Bats
95 Bats I am lying awake listening to the air conditioning buzz and chug. I think of fruit bats swinging in wide arcs through the garden. Jeremiah wrapped the bananas already. They’re called Egyptian fruit bats. Black shadows crossing the desert, the whole Sahara, they are flying south to King Edward’s Road, their sonic beepers twittering. They are hungry for the yellow flesh of bananas. I wait until I can smell the bananas, not quite ripe, before I let myself go on. The great clusters of fruit hang pale in the moon, I can smell the lagoon. Snakes rustle in the bougainvillea and, down between the canna lilies with their veined leaves, the refuse the lagoon brings slaps against the stones. Crabs hurry to investigate, blue pincers ready. At last the bats arrive . They cut dark slivers from the thick air. I want to go and tear the plastic from the fruit for them but I am afraid. They are angry. They have been cheated. They circle above the house, casting spells with their leathery wings, bones like dead fingers showing through the thin skin. They have hollow bones like birds. 96 It is time. I move the covers to the wall and slide out of bed, checking my brother’s face. He is like Red when he dreams, his mouth twitching and his eyes fluttering. I can see him because all night he keeps a lamp on by his bed. Sometimes he sits bolt upright and yells one short yell like a bark of surprise and then he lies back down to sleep. I pick up my flip-flops and very slowly open the door. When I am downstairs I put them on in case I step on a cockroach. From the fridge I take a scoop of butter. When I close the door I wait until I can see again before making my way to the dining room. They are there, staring straight ahead. I am nervous tonight because there are two new ones, two women, shorter and blacker than the others. They are always angry when they first arrive so I bow my head to them first. I catch myself in a wish. I wish my mother would stop bringing them into the house. I am sorry for this wish. The butter is melting in the palm of my hand and sliding between my fingers. A drop lands on my toe. I stick my left forefinger in the butter and I draw a shape like an eye on the forehead of the first figure. I say, “Do not be angry. Protect us from the dark spirit with red eyes and the ones with holes in their eyes. I welcome you to this house. I bring you offerings.” I do the same to each of the figures, always following the same order. I have to be careful to say everything the same way so nobody will be jealous. Then I step back and I bow to each of the six figures in turn. They look out at me from the sideboard. The eye shines on the forehead of one of the women. Moonlight fills the room. C y c l e 2 ...
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