No sir, I did not. Those particular books were not put in my charge.
The minister eyed him warily. The truth will be revealed, he warned, and then dismissed Wasik from the room.
“Did you hear me, Wasik?” Ismae whispered, her lips close to his ear. Her warm breath fanned across his cheek. Wasik turned and peered into her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Ismae,” he murmured, bringing her hand to his lips. “I was thinking about something. What did you say?” He kissed her fingers.
Ismae grinned. “I said to stop worrying yourself about your mother, everything is going to be just fine.”
“Of course it will,” Wasik said, pushing Ismae down onto the bed.
5
One day, a few weeks after Grandmother arrived, Ismae came wobbling into the house supported by her husband and a pair of crutches.
Grandmother spat, “That is what happens when you wear those awful high-heeled shoes.”
Ismae ignored the comment. “It was the silliest thing,” she stammered. “I go up and down those steps at least once a week. How I missed the last step, I don’t know. Thank God I wasn’t carrying Agwe!”
Wasik helped Ismae onto the couch and placed a pillow beneath her injured ankle.
Grandmother studied the cast. “How long will you have that thing on your leg?” she asked, running her finger across the hardened plaster.
“The doctor said six weeks.”
“Six weeks?” Grandmother responded with a huff.
“Yes.”
Grandmother shrugged, turned, and walked into the kitchen grumbling about high-heeled shoes and tight skirts.
Ismae thought how helpful it would be to have Bembe there during her time of need. But the poor girl had crumbled under Grandmother’s tyrannical reign, and had found employment elsewhere.
One afternoon during the second week of Ismae’s convalescence, she was sitting on the couch flipping through a magazine when Wasik arrived home early from work.
Ismae gazed at her husband’s wan and worried face. “What is it? What has happened, Wasik?”
He dropped his briefcase on the floor, went to the glass tray of liquor, and reached for the bottle of schnapps. “They have suspended me,” he squeaked.
Ismae tossed the magazine aside. “Did you say suspended?”
Wasik took a gulp of the schnapps, swallowed, and nodded.
“But why?”
“They think I have something to do with the money that was stolen.”
Ismae already knew about the theft, because news of it had reached the papers. Even as the reports gained momentum, however, Wasik had kept the fact that he was being investigated a secret from her. But now the truth was out in the open.
“That’s ridiculous. You’ve been working at the treasury department for years, and not a cendi has ever gone unaccounted for.”
Wasik drained his glass and poured another. When he’d emptied the glass a second time, he brought it close to his face and peered at the empty bottom as if his life had fallen down into it.
“How long will you be suspended?”
“Until the investigation is complete and they find me innocent.”
“And how long will that take?” Panic pealed like bells in Ismae’s voice.
The schnapps circulated quickly through Wasik’s bloodstream, raising his body temperature, burning away the worry. He poured a third drink. “I don’t know,” he replied dryly.
“What will we do for money?”
Wasik swirled the liquid round and round in the glass. His head felt as light as a leaf. He sighed. “I will still be receiving some of my salary.”
“Some?”
“Half.”
“Half? We can’t live on half!”
Wasik downed the drink, reached for the bottle a fourth time, but thought better of it when Ismae cried, “Wasik, for goodness sakes!”
“We have our savings,” he mumbled, “but I can’t imagine this investigation will go on long enough for us to have to dip into it.”
Ismae let out a bitter laugh. “Have you forgotten where you live? This is Ukemby. What might take a few weeks in other countries can take months or even years here.” She shifted uncomfortably on the couch and then timidly added, “I could go back to work.”
Wasik made a face and pointed a long finger at her cast.
“It’ll be off soon.”
He shook his head. “No, you need to be here with the baby. Don’t worry.”
In the kitchen, Grandmother tiptoed away from the doorway where she had been eavesdropping, went to the stove, and turned the burner on under the pot of cold stew.
* * *
Days later, Agwe developed a cough, followed by a fever that raised boils the size of quail eggs all over his body. Wasik took him to the pediatrician, who prescribed a salve and antibiotics.
The fever broke the next day, but the boils remained.
Grandmother did not trust doctors or their medicine, so she went to the market and bought herbs, which she then pounded into a paste and put in a pot of boiling water. The concoction produced a stench so strong it could be smelled for blocks.
Ismae appeared at the doorway of the kitchen with her hand pressed over her nose and mouth, speaking through the slats of her fingers: “What is that?”
“Medicine for the child.”
“Bush medicine?”
“What else would it be?”
Ismae hobbled over and stared into the pot. “Is he to drink that?”
“No, it is for him to wash in.”
Ismae backed away from the bubbling mixture, went to the window, and flung it open.
“I-I,” Ismae began respectfully, “I don’t think this is a good idea. The medicine the doctor prescribed will start to work very soon, so . . .” Her words dropped away under Grandmother’s icy gaze.
“You trust some doctor’s medicine over that of your own kind?”
Ismae blinked. “Own kind?” Dr. Lama was black and African just like her. Just like
