Free Chanda's Secrets by Allan Stratton Page B

more? Did she think I didn’t love her? Did she think I didn’t care? Is that why she died? Is it my fault? My brain cramps so bad I want to rip off the top of my head. That’s when I get up and sit beside Mama.
    The first time I did it, the night after the funeral, she was awake too, in her rocking chair. “Go back to bed,” she said. “You’ll feel better if you get a good night’s sleep.”
    â€œSo why don’t you go back to bed?” I asked.
    â€œI’m waiting up for Jonah.”
    â€œWhat makes you think he’s coming?”
    â€œDon’t talk that way.”
    â€œWhat way?”
    â€œYou know what way.”
    I didn’t say another word. I’d guessed right, though. Jonahdidn’t show up that night or the night after. In fact, the whole first month after the funeral he only came by three times. Each time he was so drunk I think he stumbled here by accident. Mama never asked where he’d been—I doubt if he could have remembered—she just aimed him for the bedroom.
    Sometimes I’d see him when I was out doing errands. He’d be tossing dice on a corner sidewalk or face down in a gutter. I always ignored him. Even if Mama missed him, I was glad we were rid of his stink.
    The last time I saw him was different. I’d traded our eggs and vegetables for some milk and sugar at Mister Happy’s food stand and was heading back by the rail lands. Along the road there’s a chain-link fence with barbed wire on top to keep out trespassers. It doesn’t work, though; people just crawl underneath. They sneak into the boxcars on the side rails for sex. Every so often cops clear the place, but an hour later the traffic’s back.
    At any rate, I was near my turnoff when I saw Jonah, his arm draped over Mary’s shoulder, heading to one of the trains. It was one thing seeing them drunk together at the shebeen. But to be shaming Mama out in public—No!
    I scrambled under the fence. “Hold it right there!”
    When they saw me coming, they tried to hide their heads and change direction. Only they didn’t know where to turn. Their legs got tangled. They collapsed in a heap.
    I lit into Jonah like a jackal. “Listen, you. If you want to leave my mama, go right ahead. But at least have the guts to tell her first.”
    â€œDon’t talk to your step-papa like that!” Mary sputtered.
    â€œI’ll talk to him any damn way I please,” I said. I whirled back on Jonah. “You think you can just walk away. All Mama’squestions—her whys—the hurts from not knowing—none of that bothers you, you piece of dung.”
    â€œYou have your nerve, girl,” Jonah quivered.
    â€œI have nerve? You step out with your slut in broad daylight and I have nerve? Papa wouldn’t have left Mama—not ever—but if he had, he wouldn’t have disappeared like she never mattered. That’s the difference between him and you. Papa was a man. You’re a pig.”
    â€œI don’t have to listen to this!” he hollered. “I do what I want.”
    â€œHah! You do what your prick wants!” I gave him the finger and strode off, embarrassed to death at what I’d just done.
    Like I said, that was the last time I saw him. In fact, it’s the last time anyone saw him. He’s disappeared for real. Even Mary doesn’t know where he is. I think we’d have heard if he’d turned up dead, so I guess he’s alive. Maybe he’s at his family’s cattle post, or hustling booze at some squat out of town. Who knows?
    There’s rumors, though. A week after he disappeared, Mama and I were in the yard hanging laundry.
    â€œWhere’s that man of yours been hiding himself?” Mrs. Tafa called over the hedge. Her voice was all honey—sticky for dirt. She’s queen of the scab-pickers, that one.
    â€œOh he’s busy at this and that,” Mama