Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight_ An African Childhood - Alexandra Fuller [28]
“I’ve never seen a dog drink tea,” says Elephant Bottom.
Mum fixes the man with cold surprise. “How extraordinary,” she says.
The missionaries wilt.
Mum finishes her tea. “Anyone for a second cup?”
The missionaries smile, shake their heads. The blond one clears his throat. He is starting to squirm on the sofa, like dogs when they’re rubbing worms out of their bum on a rug, or on the furniture, which we call sailing. “Oh, look, Mum, Shea’s sailing!” And Mum says, “I’ll have to worm the whole lot of them again.” The Elephant Bottom starts to writhe, too. They put down their cups of tea, disburden themselves of their pecked-at salty-cucumber bread, and stand up, as if to leave. Already. I am disappointed. I was hoping for battle. I was hoping to see these two men fight the good fight.
“Well, thank you . . .” says Elephant Bottom, and makes for the door, followed by his partner. Mum and I notice, at the same time, that both men have pink welting fleabites down the backs of their soft, white, fatty legs. I start giggling again.
Mum has tried and tried to kill the fleas, but fleas are as tough as dirt. Fleas cling to dog hair until the last moment and drown like flecks of pepper in the scum on top of the milky poisonous wash that Mum mixes up in a drum in the backyard once a month. A few brave, knowing fleas jump onto Mum’s arms while she’s washing the dogs (holding them by the scruffs of their necks with her lips pressed together so that she won’t get any of the poison in her mouth when the dogs struggle and shake) but she crushes them between her nails and they pop and die, usually before they can bite her. I have fleabites up and down my arms and on my legs because of the dogs; they are small, familiar red bumps—almost friendly—and are less irritating than the swollen lumps from mosquitoes, or the burning place where a tick has bitten and which needs to be watched in case of infection. My fleabites are tiny, the kind of bites you get when you are used to fleas so they don’t bother you so much anymore. The missionaries’ bites—even new as they are—already look irritated and itchy and plaguing because these men are evidently not accustomed to fleas.
Mum says, “So nice of you to drop by.” And regrets it instantly because the missionaries seize on this: “Will you pray with us before we leave?”
So we gather in the red-dusty yard with the dogs, who are now restless for their afternoon walk, milling around at our feet. The missionaries hold out their hands. “Let’s hold hands,” says the blond one.
Mum looks icy, but she holds out her hands. She says, “Hold their hands, Bobo.”
I slouch with embarrassment, but take the offered hands reluctantly. We hardly ever hold hands in our family and we never hold hands with strangers. Sis, man. Mum is glaring at me fiercely. From my vantage point, I can see July and Violet and the gardener gathered under the kitchen door and peering out at us with undisguised amusement. Violet is giggling behind her hand.
The men start to pray. They pray and pray for ages. Our hands swap sweat, start slipping, and are reclutched. I cannot concentrate on the words the men are saying because I am thinking how slithering our hands have become. Elephant Bottom says, “Would you like to pray?” It is a few moments before I realize that he is talking to me.
“What?”
“You can ask God for anything you want.”
I speak quickly, before my chance to communicate directly with God is taken away. “A baby brother or sister,” I say. “I want a new baby in the family. Please.”
Everyone laughs uncomfortably except me.
At that moment Bubbles lifts his leg on the blond missionary’s leg and lets forth a thick yellow stream of alpha-male-dog pee and our prayer session direct-line-to-God is abruptly terminated.
Ten months later, Olivia Jane Fuller is born in the hospital in Umtali. Which goes to show, some prayers are answered. Olivia is my fault. She is the direct result of my prayer. I am secretly, ecstatically proud.
In January