Children of the Street - страница 14

“Do you catch a lot of bad people?”

“I try to.” He came to the boy’s side. “Don’t forget your back teeth.”

Hosiah said something unintelligible through toothpaste foam.

“Finish brushing first,” Dawson said.

When Hosiah was toothpaste free, he asked his question again. “What happens to the bad people when you catch them?”

“We send them to jail for a while, and then one day they go before a judge and he decides if they were really bad and need to go to prison.”

“Oh.”

“Come on. Story time.”

On the way to the bedroom, Hosiah asked, “How come when I’m bad I don’t get a judge too?”

“You know why?”

“Why?”

Dawson suddenly swept Hosiah up onto one shoulder, and the boy shrieked with laughter.

“You know why?”

“Why?” Hosiah shouted.

“Because I’m the judge too.”

Dawson delivered him to bed in a giggling bundle. Hosiah cuddled against him as he read, for probably the one thousandth time, an Ananse the Spider story.

“Was that good?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Lights out. Mammy will come up in a minute.”

He kissed Hosiah twice.

In their own bedroom as they got ready to turn in, Dawson asked Christine, “Can we go to Agbogbloshie together tomorrow afternoon to see what we can do about getting Sly into school?”

“Sure, if you like.” She got into bed. “Oh, wait a minute. I have to pick Hosiah up early from school. They have a half day.”

“What about your friend? She can’t take him for the afternoon?”

“No, she’s busy.” Hesitation. “The only alternative is for Mama to watch Hosiah till we get back.”

Dawson got into bed as well but didn’t respond.

“Dark,” she pleaded. “You can’t punish her anymore.”

Almost a year ago, Dawson’s mother-in-law, Gifty, had taken Hosiah to see a traditional healer to “cure” the boy’s heart ailment. She had done this without the consent of either Dawson or Christine. In the process of the healer’s “cleansing ritual,” Hosiah was accidentally struck on the head, opening a gash in his scalp. Dawson had never forgiven Gifty.

“Look,” he said, “it’s not as if she hasn’t been able to see Hosiah at all.”

“But that’s strictly my taking him over to visit her together. You don’t want me to leave him there alone with her. You know she loves having him for the day. This is killing her.”

Dawson blew his breath out. “All right,” he said resignedly, “maybe I’m being too hard on her. You can drop Hosiah off at her house tomorrow.”

“And from now on she can babysit him when needed?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Christine gave him a big kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, sweetheart. She’s going to be thrilled.”

Like a lightning bolt, a thought flashed through Dawson’s mind and made him cringe. What if my mother-in-law outlives Hosiah?

“What’s the matter?” Christine asked him at once. “What was that look?”

He brought her closer.

“Dark, what’s wrong?”

“Edith called me today,” he said.

“I see.” Christine became very still. “So they turned the petition down.”

Dawson nodded.

They both stayed silent for some time.

“What are we going to do?” she asked, sounding empty.

“It’s not the end of the road,” Dawson said. “There’s always something around the corner.”

Christine sat up, suddenly angry. “We’re not going to sit around and let our son die.” Her voice cracked. “This stupid government that does nothing but steal our money. They think we’re going to let him die just because of them?”

She jumped out of bed, eyes blazing.

“Christine-”

“Idiot bureaucrats at the hospital with no soul,” she said, her voice trembling. “Just because of them?”

Dawson scrambled up himself and hurried around to her side of the bed.

“And yes,” she continued in fury, “that incompetent Ghana Police Service you work for. Do they want us to let him die?”

She began to weep, her lacerated cries wrenched from her throat. Dawson put his arms around her, but she struggled to pull away. He held her firmly and wouldn’t let go.

“I’m with you, Christine,” he said. “You have to remember that. I’m with you. And I won’t let you or Hosiah down. Ever.”

At last her body relaxed and molded into his, and she cried until her energy was spent.

After the overnight rain, the roads were in no condition for Dawson’s motorbike, so he took a cab to work. The commute was a nightmare. Several intersections and whole segments of streets were flooded, a reflection of the sorry state of Accra’s drainage system. Traffic was at a standstill in every direction. Taxi drivers, including Dawson’s, were being their usual aggressive selves, which didn’t help people’s tempers any.