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"And if we bleed, we die," said Annie. "That's what a teacher at school said."
"If you bleed," said Cole, "then you have a really bad case, so yes, you're more likely to die. But your mother bled. As badly as anyone I've ever seen. But they got an IV in her and something to thicken up her blood, and your mom is tough. She stopped bleeding after only a few hours, and she got better so she could come back, make cookies, and yell at you for leaving your bikes on the lawn."
"We don't do that anymore," said Nick.
"Chinma does," said Lettie.
Everyone knew that was a joke, since Chinma was compulsively tidy.
Chinma went with Cole when he took the train to New Jersey to bring Aunt Margaret back. "You might as well give up and come," said Cole. "If you don't, the whole family will just come up here to take care of you, and that'll disrupt the children's schooling."
"It's summer vacation, I am not sick yet, and when I do get sick I don't mind dying. I've been breathing for a very long time now, and this virus is as good an occasion to retire from the occupation as any."
"You're not even sixty yet."
"It's better to die before you have to start lying about your age."
Chinma didn't know of anyone
ever winning an argument with Aunt Margaret, but Cole figured out just what bothered her. "It's the constipation and the diarrhea, isn't it?" he said. "You just don't want anybody to see your bony old butt."
"As a matter of fact I don't," said Aunt Margaret, "and nobody wants to see it, either. Especially not covered with doo-doo when I'm thrashing around with delirium tremens."
"Lay off the booze and you won't get the d.t.s."
"I meant just delirium. You are so literal. Everybody hates you for that, Cole. I tell you this as a friend, in the nicest possible way."
Chinma tried to imagine anyone in his village talking like that to one of the old women, especially Father's mother, who thought she was queen of the universe and snapped at everyone who did anything for her because they didn't do it exactly as she wanted. She always got her way because she could complain to Father and he'd make people do what she wanted. He could imagine Cole talking to her about her butt, or booze. He'd never get out of the house alive.
But Aunt Margaret came with them. Chinma listened to them talking all the way back to Virginia. He sat on the seat ahead of them in the train, reading Fablehaven on the Kindle with the typeface at its largest setting. The book was good because it had all kinds of dangers that were enjoyable to read about because they couldn't happen in the real world, and yet the bravery and cleverness of the children were real, and Chinma liked them. But he also listened to the adults behind him. He learned a lot that way. He also had to keep waking the Kindle up because he'd go so long between turning pages.
Everybody on the train was wearing masks. Chinma didn't see the point, but maybe it made them feel better to believe they would be the one person who didn't catch it.
Cole and Aunt Margaret also kept talking about how smooth the new tracks were, and how comfortable the new electric train was, and how wonderful it was that President Torrent was finally bringing the American rail system up to European standards. Chinma had no point of comparison. It was certainly better than the buses in Nigeria. And the trains arrived at the station and left again exactly at the time on the schedule.
Today, up in the tree, he watched as Lettie came out to call him in for dinner. He could have come down before she spoke to him, but he liked watching her come all the way across the back lawn and climb halfway up the tree before he admitted he had seen her. And he suspected that she liked it, too, which is why she didn't even try to yell at him from down below. Any excuse to get up in a tree with him. Well, that was fine with him.
So she got up about three meters into the tree and said, "Dinner, as if you didn't already know."
"I hope none of you die of the monkey sickness," said Chinma.
"Well I should hope you hope that!" said Lettie.
"I mean, I'm happy here. I didn't think I ever would be, but if one of you dies, this place will never be happy again."
"Dad died. Mark died."
"But they didn't die here," said Chinma. He was thinking of bodies burned and houses bulldozed, though he would never say so.
"So are you coming to dinner or not?" said Lettie.
He came down the tree. She let him pass her on the way down, because down was harder and scarier, and also because she liked it when he reached up and helped her make the last jump, or so Chinma thought.
He followed her into the house across the back lawn, which was still bright with sunlight, because in these northern latitudes the day was much longer in the summer than it had been in Nigeria. He looked at her hair swaying across her shoulders with every step. He watched how confident she was. Bad things had happened in her life. Death had come to people she loved. And yet she kept her eagerness for each day.
Don't die, he said to her silently as he followed her into the house. Please don't die. This disease the monkey god forced into my nose as a prank on the whole world of humans, let it take no one in this house. Or if it must take someone, let it be me. I know that I'm immune but I've had this year of a life in a larger world, one with oceans and airplanes and brave soldiers as well as cruel ones. I've had a year in which the things I did made a difference and people were glad that I was alive. Take me now, God, before you take any of them.
Father had never listened to him, or any of the brothers, really, and certainly none of the mothers or sisters. But God would listen. Mrs. Malich said so. God didn't always do what we wanted, but we were heard.
