Part 4 (2/2)
”Who's ultimately responsible? He hired a tracker he's never worked with before.” Richard turns to me. ”That's what Clarence told you. Said he'd never worked with Johnny until this trip.”
”But they had connections,” I point out. ”And Clarence worked as a tracker before. Johnny wouldn't have hired him if he wasn't experienced.”
”That's what you'd think, but look what happened. Our so-called experienced tracker puts down his rifle and walks into a pack of hyenas. Does that sound like someone who knew what he was doing?”
”What's the point of all this, Richard?” Elliot asks wearily.
”The point is, we can't trust his judgment. That's all I'm saying.”
”Well, I think Johnny's right. We can't just carry on, as you put it. A dead man kind of ruins the mood, you know?” Elliot turns toward his tent. ”It's time to get out of here and go home.”
Home. As I stuff clothes and toiletries into my duffel bag, I think about London and gray skies and cappuccino. In ten days, Africa will seem like a golden-hued dream, a place of heat and glaring sunlight, life and death in all its vivid colors. Yesterday I wanted nothing more than to be back home in our flat, in the land of hot showers. But now that we're leaving the bush, I feel it holding on to me, its tendrils winding around my ankles, threatening to root me to this soil. I zip up my knapsack, which contains the ”essentials,” all the things I thought I absolutely needed to survive in the wild: PowerBars and toilet paper, pre-moistened hand wipes and sunscreen, tampons and my mobile. How different the word essential seems when you're beyond the reach of any phone tower.
By the time Richard and I have packed up our tent, Johnny has already loaded up the truck with his own gear as well as the cooking equipment and camp chairs. We've all been amazingly quick, even Elliot, who struggled to dismantle his tent and needed Vivian and Sylvia to help him fold it. Clarence's death hangs over us, stifling idle chatter, making us focus on our tasks. When I load our tent into the back of the truck, I notice the burlap bag with Clarence's remains tucked beside Johnny's backpack. It unnerves me to see it stowed there, with the rest of our gear. Tents, check. Stove, check. Dead man, check.
I climb into the truck and sit down beside Richard. Clarence's empty seat is in view, a stark reminder that he's gone, his bones scattered, flesh digested. Johnny is the last one to climb into the truck, and as his door slams shut I look around at our now cleared campsite, thinking: Soon there'll be no trace that we were ever here. We'll have moved on, but Clarence never will.
Suddenly Johnny swears and climbs out of the driver's seat. Something is wrong.
He stalks to the front and lifts the truck bonnet to inspect the engine. Moments tick by. His head is hidden by the raised bonnet, so we can't see his face, but his silence alarms me. He offers no rea.s.suring It's just a loose wire or Yes, I see the problem.
”Now what?” mutters Richard. He, too, climbs out of the truck, although I don't know what advice he can possibly offer. Beyond reading the petrol gauge, he knows nothing about cars. I hear him offering suggestions. Battery? Spark plugs? Loose connection? Johnny answers in barely audible monosyllables, which only alarms me more, because I've learned that the more dire the situation, the quieter Johnny becomes.
It is hot in the open truck, almost noon, with the sun beating down. The rest of us climb out and move into the shade of the trees. I see Johnny's head pop up as he orders: ”Don't wander too far!” Not that anyone intends to; we've seen what can happen when you do. Mr. Matsunaga and Elliot join Richard at the truck, to offer their advice, because of course all men, even men who never get their hands greasy, understand machinery. Or think they do.
We women wait in the shade, swatting away bugs, continually searching for any telltale trembling in the gra.s.s, which could be our only warning that a predator approaches. Even in the shade, it is hot, and I settle onto the ground. Through the branches above I see vultures circling, watching us. They are strangely beautiful, black wings sketching lazy loops in the sky as they wait to feast. On what?
Richard stalks toward us, muttering: ”Well, this is a brilliant development. b.l.o.o.d.y thing won't start. Won't even turn over.”
I sit up straight. ”It was fine yesterday.”
”Everything was fine yesterday.” Richard huffs out a breath. ”We're stranded.”
The blondes give simultaneous gasps of alarm. ”We can't be stranded,” blurts Sylvia. ”I'm due back at work next Thursday!”
”Me, too!” says Vivian.
Mrs. Matsunaga shakes her head in disbelief. ”How can this be? It is not possible!”
As their voices blend into a chorus of rising agitation, I can't help noticing that the vultures overhead are tracing tighter and tighter circles, as if homing in on our distress.
”Listen. All of you, listen,” Johnny commands.
We turn to look at him.
”This is not the time to panic,” he says. ”There's absolutely no reason to. We're next to the river, so we have plenty of water. We have shelter. We have ammunition and a ready supply of game for food.”
Elliot gives a laugh that's thin with fear. ”So ... what? We hang around out here and go all Stone Age?”
”The plane is scheduled to meet you at the landing strip in a week. When we don't show up as expected, there'll be a search. They'll find us soon enough. It's what you all signed up for, isn't it? An authentic experience in the bush?” He regards us one by one, taking our measure, deciding if we're up to the challenge. Searching for which one of us will crumble, which one he can count on. ”I'll keep working on the truck. Maybe I can fix it, maybe I can't.”
”Do you even know what's wrong with it?” Elliot asks.
Johnny pins him with a hard glare. ”It's never broken down before. I can't explain it.” He scans our circle, as if searching for the answer in our faces. ”In the meantime, we need to pitch camp again. Get out the tents. This is where we stay.”
BOSTON.
PSYCHOLOGISTS CALL IT RESISTANCE WHEN A PATIENT FAILS TO TURN UP on time because he doesn't really want to address his problems. It also explained why Jane was late walking out her front door that morning; she really didn't want to view Leon Gott's autopsy. She took her time dressing her daughter in the same Red Sox T-s.h.i.+rt and gra.s.s-stained overalls that Regina had insisted on wearing for the past five days. They lingered too long over their breakfast of Lucky Charms and toast, which made them twenty minutes late walking out the apartment door. Add a traffic-choked drive to Revere, where Jane's mother lived, and by the time she pulled up outside Angela's house, Jane was a full half hour behind schedule.
Her mother's house seemed smaller every year, as though it were shrinking with age. Walking up to the front door with Regina in tow, Jane saw that the porch needed fresh paint, the gutters were clogged with autumn leaves, and the perennials in front still needed to be clipped back for the winter. She'd have to get on the phone with her brothers and see if they could all pitch in for a weekend, because Angela obviously needed the help.
She could also use a good night's sleep, thought Jane when Angela opened the front door. Jane was startled by how tired her mother looked. Everything about her seemed worn down, from her faded blouse to her baggy jeans. When Angela bent down to pick up Regina, Jane spotted gray roots on her mother's scalp, a startling sight because Angela was meticulous about her hairdresser appointments. Was this the same woman who'd shown up at a restaurant just last summer wearing red lipstick and spike heels?
”Here's my little pumpkin,” Angela cooed as she carried Regina into the house. ”Nonna's so glad to see you. Let's go shopping today, why don't we? Aren't you tired of these dirty overalls? We'll buy you something new and pretty.”
”Don't like pretty!”
”A dress, what do you think? A fancy princess dress.”
”Don't like princess.”
”But every girl wants to be a princess!”
”I think she'd rather be the frog,” said Jane.
”Oh for heaven's sake, she's just like you.” Angela sighed in frustration. ”You wouldn't let me put you in a dress, either.”
”Not everyone's a princess, Ma.”
”Or ends up with Prince Charming,” muttered Angela as she walked away carrying her granddaughter.
Jane followed her into the kitchen. ”What's going on?”
”I'm going to make some more coffee. You want some?”
”Ma, I can see that something's going on.”
”You've gotta go to work.” Angela set Regina in her high chair. ”Go, catch some bad guys.”
”Is it too much work for you, babysitting? You know you don't have to do it. She's old enough for day care now.”
”My granddaughter in day care? Not gonna happen.”
”Gabriel and I have been talking about it. You've already done so much for us, and we think you deserve a break. Enjoy your life.”
”She is the one thing I look forward to every day,” said Angela, pointing to her granddaughter. ”The one thing that keeps my mind off ...”
<script>