The Monster's Daughter (18 page)

“It's not the same.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You don't know what you're talking about, so just shut up before you wake
Pa
.”

Tessa clutched the pillow. She had been bursting to tell Flippie about Ben, but she was too angry now. Her mind flitted from one thing to the next, listening to him breathe in the dark. “They don't hate you, you know? The whites, I mean. They don't mix with black people. How can they hate you if they don't know you? I think what's really going on is that they're scared.”

“What are you talking about?” Flippie sat up in bed, pulling the covers open.

Tessa tugged at the sheets, drawing them over her against the cold. “There are a lot of black people, coloured people, Indians, you know? Many more than the whites. If you didn't know them, wouldn't you be scared?”

“I already am, Tess.” Flippie sighed. “Go to sleep now, please?”

Tessa turned over. Sounds and images overlapped into a haze of dreams, interrupted too soon by gray light creeping through the thin curtains, and a rooster announcing the day on a neighboring
plot
. Her body jerked alert at the click of a latch trying not to be heard. She realized that Flippie wasn't next to her anymore. She found him in the kitchen, his schoolbag open on the floor, his two good shirts folded neatly inside, a half bag of maize meal and dried fruit piled on top. His clothes looked too big for him, as if his suspenders were the only thing that kept his pants up. Tessa stood still in the doorway. He caught sight of her as he turned around, his expression immediately changing to a scowl.

“What do you want, Tessa?”

“What are you doing, Flippie?”

“Keep your voice down.” He tore a chunk of bread from a loaf on the table and tucked it away in his schoolbag, like a secret. Tessa noticed a small pouch with a check pattern. She had made the pouch for him in her second-grade sewing class. He always kept his best marbles in it.

“Are you going to look for work?”

“I'm leaving for a while.”

“Don't, Flippie.
Pa
will find you a good job. Just wait. You won't have to be a garden boy or a trash man.”

“It's not that simple, Tessa.” A distant hurt lodged behind Flippie's eyes. Tessa knew that it had been there for a long time, but it still surprised her, like when she sometimes realized for herself why something worked a certain way, even though her teacher had made her recite the lesson about it with the rest of the class many times before. It was all just words, until it connected with something real in her mind.

“Are you coming back?”

Flippie closed his bag. “I don't know.”

“I'm getting
Pa
.”

Flippie grabbed Tessa by the arm as she dashed for the door. He put his hand over her mouth when she tried to yell. The violent memory of a black hand over her face rushed at her, fear sour and irrational in her stomach. The eyes of the old man peered at her from Flippie's face, and she bit his hand.

“
Eina!
Dammit, Tessa.” Flippie looked at her in disbelief, slowly shaking his head. He grabbed his bag without a word, hesitating briefly at the back door before disappearing.

Tessa leaned against the wall, trying to catch her breath. She wasn't sure what exactly had happened. She marched to Andrew's room, a fist poised in the air, inches from the door, but it dropped to her side. She pressed her ear against the wood. No sound came from the room. She wouldn't bother him now, she thought. Andrew needed his sleep, and even if she did manage to stop Flippie, he'd just leave again another day. She went to her room and shut the door.

“Bennie?” The shrill voice drifted from the bedroom as soon as he walked into the apartment. Benjamin quickly locked the door behind him. The kitchen was dark, no smell of food to indicate that there would be a meal tonight. Headache-powder wrappers lay strewn on the floor. Cigarette butts spilled over the sides of a saucer perched on the armrest of a worn couch. A melancholic Afrikaans ballad blared
from the radio, too loud for the late hour. Benjamin turned it off, freezing the female voice mid-vowel.

“Bennie, where are you?”

The smell of camphor assaulted his senses as he opened the bedroom door. Twin beds with gray-white bedspreads stood against the wall, divided by a small nightstand covered in liniments and bottles of drops.
Matrone
Jansen's bony, shriveled figure lay in the twin bed closest to the door, her hair hidden under a scarf, a sliver of her parchment neck visible above the top button of her faded yellow nightdress. Benjamin opened the curtains and reached for the window catch.

“Don't.”

“A l-little f-fresh air?”

“You know my lungs don't like cold, son. I'll be up all night.”

Benjamin sat down on the empty bed, his hands folded together in his lap.

“You did not sleep in the room last night.”
Matrone
's words were an accusation, demanding a defense.

“I had h-homew-work. It was l-late. I didn't want to w-wake you.”

“The couch is not big enough. You have to sleep in here, with me.” She pushed herself into a sitting position with effort, pain distorting her face, and held out her hand, motioning him to come closer. “A good boy.”
Matrone
Jansen ran the back of her hand over his cheek. “Such a good boy.” Benjamin noticed a long cut running from her index finger across her palm, yellow pus drying on the edges. This had been happening a lot lately. More often than not, he'd come home and find that she had injured herself, a burn on her forearm, bruises from a fall in the tub.

“You h-hurt yourself?” He took her hand in his, trying to examine the cut.

She bristled. “Leave it.”

Benjamin's stomach rumbled. “Is there s-something t-to eat,
Matrone
?” His cheeks flushed.

Matrone
Jansen looked distraught, her eyes watery. “My hand made me forget to go to the pension office.” She pushed the cover aside and tried to get up. “I'll go now.”

“No,
M-Matrone
.” Benjamin stopped her. “It's n-night, see? They're closed. If you w-write a letter again, I can—”

“No!” She slapped him suddenly, a ringing noise starting in his left ear. “Devil. I know what you did last time. Thought I wouldn't notice two rand missing? I'll call the police.”

“No, p-please. I t-told you, I used it to buy b-bread.” Benjamin held her at arm's length, her hands clawing at his face. She had called the police before and accused him of stealing. They had taken him to the station. There was no court or jail for juveniles, only corporal punishment. And who would believe that he was a man if they saw his smooth cheeks and scrawny body? A constable he remembered, a brute who had barely graduated from high school the year before, whipped him with a
sjambok
until there were thick lines over his back and it hurt too much to go to school the next day.

“I won't let you do that again,” Benjamin said, his voice wavering.

Matrone
Jansen's face flushed crimson. “Honor thy father and mother, for anyone who curses his father or mother must be put to death.”

“No,
Matrone
. I'm a g-good b-boy, remember?”

Matrone
Jansen looked at him with unseeing eyes, something changing in her expression. She stopped suddenly as if remembering something and looked around the room, an embedded groove between her gray eyebrows. “Bennie? You're home?”

“Ja
,
M-Matrone.”

“My hand hurts. Why must it hurt?”

“God t-tests us in m-many ways,
Matrone
. We have to s-stay s-strong. B-believe. The sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us.” Benjamin recited. He knew that the familiarity of the words would calm her down, make her feel safe, even if they had lost real meaning.
Matrone
Jansen sank back onto the bed, confusion on her face.

“S-shall I rub salve on your h-hand?” Benjamin took her hand in his, uttering soothing sounds when she winced. He gently covered the open wound with the camphor before wrapping it in a bandage. He covered her with the blanket, hoping that tonight would be an easy night as he watched her head loll to one side.

“Don't go, Bennie.” She reached for him as he tried to steal away.

“I have to do h-homework,
Matrone
.”

“No. Sit a little while.” She looked like she would cry, her mood threatening to turn again.

Benjamin acquiesced, perching on the edge of her bed, taking her rough hands in his. As long as she needed him, as long as he could do something for her, he was wanted. Tessa's image danced before him, inescapable since the moment she had touched him. Maybe she would need him too. He dared to utter the thing on his mind. “D-do you think there are other people l-like m-me,
Matrone
?”

Matrone
's eyes stared glassily past him. He wondered if she had understood the question, or if she was willfully ignoring him. Some days she was better than others. When she spoke again, her lucidity surprised him. “There was a boy long ago. They brought him after the war, but he was a monster. Full of demons. You could feel it when you got close to him.” She lowered her voice. “Evil.” The word escaped in a whimper. “They called him Apie, the nurses. He cried so much. He had no hands, no ears, face all wrong. Horrible, horrible. But his eyes …”
Matrone
became lost in the memory, her hands drifting to Benjamin's face, caressing his cheek.

“What happened to him?”

“Don't bother yourself with him, Bennie. He was from the other place. Not like you. He couldn't stay here, see? He had to go back.” She looked around the room, confused, a smile forming on her cracked lips when she looked back at him. “My feet.” She said, meek as a schoolgirl. “They ache so much tonight.”

“Tell me about Apie,
Matrone
. Please.”

She shook her head. “My feet.”

Benjamin knew that was the end of it. His prodding would only make her obstinate. He opened the covers at the foot of the bed and gently removed her thick socks, revealing feet gnarled from arthritis and years of abuse.

“For the creation …”
Matrone
looked expectantly at him.

Benjamin nodded. “For the creation was subjected to futility …” Romans flowed from memory with ease, her favorite verse. He rubbed
Matrone
's feet, warming up the muscles, softening the knots. Her body relaxed, her jaw slack against the pillow. He lowered his voice. “The creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God.”

Benjamin allowed his mind to wander to Tessa. Beautiful Tessa. The thought of her made him feel strange, intense effervescent joy prickling his scalp when he remembered her eyes mirroring his longing. Her touch that afternoon had inexplicably changed him. A tightness inside him had let go. He willed his thoughts to the moment of her lips on his cheek, the sense memory vivid as the rose soap smell on her skin and the feel of her small breasts against his chest.
Matrone
's breathing morphed into a snore next to him, but he didn't notice. He replayed the moment again, as if it was a record, Tessa's arms around him, her lips on his cheek. As soon as the scene played itself out, Tessa turning away, he went all the way back to the beginning, to the moment of revelation, when she truly saw him.

Nobody had ever looked at him that way. The children at school dismissed him, didn't allow their thoughts to linger on him for more than a moment. Even the teachers kept their distance, sparing the rod unless there was no other way. When he was called to bend over, the punishment was disproportionate to the crime, a warning that he should keep his distance in the future, lest they were forced to deal with him again. Yes, he had suffered. He had wandered in the desert, alone and afraid always. But God rewards his faithful, Benjamin thought as he replayed the memory again. God rewards his chosen ones.

The dress itched. Tessa kept stepping on the hem. She didn't know how the
Voortrekker
women made it across the Drankensberg in these outfits. It would have been easier to do it naked. Even the
kappie
was like a tent on her head, threatening to blow away with the slightest breeze. She refastened the bow under her chin, tightening the knot until it was hard to move her jaw.

All along the newly named Eeufees Road, hundreds, maybe thousands of
kappies
and bearded men in felt hats lined up to see the procession. Their excitement sizzled like a dynamite fuse. They had flocked in from the farms and nearby towns, some following the wagons since they'd left Cape Town. A murmur went through the crowd,
erupting in cheers as the first wagon appeared, a speck in the distance, accompanied on both sides by costumed men on horseback. A second wagon followed. All around them women wept, while men bellowed, lifting their sons onto their shoulders.

Tessa caught a glimpse of the wagon through the forest of bodies. Young men in the brown
Voortrekker
uniforms were at the yoke, drawing the wagons. She turned to Ben, who had donned his own
Voortrekker
uniform for the occasion. “Why aren't there oxen?”

“To s-show Mr. P-prophet he can s-stuff it.” Ben raised his chin proudly.

Tessa thought of the unassuming mayor of Bloemfontein. “Why?”

“He's n-not an Afrikaner.” Ben said it as if it explained everything. He craned his neck. “He didn't w-want to s-support the celebrations. D-didn't w-want to change the s-street names or n-nothing.”

“What's that got to do with drawing a wagon?”

“The
t-trekkers
get n-new oxen at every t-town. Now the
Voortrekker
boys are pulling the wagon to show the m-mayor we d-don't need him.”