Chanda's Wars Read Online Free Page B

happy talk drift up the street from the Lesoles. Mr. Lesole’s a safari guide; he’s mostly away in the bush. When he’s home, he celebrates, spending his tip money on CDs for his boom box and food for his guests. Normally I like it—I even go over—but tonight, all I can think is: How can there be parties with Mama dead? How can the world go on without her?
    I turn right toward the sandlot and hear a familiarvoice: “If I was you, I wouldn’t be wandering far, this time of night.”
    Mrs. Tafa’s in her lawn chair, alone in the dark under her tree, waiting for Mr. Tafa to come home. All of a sudden, she doesn’t seem so mean. Just lonely. I’m filled with shame. Why am I mad about what she does for Soly and Iris? Why should they lose out because of my fear and pride?
    I go into Mrs. Tafa’s yard and sit quietly on the ground beside her lawn chair. We don’t talk about our fight. Don’t talk about anything. Just sit there. After a long time I swallow hard and say: “Thank you for doing Iris’s cornrows.”
    â€œIt was nothing,” she says. “Something to pass the time, is all.” A pause. “It’s nice to have someone braid your hair, isn’t it?” Another pause. “I could do yours someday if you’d like. Not as good as your mama, mind. But I could try.”
    I sob. Mrs. Tafa puts her hand on my shoulder. “It’s hard, isn’t it?”
    I gulp air.
    â€œYour mama was the finest woman who walked this earth,” Mrs. Tafa says gently. “Oh, how she loved you kids. She was proud of you, especially. Before she went to Tiro,she said to me, ‘Rose, no matter what happens, I can die happy. I know my Chanda will take care of things.’” Mrs. Tafa slaps her thighs. “But why talk about sad things, when there’s so much good to remember?” She leans in to my ear. “I’m thinking of when you were little, how your mama’d blow on your tummy to stop you being grumpy.”
    I sniffle-smile at the thought of it. “I’ve tried that on Iris,” I say. “She hates it.”
    â€œIris is a special one, isn’t she?” Mrs. Tafa chuckles, and recalls the time Mama was shelling peas and Iris got one stuck up her nose: “Your mama made her a necklace of husks so she’d stop crying.” Soon, Mrs. Tafa and I are laughing and storytelling in the dark. Stories about Mama. Happy stories. Simple stories. Stories from our time in the worker houses at the mine, to a few years back when Mama won a prize at the street fair for her sweet-potato pie.
    â€œYou should have seen the way your mama and papa flirted at the mine hall,” Mrs. Tafa winks. “The glint in your mama’s eye when your papa’d do a jig. Folks knew they took care of business, all right.”
    I get all embarrassed, but I want to hear more. As long as we talk, Mama’s alive. Please, I don’t want to go to bed ever. When Mr. Tafa finally comes home, though, I know it’s time.
    â€œIt’s been ages since we’ve talked like this,” Mrs. Tafa says. “Let’s do it again.” She watches from her stoop as I head to my door. At the last minute, I have a sudden need to run back. I fall on my knees and clutch her round the waist. “Auntie Rose, will the pain ever go away?”
    Mrs. Tafa kneels down, arms around me. “Remember how it was with your papa?”
    I nod.
    She kisses the top of my head. “The missing never goes away,” she says. “But after a time, the hurting’s not so sharp. And in the end, if you’re lucky, there’s a glow.”
    An enormous hole opens in the pit of my stomach. “Why did Mama have to die? Why like that? I wish she’d never gone back to Tiro.”
    Oh, how Mama hated Tiro. At fifteen, Granny and Grampa engaged her to Tuelo Malunga, a boy from the neighboring cattle post; but Mama was