The Crooked Path

by Irma Joubert

  After story time in the evenings Lettie sat in the living room, reading. She did not play music anymore.

  She ordered every piece of literature published worldwide on infantile paralysis. She informed herself of every possible bit of progress, every new treatment, every speck of hope.

  The vaccine developed by Jonas Salk of the University of Pittsburgh in 1952 was introduced to the world on April 12, 1955, Lettie read in a medical journal one evening. After only three doses, 99 percent of patients were immune to the polio virus. The remedy had the potential to contain the spread of the disease worldwide.

  It was wonderful news: the hope the world had been waiting for. But for some it had come too late.

  Sometimes it became too much for her. She was simply too involved.

  “Why don’t you play in your room for a while? Look, Mommy has brought you each a puzzle. Isabella, build yours here on the coffee table. Leonora, you sit over there.”

  Two pairs of excited dark eyes looked back at her.

  “I’ll bathe you in a while and then I’ll tell you a story, okay?”

  She closed the bedroom door behind her.

  Only that morning a thirteen-year-old patient had said to her, “The thing about this illness is the paralysis. When muscles are paralyzed, they’re paralyzed, and it doesn’t matter how much you exercise, nothing works. It just hurts. It makes you feel helpless, and no one understands, because they think you’re giving up.”

  “But you won’t give up, will you, Jacques?”

  “I don’t know, Doctor,” he said, sounding very mature. “I feel I might as well give up, because I can’t do what I used to. Polio isn’t for sissies, my dad says.”

  “No,” she said, “it’s for the strong-willed.”

  “Strong-willed people who know what it means to lose all their dreams,” he said with a bitterness not befitting his age. “My dream was to play fly-half for the high school’s first fifteen. At junior school I played for the first team in standard four and five. I was good, everyone said so. I was set on making first team in standard eight. My dream was to play rugby for the Springboks one day. Now I can’t even walk without crutches.”

  “I know, Jacques,” she said. “I think you’ve probably always lived by the motto ‘I can.’ Now you’ll have to learn to say ‘I’ll try.’”

  The boy shook his head. “I don’t want to,” he said. “I don’t want to be like this.”

  “You could get rid of the crutches, but only if you continue with the physical therapy and the exercises,” she said earnestly.

  “And will I play rugby again?” He sounded almost defiant.

  “Maybe you can try again one day. I believe in holding on to your dreams, but you also must be realistic.” She was speaking around the truth, she realized, half dazed. She must come straight out with it. “I don’t believe you’ll make the first team, Jacques. I think what you must strive for is to learn to walk again in the shortest time possible, maybe even to run, so that one day you can teach your sons, who might inherit your talent, to play in the first team.”

  What consolation was that for an Afrikaner boy of thirteen?

  She sank down on her knees beside her bed.

  People came to her for advice, for help, for hope.

  She didn’t even have a solution for her own child.

  Her eyes were brimming with tears—lately it had been happening quite often.

  She knelt quietly, allowing the tears to fall.

  chapter

  SIXTEEN

  In time her path widened, began intersecting the paths of others who were not part of her daily routine.

  It was early morning, windless and humid. When Lettie finally got away from the school and drove to the surgery, the cicadas were screeching shrilly.

  Marco, she said in her thoughts, our eldest daughter started school this morning.

  It was beginning to get easier, having these conversations with him. She still wanted to share things with him.

  I wish you could have seen her dressed in her navy-blue uniform and shiny new shoes, the brand-new satchel with her playtime snack in her hand. You would have been so proud of her, Marco. She was the only child who didn’t cry. She wanted to know why the others were. I tried to explain. I said maybe they weren’t used to their mommies leaving them.

  She said, “That’s not a very good reason.”

  Oh, Marco, I nearly cried myself at that. But you’d be proud to know that I left without shedding a tear.

  Lettie parked her car under the jacaranda tree behind the surgery. One thing I can tell you, my love—you would not have been able to say the same!

  At other times it was less easy to talk to Marco—the pain of missing him was just too much.

  Like when Leonora took her first steps.

  At the age of one, it was into her papa’s arms.

  When she had to learn to walk again at four, the safety of her papa’s arms was no longer there.

  “The right leg is strong enough,” Sandra Havemann had said, “but we can’t risk letting her stand on her own without braces to protect the left one.”

  So Lettie and Leonora went to Johannesburg to see the specialist and then to have a special shoe made.

  The braces were heavy, the shoe hard. Everything hurt all over again. Every small movement was accompanied by tears. There was so much courage, so much effort, and so little success.

  It was so much easier to tell Marco about Isabella learning to read or winning at athletics or singing a song at the eisteddfod.

  She asked Antonio to advise her on having a cottage built adjacent to the house. At Lettie’s request, Sister Greyling agreed to live there and work for her family full-time.

  In the winter of the following year, when Isabella could read her sister storybooks from the library and Leonora was getting along reasonably well in her heavy shoe and iron braces, Annabel walked into Lettie’s surgery one morning.

  “Good morning, Annabel,” Lettie said. “Cold, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, let’s talk about the weather if there’s nothing else to say,” Annabel said, peeling off her gloves.

  Oh, heavens, are we in a mood again? Lettie thought briefly. “How can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m not sick,” Annabel said, sitting down to face Lettie, “and I’m definitely not pregnant again.”

  “Good,” Lettie said.

  “You never forgave me for that day, did you?” Annabel’s eyes were defiant.

  “It’s in the past,” Lettie said. “That’s not why you’re here.”

  “No,” said Annabel, “it’s not. I’ve come to tell you Sapa has offered me a two-year contract in a senior position.”

  Lettie frowned. Sapa—the South African Press Association? Surely that wasn’t a job Annabel could do from here. “In Joburg?”

  “No, London.”

  “London?”

  “Yes, London, England,” Annabel answered curtly. “I’ve worked there before.”

  “But . . . that was before you were married, before you had kids,” Lettie said.

  “It’s a wonderful opportunity, the kind that doesn’t just fall into one’s lap.”

  Lettie felt her disbelief growing. “But . . . your kids? What does Boelie say?” she asked to gain time. Was Boelie thinking of leaving the farm?

  Annabel was silent for a moment. “You have no idea what it’s like in our home, Lettie, or you might understand. And Boelie is one thing, but I also haven’t told my father yet. That won’t be easy.”

  Her father wasn’t at all well these days.

  “I have to get on with my own life. Parents can’t expect their children to put their lives on hold for their sake.” Annabel leaned forward slightly, her voice insistent—almost as if she was asking for Lettie’s approval. “I need to get away, Lettie. My life with Boelie is unbearable. And Boelie won’t be the first father to raise his kids on his own.”

  Lettie’s heart sank. “Well, it’s not forever.”

>   Annabel gave her a brooding look. “I’ll probably stay longer if I can,” she said. “I want to get away from everything. Are you shocked?”

  Outside, a go-away bird was calling its mate: Kweh! Kweh! “Are you thinking of divorce?” Lettie asked, evading Annabel’s question.

  Her friend shook her head. “No, I’m not that stupid. As a journalist I’m not going to be earning much, and I’ve always been used to a certain standard of living, which I’m not about to give up. Boelie is a wealthy man. I gave him an heir, and it’s his duty to take care of me financially. If I’m the one who walks out of the marriage, especially if I leave the kids with him, I’ll get nothing.”

  Lettie felt the same revulsion of three years ago rise up in her. “Shouldn’t you be thinking of Boelie as well?” she asked.

  “So he can run off and marry the first bywoner girl who comes along and looks at him like a lovesick puppy?” Annabel asked bitterly. Lettie had no doubt she was referring to whatever had formed between him and Pérsomi all those years ago. “So she can inherit the Fourie millions? No thanks, I’m not that stupid.”

  Lettie looked at the beautiful woman sitting opposite her. Nelius was only four. Lientjie had just turned two. “Annabel, do you really think it’s best?”

  “Yes, Lettie,” Annabel said, elegantly easing her gloves back over her long fingers. “I’ve made up my mind.” She got up. “I just came to say good bye. For what it’s worth.”

  Just before Annabel reached the door, Lettie said, “Why did you really come here today? If you’d already made up your mind?”

  Annabel turned. For a moment she looked almost vulnerable. “Maybe I just wanted you to understand. You were the closest I ever had to a sister. And when we were young, your home was always my refuge. Your mom . . .”

  She shrugged, turned, and left the room without a backward glance.

  So Boelie raised his children alone, just as Lettie raised hers on her own.

  In January 1958, Leonora started school. Lettie did her best to prepare the child for what was waiting. “It’s not like Sunday school. There are many children,” she tried.

  “You’re going to like it. You’ll have lots of friends,” Isabella chipped in.

  But afterward Lettie drove to the surgery with a heavy heart. I left a very brave little girl at school this morning, Marco, surrounded by a crowd of inquisitive children.

  She didn’t cry. But this time I did.

  “The child is very musical,” Leonora’s teacher said at the end of the first school term. She was an older lady who had years of experience with small children. “Have you considered having her take music lessons?”

  “She’s very young,” Lettie said hesitantly.

  “She’s a bright child, Dr. Louw, and I think it would be stimulating. It would distract her. And it would be something she can do that other children can’t.”

  Lettie thought for a moment. “And if Isabella wants to take music as well?”

  “Isabella must be treated on her own merits. She has many talents, of which music is one. It should be developed, yes. Your husband was musical, if my memory serves me right?”

  Lettie smiled. “Yes, they get the music from Marco—definitely not from my side of the family!”

  So the search began for a good secondhand piano—something as rare as hens’ teeth, Lettie soon found out. The girls began to take lessons two afternoons a week. Leonora sat at the piano for hours, tinkling out tunes with two fingers. “Are you practicing your pieces or just playing tunes?” Lettie wanted to know.

  “No, Mommy, I’m practicing, ask Tannie Bes.”

  Do you know, Marco, the music is back in our home? Lettie said in one of her imaginary conversations. I took out your gramophone and records and showed the kids how it works. They love some of the records, especially the Neapolitan songs. After a while Isabella said, “It’s Papa’s music, I remember.”

  I was so glad she remembered.

  “Isabella punched a boy today. She knocked him out,” Leonora said one winter’s evening at supper.

  Lettie felt herself grow cold. “Isabella did . . . what?”

  “She punched a boy. His nose bled,” Leonora said, eating a large spoonful of soup.

  Words stuck in Lettie’s throat.

  She looked at Isabella. “He was asking for it,” the child said defiantly.

  “You . . . punched a boy?” Lettie asked, filled with disbelief.

  “Mommy,” Isabella said and pulled back her shoulders, “that boy is in my class and he’s a real bully. He pushed Leonora during break without any reason at all, and she fell. So I hit him.” Her lips were pursed in a severe expression.

  Dear Lord, give me wisdom, Lettie prayed. Her heart ached for her broken daughter who was pushed over on the playground. If she were there, she would probably also have wanted to punch the boy. “Couldn’t you just have talked to him?” she asked feebly.

  “So he and his friends could laugh at me?” Isabella asked, still defiant.

  Lettie shook her head. “No matter what the situation is, a girl should never raise her hand against someone else,” she said, frowning. “Anyway, who taught you to do that?”

  “Oom Boelie,” the child answered instantly. “He was showing Gerbrand, but then he said we girls, Anna and Lulani and I, must watch as well. You must be able to defend yourself, Oom Boelie said. Gerbrand says Oom Boelie was a very good boxer a long time ago.”

  Lettie shook her head in dismay. “Boxing is . . . a savage sport. And it’s only for men, definitely not for little girls.” She thought for a while before she spoke again. “Isabella, I understand that you were angry with the bully who pushed Leonora, but violence is never the answer. I never want to hear again that you raised your hand against another child. No matter what happens, you don’t hit other children. Is that clear?”

  There was an obstinate silence.

  “Isabella?”

  “Yes, Mommy, but—”

  “Isabella!”

  “Yes, Mommy, I understand.” The stubborn expression was still in her eyes.

  But it was not the end of the story. At lunch on the farm the next Sunday, with everyone gathered around the table, Anna spilled the beans. “At break on Tuesday a big boy pushed Leonora and she fell. Then Isabella punched his lights out,” she said loudly.

  “Wow!” De Wet and Boelie said simultaneously.

  “Lights out?” Boelie added.

  “His nose bled,” Leonora said smugly.

  “His nose bled?” Gerbrand asked, impressed.

  “We’ve already—” Lettie began. But no one was listening. Everyone’s attention was focused on Isabella.

  “He was asking for it,” Isabella said firmly.

  “Seems like it, yes,” said Boelie. “How did you do it?”

  “Quick left, straight right, go for the nose, just like you showed us, Oom Boelie,” Isabella said.

  “Wow!” said Gerbrand. With his right hand he made a fist and punched the palm of his left hand.

  “He fell flat on his back in the dust—oof!” Anna demonstrated, waving her fork in the air.

  “No, wait, Anna, you’re throwing your food around,” Christine protested.

  “I said—” Lettie tried again.

  “Well done!” Boelie exclaimed, holding out his hand. “Shake, Isabella!”

  “Boelie!” Lettie said, shocked. “This is completely wrong! I told Isabella it’s quite unacceptable for girls to resort to violence. Now here you are, praising her behavior?”

  The children’s eyes flashed from one grown-up to the other.

  “Moms and dads educate children in different ways,” Boelie said firmly. “I agree girls shouldn’t resort to violence. But even a girl, maybe especially a girl, should be able to defend herself.”

  He looked at the children and spoke earnestly. “Tannie Lettie is right, you should always try other ways to solve your differences first. But if nothing else works . . .”

  “Talking won’t work wi
th Willie,” Isabella said firmly.

  “I believe you. I’ve known a few boys like that in my time,” Boelie said. “But your mommy is right, Isabella, you’d better not hit a boy again.”

  “She won’t have to,” Anna said. “When Willie was lying on his back in the dust, lights-out, Isabella said, ‘If you tell the principal I hit you, I’ll tell him how you pushed my little sister on purpose.’ She told him! Just like that!”

  “Could Willie hear her when he was lying there . . . lights-out?” De Wet asked, amused.

  “He wasn’t completely lights-out, Daddy. He could still hear.” Anna put the matter to rest.

  Christine planned a surprise party for Boelie on the weekend of his fortieth birthday. Though it was Christine’s idea, Pérsomi ended up making all the arrangements. Planning had never been Christine’s strong suit, and Pérsomi seemed to want the job.

  The whole family was there. Klara and Antonio came from Pretoria for the weekend. Even Irene came all the way from Pietermaritzburg. And because Irene was there, Annabel’s brother, Reinier, came too.

  It turned into a lovely evening around the fire. When the meat came off the braai, the men put thick logs on the coals to make the flames flare up again. The kids played until they were exhausted and fell asleep in their mothers’ laps or at their feet. “I’ll fetch a few blankets, it’s getting cool,” Christine said.

  Boelie and Antonio fetched their guitars, and everyone joined in a spontaneous sing-along.

  Tonight she was missing Marco in a strange way. The pain was less intense, but she longed for his presence, wished he could share in the happiness of the moment.

  “Everyone sings so well,” Leonora said beside her.

  “Come sit in my lap,” Lettie said, “and we can sing too.”

  But after the next song the child looked at her with a smile. “You can’t really sing, Mommy,” she said, amused.

  “You little scamp,” Lettie said, laughing. “I know I don’t sing very well. You don’t have to tell me!”