Tell me, Ismae.”
Grandmother had never before used that hard and brittle tone with Ismae and it rattled her. The blood drained from her face, her lips continued to flap, but no words came from her mouth. Finally, wounded, she retreated to her bedroom, took an aspirin for the throbbing headache the encounter had brought on, and soon fell fast asleep.
Hours later, she was startled awake by Agwe’s terrified screams. For a few moments Ismae floundered helplessly in and out of sleep, unable to decipher whether or not she was dreaming. When it became clear that Agwe was in peril, she jumped from the bed and landed on her wounded ankle. The pain shot up her leg and exploded behind her eyes. She fell back on the bed, cradling her foot.
Agwe’s wails came again, cresting like waves. Ismae hurriedly reached for her crutches and hobbled out of the bedroom.
“Mama! Mama, what are you doing?” Ismae screamed as she entered the bathroom.
Grandmother had Agwe in the bathtub, one meaty arm wrapped tight around his squirming body. The other hand clutched a sponge dripping with the concoction she’d brewed. She dragged the sponge over the boils on Agwe’s shoulders, creating a seeping trail of ruptured flesh.
The baby boy screamed again, his howls bouncing off the tiled walls like Ping-Pong balls.
Ismae lumbered forward, throwing herself at Grandmother, who was shorter than her, but wider and stronger. The old woman barely shuddered when Ismae’s body slammed into hers.
She caught hold of Grandmother’s wrists and tried to twist the hand holding the sponge away from Agwe, but Ismae’s own hand slipped and slid on Grandmother’s wet flesh. Grandmother shoved her aside, plunged the sponge into the pot of bush medicine, and prepared to swipe it over Agwe’s head.
Ismae righted herself, ignored the fresh wave of pain erupting in her ankle, and lunged at Grandmother a second time, sinking her fingernails into the fleshy underside of her arm. The old woman bellowed in agony and surprise before she toppled off the stool and hit the floor with a thump.
When Wasik arrived home from his hearing at the treasury department, Grandmother was seated on the veranda, solemnly plucking the feathers from the body of a decapitated fowl.
“Mama,” Wasik said in a tired voice, “I’ve asked you a hundred times not to do this on the front veranda. If you must buy and kill live fowl, you can clean it in the backyard.”
Grandmother raised her head; her lips were pressed into a thin, angry line.
“What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Wasik asked half-heartedly. He had come to terms with his mother’s incessant discontent. It seemed that nothing could please her. So he no longer tried. He simply accepted his role as a sounding board for her daily complaints. He just needed a glass or two of schnapps to get through it.
“Wait, don’t tell me,” he said, raising his hand. “Let me get a drink first.”
“Your wife hit me,” she blurted out before he could take a step.
Wasik was sure he’d heard wrong. He set his briefcase down on the empty chair next to his mother. “Sorry?” he offered as he loosened the knot in his tie.
Grandmother flung her arm out at him, revealing the torn flesh. An astonished Wasik gazed stupidly at the gaping wound.
“Ismae did this?”
“Yes,” Grandmother snapped.
Wasik’s life was bad enough. The officials at the ministry of finance claimed to have incriminating evidence as well as an eyewitness who could confirm Wasik’s involvement in the theft. When he asked to see the proof and the name of the eyewitness, the officials denied both requests. Instead, they’d thrust an affidavit under his nose and demanded he sign it. We can make this go away for you, Kata. No prosecution and no jail time, just dismissal.
Wasik quickly understood that they didn’t have anything on him, but were looking for a scapegoat to take the fall. Talk was, they’d discovered that the real coconspirator was related to the prime minister and thus virtually untouchable.
Wasik knew if he signed the document he would destroy his career and his reputation. He shoved the paper away, excused himself from the meeting, and went straight to an attorney to whom he paid a 10,000-cendi retainer—a quarter of what was in their savings account. And just when he thought the day, his life, couldn’t get any worse, he’d come home to find that his wife had assaulted his mother.
Wasik left Grandmother on the veranda and stormed into the house. Abeo was seated at the dining room table immersed in her homework. Her head bounced up when he entered the room.
“Hi, Papa,” she chimed.
Wasik forced a smile. “Hello, my beautiful daughter.” He’d greeted Abeo this way every day of her life. But this time the words were strained. If Abeo noticed, she didn’t react.
“Did you have a good day, Papa?”
Wasik glanced at the wall that separated the dining room from the master bedroom. “I did.”
“I think Mama and Agwe are taking a nap. I haven’t seen them since I got home from school.”
Wasik’s face flushed with relief. He was glad that Abeo hadn’t been there for all of the ugliness between Ismae and his mother. He bent over and planted a kiss on the top of Abeo’s head. “Yes, Mommy is very tired,” he said, before asking, “So, did you learn a lot in school today?”
“Oh yes.” Abeo leaned over to retrieve her book bag, but when she was erect again, Wasik was already walking out of the dining room.
The bedroom door was closed and locked. Wasik knocked, and when Ismae did not immediately respond, he knocked louder.
“Ismae, open this door now,” he hissed. “Do you want Abeo to see us behaving in such a way?”
The lock clicked open and Wasik charged in. Ismae was seated on the edge of the bed, her hair splayed about her head like a madwoman. Her eyes were red from crying. Agwe was sound asleep, naked save for a diaper.
“What have you done?”
“What have I done? What have I done?” Ismae screeched. “Look, look at your son’s skin. Look at it!”
Wasik gazed down at the gaping purple craters on Agwe’s body. Before he could catch the words, they flew out of his mouth: “They look like they’re healing. Isn’t this what we wanted—”
Ismae hurled one of her crutches at him. It clipped his chin and clattered to the floor.
“I-Ismae!” Wasik cried, backing away from her.
Never once in all the years they’d been married had their disagreements turned physical. In fact, Ismae was as nonviolent as they came. Yet here she was, somehow transformed into a ball of ferocity, committing two acts of violence in one short day.
Wasik didn’t know what evil had swooped down on his life, or what devil had taken possession of his wife; what he did know was that he needed this bad luck and bad behavior to come to an end.
He bent over, calmly retrieved the crutch,
