White Dog Fell from the Sky - By Eleanor Morse Page 0,127

local galactic group, 150,000,000 light-years across. Out to the entire observable universe. And everything beyond that. In the middle of all that, there she was. What is one person? Nothing. Ian had said something like this, that night they were talking by the fire. You get the proportions wrong and think your life is all that matters. It helped to remember, this small dot that she was.

49

Hendrik called to say that he’d tried to get clearance to see Isaac without success, but he was planning to be in touch with a few more people he thought might help. At the very least, he hoped his inquiries might afford Isaac a measure of protection. Alice asked what she could do.

“Nothing,” said Hendrik. “Pray.”

It turned out he was more than a lawyer. He’d served under Vorster’s government after the assassination of Prime Minister Verwoerd. Much of his life, he told her, he’d believed it was possible to create change from within if you were smarter than the next guy and willing to play the game, at least part of the time. His job had involved trying to integrate South Africa into the international community. He’d been instrumental in winning the repeal of legislation that prohibited multiracial sports. But finally his role sickened him, literally. He had a heart attack, which flattened him for six months. When he got back on his feet, he quit the government, but he still knew many people in the halls of power, some of them friends.

“Would it help if I came down?”

“Definitely not. We feel judged by your country. If I can be blunt, you’d be an impediment, not a help. Pray. That’s all you can do.” When she got off the phone, she went out to Isaac’s garden. She’d thrown water on his vegetables when she thought of it, but too often she hadn’t thought of it, and the sun had baked them into the ground.

The next night over supper, Alice told Moses and Lulu that they would light a candle every evening for Isaac. She lit a match and said, “For Isaac.” She shushed them for a moment and closed her eyes. When she opened them, Lulu’s were closed too.

“Isaac o kae?” asked Moses for the thousandth time.

“Isaac is in prison.” Alice crouched down with her wrists together, as though shackled.

“A o lwala?” Is he sick? Lulu asked.

“Ga ke itse.” I don’t know. “Hendrik Pretorius, you know him? Mister Pretorius? Your mother is working there?” Their faces were blank. “Pretorius. Your mother. Mma wa gago.” She picked up a broom and swept the floor. “Your mother is working for Mr. and Mrs. Pretorius.”

Moses laughed and took the broom.

“Pretoria?” Lulu asked.

“Not Pretoria. Pretorius.”

“Ke eng?” Lulu pointed to the candle. What is it called?

“Candle.”

“Candle. Molelo.”

Moses pointed to his plate. “Nama.”

“Meat,” said Alice.

Lulu to her glass. “Masi.”

“Milk.”

After she’d put them to bed, Alice turned off all the lights in the house and went into the living room and sat on the couch in the dark. She and Lawrence had found the wooden couch frame discarded at the dump, a lovely carved hardwood that was scarred and dinged. She’d sanded it down, an act of faith for their lives together; they’d had the cushions made at the prison. The bright green fabric felt cool now in the dark. All the creatures outdoors were asleep like this green, waiting for the light of day. She felt her way in the darkness, footstep by footstep, to the bedroom. There were no curtains on the windows. She pressed her face to the screen and saw a few stars held in the boughs of the syringa trees.

Isaac o kae? She saw in her mind’s eye a dozen more questions on Moses’s face. Why is he not here? When will he come? What will happen to me? When will I see my mother? Why did she send us here? Who are you? What are you to us?

50

For a couple of days now, they’ve stopped taking him out of his cell. His head throbs without end, his vision has blurred. Each breath he takes pushes his broken ribs toward pain.

He runs a hand over his head. It is no longer his head. There is no hair on it. And the shape is wrong. They shaved his hair when he came to this place, and they’ve shaved it again. Lice, they said. Dirty kaffir lice. They all have lice. But it’s not true. He has never had lice. Not in all his born days. His head