But if that’s true, why are the hairs on my arms stiffer than porcupine needles? Why is a haze of sweat fogging up my skin?

  When we finally near the shore by the Chomp and Chew Stop, Saidi jumps into the water. He reaches into the rowboat and grabs Innocent while Memory climbs over the edge, lowering herself into the lake and soaking her skirt.

  “If your desire is to worry like old hens,” Agnes says, “you may. I will not wreck my excursion to the beach. A girl does need her sun and sand.”

  I splash over the edge of our rowboat, grab my backpack off the seat, and wade to the shore.

  “You shall see,” Agnes calls. “You shall see. The boy is fine. He is healthy. When you return, you shall say Agnes is a smart girl.” Her voice fades into the sound of the birds and small waves as I climb onto the beach beneath the Chomp and Chew Stop.

  After Saidi hands Innocent to Memory, he races across the sand toward a group of teenage boys who are playing a game of paddleball.

  I tell Memory we better get Innocent to the hospital, to my dad.

  Sand blows across the beach. “The distance is far,” she says. “We may not have time.” She presses her cheek to Innocent’s forehead. “It may be malaria,” she says.

  My teeth chatter in the sudden chill. And I think, Malaria? How can it be malaria? Doesn’t Innocent take Malarone pills like me?

  We turn and watch the boys on the beach stop their game. The one with the long face points to a nearby hill. Saidi races into the Chomp and Chew Stop while I follow Memory up the sand to the road.

  A few minutes later, Saidi bolts out of the restaurant toward us with a man who wears an orange and yellow Hawaiian shirt. The man looks at Innocent. “Cute little bloke,” he says, cupping his hand on the back of Innocent’s head. “I’m sure it’s nothing but a little heat fatigue. If I had a kwacha for every kid who comes down to Lake Malombe and passes out in the sun, I’d be a rich man.” The man shakes his shaved head. “Let me tell you something. You Africans need sunscreen every bit as much as us azungu, but as you like it. I’ll drive round.”

  We pile into the back of the SUV, and Saidi gives directions—around the lake road, off to the right, and up a large hill. While we drive, the man chatters on about the crowd in the Chomp and Chew Stop. “Best business of the year right now. Place is packed. Good times,” he says, and chuckles.

  When we finally reach the top of the hill, Saidi instructs the driver to turn down a craggy path. “This place,” Saidi says. He points to a mountainside hut with three stalks of maize growing in the yard.

  “Best of luck to you kids,” the driver says. “Now off you go.”

  Memory gets out of the SUV with Innocent in her arms. Saidi leaves too. But I’m sure there’s some mistake. This isn’t where the doctor lives. “Could you wait for us?” I ask the driver. “I seriously doubt this is the right—”

  “Wish I could, darlin’, but like I said, loads of customers this time of year. We’ve rented every rowboat, every moped.”

  I take the bills out of my backpack and quickly count them. Four thousand Malawi kwacha.

  “Get going now,” the man says.

  “Please!” I say. “I’ll give you five hundred kwacha if you’ll wait for us.”

  “Sorry, kid. Scoot.”

  I don’t know what comes over me. “Okay, four thousand,” I say.

  The man pierces me with his stare. “Serious?”

  “Dead,” I say.

  He looks at his watch. “Okey-dokey. Make it snappy. Name’s Derek, by the—”

  I don’t have time to hear the rest. I jump out of the car and run across the dirt to join the others at the doorway of the hut.

  Memory wipes a tear from her cheek. “The doctor,” she says. “He is not here.”

  But a second later, a very old man with gray hair and shriveled skin appears. He looks right at me. “America?” he asks.

  I nod.

  He smiles a crooked smile and waves us inside the hut, where a giraffe skin is spread over the dried-mud floor. The old man instructs Memory to lay Innocent on top of it. Then he folds up an orange cloth, bends down, and slips it under Innocent’s head.

  The old man says something to me in Chichewa, but I don’t understand. “He want ten thousand Malawi kwacha,”
Memory tells me.

  “I … I … only have four thousand, but … but I already promised … I didn’t think …”

  Memory translates. The old man clicks his teeth.

  Saidi takes two hundred kwacha out of his pocket, but obviously that isn’t going to make a dent in the bill. I don’t know what else to do, so I pull out everything I have, including a bunch of tambala coins. I drop the money into the old man’s leathery hands. He closes his wrinkled fingers around the money and stuffs it into a cardboard box on a wooden table.

  Beside the box are dozens of jars. The old man unscrews the cap on one and pulls out a small bone. He drops it—clink!—into a glass. He pours in blue liquid and stirs the mixture with a stick. Next, he crumbles up dried leaves and sprinkles them on top. Then he screws on the lid and gives the jar to Saidi.

  The old man kneels on the floor by Innocent’s head. He closes his eyes, spreads his fingers wide above Innocent’s face, and chants a strange melody that creeps me out. Finally, he places a large white bean on Innocent’s tummy. When the bean rolls off, the old man says, “He breathe.”

  “He breathed before!” I cry.

  “He breathe,” the old man says, and nods. “Evil spirit …”

  This man is a witch doctor. A fake! A phony!

  His eyes light up. He stretches his arms out. “Gone!” he says. He hobbles over to me, taps the jar with the blue liquid, and holds up three fingers.

  “Three?” I say. “Katatu patsiku?”

  He gives me the jar and nods yes, Innocent should drink the liquid three times a day. Then he flicks his hand toward the doorway. “Yendani bwino!” he says, spitting out each word like a curse.

  I gasp. We’ve been here less than five minutes, we’ve spent all our money, and now we’re getting kicked out with nothing for Innocent but a jar of blue craziness. I whisper to Saidi that Derek’s outside, and Saidi whispers to Memory. Then he bends down and lifts Innocent off the giraffe skin, and we all sprint outside to the SUV.

  Memory slams the door. “Tayendetsa!” she shouts.

  “As you like it!” Derek says.