Praise Song for the Butterflies. Bernice L. McFadden

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 Grandmother. “Well, I think that—”

      Grandmother slammed the spoon down onto the stove. “What do you think? 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