Bom Boy Page 4

Remembering the day detail by detail she fingered the photograph, studying it.

  ‘Come on E, I want some pictures of you pregnant. Stay still. Drop your hands.’

  Feeling caught, Elaine had leaned against the wall in Oscar's small apartment. She'd just gotten in from work and still had her coat on.

  ‘Relax. Talk to me, how was work?’

  ‘Fine,’ she'd blurted, ‘My feet are killing me.’

  ‘There,’ Oscar had lowered the camera and let it hang from his neck. ‘Painless.’

  Relieved, she'd walked past his work desk sat in the unusually fat Victorian hallway, into the kitchen and flipped on the kettle. Instinctively her eyes went up to the electricity box. She laughed at herself. She'd moved in a few months already but couldn't get used to it: ample electricity; good water pressure; hot water in the taps. And then there was Oscar's habit of throwing two rand coins into a small cup by the front door – when had she ever had two rand coins to leave lying around in a cup?

  ‘What are you going to do with them?’ she'd asked.

  ‘I don't know. Just don't want them bulging up my wallet.’

  The kettle clicked and Elaine pulled her favourite mug from the pile of wet dishes, adding a flush of cold water to cool down the rooibos. As she walked back into the hallway she saw Oscar, head down, scribbling. Fuzzy sunlight from the sandblasted glass of the front door lit up the space making his forehead shine.

  ‘What are you writing?’

  ‘Trying to get some work done. Can't stand just waiting around, doing nothing.’

  Elaine rested her back against the wall, surrendering to the warmth from the mug moving through her fingers, the skin on her arms and all the way along her neck.

  The trial was due to start in a week.

  ‘What a mess,’ Oscar sounded tired.

  ‘But you didn't do it. You’re innocent!’

  ‘Not the way the police see it.’

  The police had arrived to find Oscar seated in the downstairs living room and four old people standing around him – three men and a woman.

  The policemen entered the room and the woman had immediately started explaining what she'd seen.

  The shorter of the two policemen had listened while his partner handcuffed Oscar.

  ‘Malcolm called to say he'd jump in the shower and then join me and the boys,’ she twirled her pearls as she spoke, slanting her head towards the three geriatrics standing beside her. We play poker today,’ her eyes were blank. We waited a bit then we started and then when he still didn't come I came through. Then I–’ here she stopped and one of the old men took her hand. ‘I saw this…I saw him standing over Malcolm. He was dead.’

  ‘How did you know he was dead Ma'am?’

  ‘He wasn't moving. He was still, frozen. His eyes were open but–’ she shook her head.

  ‘Would you be prepared to come down to the station and make a statement?’

  She'd nodded.

  Oscar was led through the house out towards the police car. He felt numb, had she been talking about him? Had she been describing something he'd done?

  The policeman put his hand on Oscar's head as he ducked him into the backseat.

  If he had actually done something then it had been a last act, a final form of defiance against the tyranny of a life-long curse. Maybe finally spilled blood would W1pe clean a stain that had haunted his life as well as his father's life. Oscar couldn't tell for sure yet if it actually would.

  ‘Do you think he planned it this way? Do you think Malcolm Feathers is laughing from the grave?’

  ‘He can't laugh anymore, E. He's dead.’

  ‘I'm worried Oscar.’

  ‘Look, the trial starts Monday. It'll blow over, I'm sure it will. It was just an accident.’

  ‘Doesn't look good though.’

  ‘Don't worry about it. Come.’

  She stayed leaning against the wall and Oscar walked over and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘What time Monday?’

  ‘Doesn't matter, I don't want you there anyway. At the trial. And also I want you to stop working.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have enough saved up.’

  ‘I don't need your money, Oscar.’

  ‘You’re carrying my son, Elaine. I want you to relax, let me take care of you. You’re on your feet all day tallying up groceries, come on.’

  It wasn't the first time Oscar had pleaded with her. She'd interviewed for the Haddad's job behind his back after the news of the murder broke and the cleaning company fired her for what they called misconduct; engaging in private activity during working hours. Oscar had argued that she didn't need to work but she'd insisted.

  ‘I can manage. I've always managed without anyone's help,’ she bit her lip, why couldn't she just say thank you?

  I'm just saying you’re with me now, E. You don't have to stress anymore. Let me help where I can.’

  What about the legal bills?’

  ‘Let me worry about that.’

  Elaine shook her head but said nothing. She went into the kitchen to wash her mug. She wished she could relax, he didn't mean anything by it, but when he spoke to her about money she could hear the children cackling in school when she came barefoot. Or on civvies day, she usually wore her school uniform and pretended she'd forgotten. Once, her mother made a short dress from an old bedspread. The laughter at her home-made dress was brazen but when she'd looked around no one made eye contact.

  Leaving the kitchen she walked past Oscar towards the bedroom.

  ‘I'm going to have a nap,’ she said and closed the bedroom door behind her.

  She couldn't get used to the family of blankets Oscar piled onto the queen sized bed.

  ‘I'm from Nigeria,’ he'd say, his standard statement meant to explain away most of her queries.

  She was trying to remember all the names of the children in her class, particularly the ones who had tormented her the most, when she felt Oscar's warm fingers on the back of her neck. He spread his hands along her shoulders, over the strap of her nightgown and massaged her skin. The mean faces and harsh voices of Elaine's past disappeared. She lay still, her mouth softened.

  Elaine put the photograph back down and looked at herself in the broken mirror on the cupboard door.

  She touched her face, her fingers lingering over the scars along her jaw and neck. Mostly, she didn't notice them anymore, she'd learnt to skip them. But occasionally she looked, taking everything in, including the memory of the pain. Even though he was dead, Malcolm Feathers still frightened her. She didn't have nightmares and she seldom thought about him anymore but sometimes, when she turned her head to the side, she thought she smelled him, sometimes she thought she felt his skin on her body, his touch.

  She blinked and then closed her eyes for a few seconds before turning her attention to her hair, short was easy to manage. Her mother had always pointed out that she'd inherited her good skin. Pale and freckled seemed to be, at least to her mother, an attractive option. From her face her eyes moved downwards, she cupped her breasts which had swollen in the last few months.

  She'd never been able to answer the question for herself, whether she was beautiful or not. Even when Oscar complimented her she suspected he was lying. At five feet she was diminutive and often had to shop for clothes in the children's section.

  Elaine looked again at the photograph then slipped it into the envelope.

  It must have rained in the night but despite a restless sleep she had not heard it. Her stomach churned as she walked along the mam road towards the post office, careful to avoid the puddles from the storm. The light was grey, the sun's brightness tempered by the low slung clouds. The air smelled of rubber and dirt as well as the soft smell of fallen rain. At a corner on a skinny road off Main a short man was arranging a table of fruit. She bought an orange and, squeezing it, bit a hole in the top and sucked on it.

  The steps into the post office were slippery and Elaine leaned on the railing for support. Inside s
he joined the queue.

  ‘Next,’ the woman behind the counter already looked tired.

  There were only two functioning tellers, all the other windows had “closed” signs on them.

  ‘Good morning,’ Elaine said. ‘I'd like to buy stamps please.’

  The postal worker had on thick glasses, she tapped the table top, indicating the slat in the glass partition and Elaine pushed her letter through, noticing the woman eyeing her belly.

  ‘Joubert Prison?’ A raised eyebrow.

  ‘Yes,’ subconsciously Elaine's neck stiffened and her nose rose up in the air. She imagined a murmur ripple through the small post office, through the line standing behind her. She paid the money. Collecting the stamps she turned and bumped into the woman behind her, standing up close.

  ‘Oops! Sorry about that,’ the woman bent to collect the letter that had fallen in the collision. ‘You okay?’

  ‘I'm fine, thank you.’

  ‘Wow, how far along are you?’

  Elaine noticed the watery light blue eyes.

  ‘Just under a month to go,’ they traded smiles.

  Someone in the queue cleared their throat and the woman went on to the counter.

  Elaine stood at one of the closed counters and began licking the stamps. On visits to the post office her grandmother would let her lick the stamps, as a little girl she wondered why they put sugar on the back of stamps. To make the letter happier? To make it more special? Some stamps were sweeter than others, she got good at knowing which would taste like what. Much later her grandmother told her about a neighbour who collected stamps, she couldn't quite imagine it. She never got the image out of her head, of an old man keeping stamps in a box, taking them out every few months, to lick them and taste them.

  As Elaine walked out of the post office something stabbed at her insides forcing her to stop and grab hold of the edge of the door. She heard a sound, and realised it was coming from her own mouth – a low wail as she exhaled.

  A giant claw was yanking at what she had within her. She panicked realising she still had not made the call to her doctor. She felt as if her body was fighting her as the claw, with talons, started picking away at her intestines. Then nothing.

  ‘I'm fine,’ as she spoke a flow of liquid began slipping from between her legs. She looked down to see a clear puddle at her feet.

  ‘That's your waters breaking, lady,’ the postal worker had left her seat.

  He's coming Elaine thought. Almost a month early, but he's coming.

  ‘Where's your husband?’ the postal worker asked as another contraction simmered.

  When Elaine didn't respond she changed her question, ‘Which hospital are you at?’

  ‘Constantiaberg,’ it was an expensive private hospital. Oscar's colleague, Prof. Davis, had made the arrangements.

  ‘Anyone you can call?’

  Elaine shook her head.

  ‘I'll take her,’ it was the woman who'd asked when the due date was.

  Her long blonde hair was pulled back off her face which was flushed pink and she wrung her hands like drying a wet towel, her gold bangles jingling as she did so.

  ‘Who’re you?’

  ‘No one. But if she needs a ride I'll take her.’

  ‘Thank you. Yes, please I need a ride,’ said Elaine.

  ‘Well I guess it's better than putting you on a bus. Okay lady go get the car, I'll wait here,’ the postal worker stood by Elaine who was bent over, holding onto the edge of the counter and breathing deeply as another contraction engulfed her.

  The disrupted queue remade itself and business continued as usual.

  On the drive to Constantiaberg hospital Elaine felt as though she was asleep although she knew she wasn't. She felt in a trance. The woman spoke all the way through but Elaine only heard her in segments – a radio wave in and out of signal.

  Six hours later, with a final intense burning sensation, in a sudden stream of slime and blood, he slipped out.

  ‘What is it?’ the midwife asked Elaine, holding the baby up to her.

  ‘A boy!’

  The midwife laid him on her belly and he wriggled around, watching Elaine with an intense stare.

  ‘You’re here!’ she said. Then softer, ‘Hey you, you’re here.’

  She'd carried him and understood the biology involved but his presence in the room seemed miraculous, not logical, her body went light, she caressed his back, his legs, his feet.

  The lady from the post office touched her shoulder, Elaine looked up at her smiling and then back down at the baby in her arms. The nurse had cleaned him and swathed him in a white flannel blanket. A smaller towel covered his head and stringy curls escaped at his temples. His eyes were closed and his forehead crinkled so it looked as if the thirty-minutes-old baby was frowning. Elaine ran her fingers along the soft hairy skin on his face.

  ‘So tiny,’ she said, her arms were tired and her body ached. She kissed the wrinkled forehead, and held him to her bosom.

  ‘Thank you,’ Elaine said, looking up at the woman who'd driven her to hospital. She'd been there through the whole thing, holding her hand with the final push.

  ‘Next to you I did nothing.’

  ‘I don't even know your name.’

  ‘Jane.’

  ‘I don't know how to thank you, Jane.’

  ‘You pushed him out. You did it – surely that's thanks enough. He looks nothing like you by the way!’

  Jane had been surprised to see a brown slippery body coming out of Elaine's white one.

  Elaine smiled and kissed her baby.

  ‘He is beautiful,’ Jane said. ‘How’re you feeling?’

  ‘Sore. But happy.’

  ‘I need to be getting home. I left my number on the table. Don't think twice, just call me if you need anything,’ she reached across and squeezed Elaine's wrist.

  ‘Thank you,’ Elaine watched as Jane left the room. The kindness she showed was the cleanest Elaine had ever seen, next to Oscar's. There was no pity, only warmth.

  Elaine waited for Oscar's call. He would call soon, she knew. And then she'd tell him.

  ‘Your son looks just like you.’

  He was silent.

  ‘I wanted to be there.’

  ‘You were.’

  ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I'm fine. We’re both fine.’

  ‘What's he doing now?’

  ‘Frowning,’ she laughed. ‘He looks like he knows so much.’

  Later, in her dream, she was on a bus and her stomach was cramping. Everything was dark but she knew there were other people on the bus with her. Suddenly she got up and asked the driver to stop. Outside there was a tree with a wide trunk. She climbed and settled herself in the branches, she lay back and spread her legs. The surges of pain came and receded. She could hear drumming, the pain intensified and then stopped for good. Her legs spread wide, a small head, spindly feet and wet feathers inched out of her vagina. She looked down and it looked up towards her.

  ‘I knew it was you,’ the strange bird said to her.

  As it spread its wings Elaine shielded her eyes from the fierce yellow light.

  Elaine stayed in hospital one extra day with the baby. He'd caught jaundice and his eyes were bandaged while he was placed beneath a bright lamp that Elaine worried would scorch his skin. Oscar called again.

  ‘It's perfectly normal. I've heard of that happening, he'll be fine.’

  Elaine told him her dream.

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘What? Is it good?’

  ‘He recognised you. He chose you, so he is where he belongs – no mistake has happened.’

  Elaine nodded – she'd not thought about it that way.

  ‘But he flies away so maybe he'll leave us.’

  ‘Don't talk like that, Oscar.’

  ‘Come on, E. It's a good thing. Children are supposed to leave their parents. To have better lives. Easier lives.’

  ‘I just don't want any sadness around him. I want happy s
tories.’

  ‘Yes. My father used to tell me stories – not all of them were happy, but still they made me feel safe. And he used to sing to me.’

  ‘What do we call him?’ Elaine asked.

  ‘Well, should we base his name on the circumstance or base it on a hope – like a prayer?’

  ‘Hope.’

  Oscar was silent.

  ‘Oscar?’

  He sighed, then, ‘Look, I'm sorry it's happened like this, Elaine. I shouldn't have–’

  ‘Don't say it. This is how it has happened – this is our son, this has to be right.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Now, what do we call him?’

  ‘I'm thinking of your dream of the bird.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Lekeleke gbami leke–’

  ‘What's that?’

  ‘A song I learnt in primary school on the playing fields. Whenever we saw these white birds – must have been doves or swans – flying across the sky we'd stop whatever we were doing – even if someone was about to score a goal – and wave at them.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Lekeleke gba m leke

  Eye adaba gba mi leke

  White swan, help me

  Dove, help me.’

  ‘Help you with what?’

  ‘Good luck. We'd wave and then we'd look at our fingernails for white flecks that weren't there before we waved – if we found flecks it meant the birds in flight had answered us.’

  Elaine smiled. ‘It's cute.’

  ‘Leke.’

  ‘Leke,’ Elaine said then frowned. ‘Is that right? I can't mispronounce my own son's name.’

  ‘Leke. Lay-kay.’

  ‘Lay-kay So, does it mean “bird”?’

  ‘No, that's just the song! The full name is Ifaleke. Ifa – the creator – is the victor.’

  Elaine drifted into a half-sleep, her mind aware of her new baby next to her, his soft breathing. She felt weighed down by an invisible mass; her stomach ached and in between her legs was a throbbing sensation as though blood was gushing but her clothes were dry. The nurse woke her up to feed the baby and he fell asleep at her breast. The nurse must have come back and cleaned and burped him because when she woke up again it was dark outside and Leke had been laid in the crib, sleeping.