Chanda's Secrets Read Online Free

a monster!” she screamed. Sheheaved the water at him and bashed him over the head with the pail. He threw her across the room.
    â€œGo whore in the streets with your slut daughter!” he yelled, loud enough that the neighbors would hear. Then he grabbed our clothes and threw them out the windows.
    Mama stuffed them into a couple of plastic bags. She put Iris on a sling over her shoulder, took the bags in one hand and my hand in her other. “I curse you, Isaac Pheto,” she spat at him. “By all that is holy, I curse your name, and the bones of the ancestors who bore you.”
    The neighbor women were listening to the fight from inside their homes, but some of the men had come out for the show. Mama spiked them with a look. “What are you gawking at, misters?”
    She hiked her chin and together we strode down the street. As we were about to turn the corner, I felt the tears coming. “Don’t cry, Chanda,” Mama whispered calmly. “Never let them see you cry.”

    Mrs. Tafa took us in. Papa and her first husband had worked the same shift at the mine. They died together in the cave-in. But unlike Mama, Mrs. Tafa had luck. Her brother-in-law married her right after the funeral. He was a bricklayer with The United Construction Company. On his days off, he’d built a row of cement-block rooms on the far side of his yard, which he rented. We didn’t have any money left, but Mrs. Tafa said we could stay in one of the rooms until she found a paying boarder.
    â€œThank you,” Mama said, “but we won’t be needing charity. In exchange for the room, we can tend your garden, do your chores, and run errands.”
    Mrs. Tafa agreed.
    That night when Mr. Tafa got home from work, he drove Mama back to Isaac’s for the rest of our things. We’d left pots, pans, a few sheets and towels, and Iris’s toys. Mostly, though, Mama wanted the reminders of Papa and my brothers: their funeral programs and Papa’s hunting rifle. “That Isaac Pheto wasn’t so brave with your man around,” Mama told Mrs. Tafa. “He just hid in a corner and let me take what I came for.”
    Mr. and Mrs. Tafa didn’t have any children together, but they both had kids from their first marriages. The only one at home was Mrs. Tafa’s son Emmanuel. He was older than me, and very smart. I hardly ever saw him because he was always studying. Their other kids were all married and would bring their families over on birthdays and feast days, or just for fun.
    Whenever they had a celebration, the Tafas made sure that Mama and I were invited. I got to call them Auntie and Uncle.

    Next door to the Tafas was a kind old barber named Mr. Dube. He had rotten teeth, but he kept the smell down by gargling hair tonic.
    He cut people’s hair in an open shed at the side of the road. People came to him from all over the neighborhood, because he was such a great talker and kept his scissors sharp and his combs clean. He also had a set of clippers hooked up to a twelve-volt battery, and a radio so people could dance a bit if they were bored waiting in line.
    Mr. Dube was a widower with a house but no children. Mama was a widow with two children and not much else. It didn’t take long before he came courting. He wasn’t much to look at, but he said Mama’s name, “Lilian,” hushed and respectful, like it camefrom the Bible. And he owned his own place, so we wouldn’t have to worry about being on the street again. Mama accepted his proposal.
    After the wedding, he asked me to call him Papa. I said thank you, but I couldn’t, on account of Papa’s memory. He smiled gently and said he understood, that “Mr. Dube” would be fine.
    My half-brother Solomon, “Soly,” was born a year later. He was cute as a dimple. Still is. While I went to school, Mama looked after Iris and Soly while Mr. Dube cut hair and entertained the customers. In the