Dance Lest We All Fall Down - Margaret Willson [52]
Of all my friends in Brazil who were not from middle-class families, only Rita had continued school beyond grade six. The capoeira teacher managed first grade. Jorge, by going to night school, was, at age twenty-five, in grade six. Gato said he had finished grade five. According to official statistics, the majority of African-Brazilians in the northeast of Brazil were illiterate. Children began very young to contribute to a family’s survival, and even if parents sacrificed the children’s potential income, bus fare and school materials were luxuries that families who often did not have enough money for food could seldom afford.
This year, Gato said, Renata would finish all the schooling available to her in their small town. On all the visits I had made to Gato’s family since his run-in with the sheriff, Renata was always studying: Reading after she’d fetched the water from the well, writing after she’d laid the washing in the sun to dry, doing her math in a tattered notebook as she sat beside the dusty track in front of their home. She used each notebook again and again, doing her assignments, and then carefully erasing them.
She always said she wanted to go to university, and each year I expected to hear that she had given up, that a boyfriend had convinced her to get married or that she had gone to work as a maid in some middle-class household. But so far, this had not happened. Over the five years I had known this family, Renata’s will had continued, a flame that refused to be extinguished.
I asked Gato what she planned to do.
“She’s going to Feira de Santana,” Gato said. The nearest high school of reasonable quality was in Ferra Santana, a city about two hours away.
“How can you pay for that? Where will she stay?”
“She’ll stay with an aunt. No, we don’t have money.” He laughed. “She says she’s going anyway.”
In the midst of this—or some other—rumination, I thought I heard Rita’s door open. Perhaps it’s a robber, I thought. They could kill me and save me the torture of dying of thirst.
Then, through blurred vision, I thought I saw Rita’s face. It disappeared just as quickly. Oh well, I thought, as consciousness slipped away again. Hallucinations.
Some time later I awoke to feel someone tugging on my arm. Pain shot through me. I yelled and opened my eyes. Cecilia, Edilson, and Rita stood around me.
“Come on,” Cecilia said. “Let me help you up.”
“I’m sorry to call you so late,” Rita said. “You were the only people I could think of who had a car.”
“Of course you should have called,” Edilson said. “I’ve already called the hospital and told them to expect us.”
I tried to turn my head to look at Rita as she supported me with her arms around my waist. “Why are you here?” I struggled to shape the words. “You’re supposed to be gone.”
“Don’t try to talk,” Rita snapped. Then she spoke in a softer voice. “I had a feeling something was wrong, so I caught a late bus back this evening.”
I said nothing. I hung like a corpse between Rita and Edilson. Among the confusing shadows, I kept thinking about the strange eddies that make up survival.
“Where’s your key, Rita?” Cecilia asked. She opened the door for us. “I’ll lock up behind you. And make sure she doesn’t trip on the steps.”
At the hospital, a doctor injected me with something. Cecilia passed them my credit card. I fell asleep and woke up again at Rita’s. I still couldn’t get up, but I could eat if Rita helped me. She said I could only eat certain foods, and she made me drink disgusting tea. She said it was medicinal. My eyes throbbed, and I lay for days with a cloth over them. Rita dosed me with very strong Tylenol, the only thing that apparently works to lower the fever. After about a week, the “healing” itching began, and I writhed on my mat on the floor in irritated agony.
“You are a terrible patient,” Rita told me, forcing yet more tea down my throat. After about two weeks, I was reasonably recovered enough to make my debut back on the street. Nobody seemed to notice