Forgive Me (13 page)

“We did, yes,” said Gandersvoot. Nadine felt bile rise in the back of her throat.

“When the body was burned,” said Gandersvoot’s lawyer, “what did you do then?”

“We had had a bit to drink, as you will at a
braai,
” said Gandersvoot. He seemed to think this would get a laugh, but the room was completely silent. Gandersvoot cleared his throat. “When the bones were cool, we disposed of them,” he said.

“In the Fish River,” said his lawyer.

“Yes,” said Gandersvoot. He nodded solemnly.

Faith was silent, tears running down her face.

T
here was a break after Gandersvoot’s testimony, and Nadine went back to the hotel. It must have been the lack of sleep—she sat on her bed and started to cry.

Nadine wanted to talk to Hank. She wanted to be in his Nantucket living room, telling him about the TRC, listening to his calm voice, his considering thoughts. She wanted to be taken care of. In Hank’s home, Nadine had not felt alone.

She dialed his Falmouth number, but there was no answer. It was the middle of the night in Massachusetts, but the phone rang and rang. She tried the Nantucket number, and on the second ring, she heard his voice.

“It’s me,” she said.

“Nadine,” said Hank. “Nadine. Is something the matter?”

“Well,” said Nadine. “I’m pregnant.”

There was a silence, and then Hank laughed. “I can’t believe it,” he said. There was joy in his voice.

“I know,” said Nadine.

“Isn’t this,” said Hank, and then he said, “Maybe,” and then, in a more professional tone, “How are you feeling?”

“Feeling? I feel sick. The stuff I’m hearing at the trials, it just makes it worse.” She told him about Faith Hamare and her bag of hair.

Hank’s voice became clinical as he instructed Nadine to stop taking the Demerol and find some folic acid pills. “Why don’t you come home?” said Hank finally. “Why don’t you come back, and we’ll take it from there.” Hank sounded hopeful: he had confessed how much he wanted children.

“I can’t just…run away from this.”

“But you can run away from me,” Hank said darkly.

“That’s not fair.”

“Would it help if I came there? To South Africa?”

“No,” said Nadine. “I don’t know. I just feel like this is something…something I have to do.”

“I don’t…,” Hank said sadly, “I really don’t understand you.”

“I know,” said Nadine. Neither of them hung up, but neither had a word to say. Nadine listened to Hank breathe. They were eight thousand miles apart.

A
fter she hung up, Nadine opened her minibar and stared at the small bottles. Faith Hamare’s lined face swam in front of her eyes. And Gandersvoot, who had committed such evil acts with such confidence: his sneer turned her stomach. She wanted a drink.

There was a rap at the unlocked door, and George walked in. “I’ll join you,” he said, pulling out a gin. He drank it, and wiped his lips. “All right then,” he said. “Ready for the afternoon testimony?”

“No,” Nadine said.

“You’re shaken,” said George. “You knew this was happening, Nadine.”

“Yes. But I…I don’t think I can hear any more.”

“Jesus, Nadine! You can’t just ignore things that are hard to look at. You have to…to stare into them. Document them. Bear witness. That’s our job, isn’t it? What’s happened to you?”

“It never used to bother me,” said Nadine. “But now…I feel sick. I really do. I’m dizzy. I was beaten up…”

“So you can just fly in here. You can just…listen to the story of Jason’s death and then fly home. The world is yours to play in as you wish. And there’s not a price, right? Am I right? What’s your expression? The world is your oyster.”

“My expression?” Nadine said. “What are you talking about?”

“I was born in San Francisco,” said George. “I could have lived the rest of my life in blessed American ignorance. I thought it was my right to be safe and happy, to love whoever I wanted, and marry and—”

“And have children,” Nadine said.

“Sure, whatever I wanted. It was my right. But fate has a way of letting you know who’s in charge.”

“What happened?” Nadine said, leaning in to touch George’s knee. “Tell me. What happened to Thola?” They stared at each other, and then George said, “I have something to show you.”

“Fine,” Nadine said.

“It’s ten hours from here.”

“Ten hours?”

“Yes.”

“Jason’s hearing,” Nadine said feebly.

“It’s not until Monday.”

“George.”

“Fine,” said George. “Forget it. I should have known.”

“No,” Nadine said, looking at the phone. Hank’s words hung in her ears:
I don’t understand you.
Nadine looked at George; the dark planes under his eyes from lack of sleep. George understood.

“Let’s go,” said Nadine.

Twenty-eight

NANTUCKET TO STARDOM

Bear with me. This starts out sad, but it ends up being the best day of my life.

I got a ride into town with Mom, jamming my bike in the back of her Saab. I waved as her ferry took off. She looked really nice in jeans and a fitted T-shirt. She had told me all about the man she was meeting, someone she had been friends with before she had even known Dad. When I asked Mom if she was having an affair, she smiled and gave me a big hug. “No way,” she said, and I believed her.

I sat on the steps of the Nantucket Juice Bar and looked at the boats. I started to think about where you could go once you got to the mainland. Florida, for example, or Los Angeles—big places, where you could be cool without having to know about baseball. I got really excited, thinking about traveling all over the world, like on tour, having my picture taken in Japan and Australia. I would ride in limos, and see exotic animals, like emu.

Then came the bad part, starring Roger Fell and his BMX bike. Roger was my friend until fourth grade. We pretended to be Indians in the cranberry bogs, fighting each other with homemade bows and arrows. Roger always won, and then we ate his mom’s peanut butter oatmeal cookies, lying on the ground and watching the clouds. But now everything was different.

Roger called me a fag as he and his friends rode in, wearing shorts cut off below the knee and hooded sweatshirts. Their shins showed above their stupid sneakers with no laces and the tongues hanging out. Roger was wearing a wool cap that said
AC
/
DC
.

I ignored them.

“Faaaag!” yelled Tristan Morris. “Nice outfit, gay boy!” He filled his straw from his can of orange soda and blew it all over the paisley shirt I had borrowed from Kyla. They rode around in a circle, spitting soda on me. I kept my head down and didn’t cry.

“Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” said Roger.

“Come on, Roger,” I said.

He sucked soda into his mouth, and spit.

I
was red-faced by the time I ran from the harbor to Hot Locks Salon and Spa, and I just said, “Please hurry. I have to catch the noon ferry.”

“The Mashpee Mall Regional Auditions!” cried Joe.

“My shirt!” said Kyla. They put their customers on hold and hustled me into a shampoo chair. Joe washed my hair while Kyla cleaned my face with a warm washcloth. They didn’t mention my tears all mixed into the dried soda.

“Bastards,” hissed Joe. He blow-dried my hair, adding styling gel for an even better look than before. Kyla rushed out and came back with a whole surfer outfit for me: Quik-silver T-shirt, baggy pants, and Adidas soccer slippers. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Nothing was open but Force Five Watersports.”

Joe folded his arms over his potbelly and looked me up and down. “I know,” he said, snapping. “Sing Beach Boys!”

“I’m doing ‘Sue Me’…,” I said.

“Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older,” sang Kyla, her palms open in front of her. Her dreadlocks swung back and forth.

“Then we wouldn’t have to wait so looong,” added Joe in a scary falsetto.

“No,” I said. “Please. I’m doing ‘Sue Me’!” They were silent. Even I could hear the hysteria in my voice.

“Call Mr. Murray,” said Joe, finally. “Tell him we’re opening the Toggery. One thing Mr. Murray’s got, he’s got seersucker.”

Half an hour later, Joe, Kyla, and Mr. Murray watched me board the ferry. Mr. Murray loaned me the suit for free, and I bought a round-trip ticket with money I had stolen from Mom’s purse.

“America’s next superstar,” called Kyla.

“Sinatra has returned,” Joe yelled.

I held my white straw hat on tight, and stepped carefully to avoid messing up my suit.

M
alcon stood in jeans and a red sweater at the end of the gangway in Hyannis. His face brightened when he saw me, and I made myself walk—not run—off the boat.

“You look fantastic,” he said. He gave me a big hug, which was a little strange but okay.

“Thanks,” I said. I was so glad I was not wearing soccer slippers. Malcon’s sweater was cashmere, I could tell.

We reached the car, and Malcon opened the door for me. He slid into his seat and started the motor. It was a beautiful sunny day. We sped toward the Mashpee Mall.

I’ve been to Mashpee before, and to Boston. I have even been to New York. And on my tenth birthday, when my parents said I could pick anywhere in the world to go, I picked Orlando, where
American Superstar
is filmed. (I can still see Mom and Dad at Gatorland, watching them feed raw chicken to the alligators. They had wanted me to pick Paris or Rome, leaving travel brochures on the kitchen table, but when I stood up for my choice, they went gungho, even getting tickets to Wham! Tribute Night at the Hard Rock Cafe.) Still, this drive in Malcon’s Dodge Neon was the most exciting trip of my life.

“You going to make me proud, buddy?” said Malcon. He put his hand on my knee and squeezed. He kept his hand there. It felt a little creepy, but I didn’t say anything.

“Yes,” I whispered.

T
here were hundreds of kids at the Mashpee Mall Regional Auditions, maybe a thousand. The auditions were held in the Gap, and the line stretched past mannequins wearing baggy pants. Malcon took me by the hand and helped me fill out the forms, signing his name wherever it said
Parent/Guardian.

We waited outside for a long time, and then we sat in Gap Women, Gap Men, and finally Gap Kids. At last, a woman with scraggly gray hair came out and called for me.

I stood up. Malcon gave me a hug and said, “You’re my star.”

I followed the gray-haired lady into a big dressing room. The
American Superstar
judging panel was nowhere to be seen. In fact, nothing was in that room but me, the lady, and a plastic chair. She sat down. “Okay,” she said. She sighed.

“Should I wait for the judging panel?” I asked.

“I am the judging panel,” she said.

“Oh,” I said. I cleared my throat.

“This is not what we call
off to a running start,
” said the lady. She folded her arms across her chest.

I don’t know what came over me. I thought about Malcon holding a wilted rose. I thought about Dad and Mr. Mullen, yelling at adult men in baseball uniforms. I saw Joe, his potbelly, and the hope in Kyla’s eyes when she handed me her paisley shirt. I felt filled with purpose. I fixed the lady with my Sinatra stare.

“Get ready, lady,” I said. And then I sang.

I gave it my all. I went for the hand stars, I did the electric slide. I rocked that Gap dressing room like it was the Nantucket Elementary School Auditorium. I concluded with my arms open, heart and back of my throat exposed. “Sue me, sue me, what can you do me, I love YOOOOOU!” I sang, as I slid toward the lady on one knee. There was silence.

“Thanks,” said the lady. She wrote something on her clipboard.

An hour later, she stood next to a mannequin in a bikini. She read a list of ten names, explaining that these kids would move on to the Boston auditions in a week.

Malcon had his arms around me as she called the winners. He winced each time, giving me a half hug. I didn’t wince, because I freaking knew. I was the seventh name called. Malcon shouted and punched the air with his fist. He mushed me in a big hug. I decided I could get used to the feeling of stardom, and warm cashmere against my cheek.

Twenty-nine

“A
re you going to tell me where we’re headed?” Nadine said. The road had turned to a one-lane highway as George and Nadine left Cape Town behind.

“The Eastern Cape,” said George. “I’m taking you to see zebras and maybe even an elephant.”

“Hm,” Nadine said.

“Hm is right,” said George. He tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “Nadine,” he said.

“What?”

“You smell the same.”

“I still use Pert Plus.”

George turned up the radio. “Today’s Truth and Reconciliation hearings were dominated by a missing boy, and a mother who kept his hair for twenty years,” said a smooth newscaster.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Nadine said.

“Don’t worry,” said George. “They won’t say
braai
on the radio.”

“Leon Gandersvoot admitted today that he abducted and killed ANC activist Julian Hamare, then buried him in the Fish River, Eastern Cape Province. Faith Hamare says she is happy to know the truth about what happened to her son.” There was a crackle, and then a broken voice: “Can I forgive him? Yes. What else can I do? We are in this together.” Then Faith’s wail filled the car.

“Good God,” Nadine breathed.

“In soccer news,” said the reporter, “Black Leopards beat SuperSport United—” George turned the dial and found a station playing jazz.

“He’ll get amnesty,” said George, after a few minutes.

“What’s the alternative?” Nadine said. “If you executed the guy, Faith would never have known what happened.”

“What good does it do her?” said George. There was fury in his eyes. “What good does it do her to carry the facts around, the details, the time it took to
braai
her son?”

“I don’t know,” Nadine said.

“Compromise,” George spat. “Forgiveness. Truth. Reconciliation.” He shook his head. “Words,” he said. “No meaning. Just words.”

“But you have to try,” said Nadine. “You know? If you don’t forgive, you’re just stuck. You just keep reliving the same moment. You can’t be free. You can’t ever be free to—”

“That sounds all well and good,” said George. “Just forgive everybody. Move on happily. But you know what, Nadine? Some things are unforgivable. And that’s just the way it is.”

Nadine’s eyes filled with tears. She dug her fingernails into her palm and stared out the window. The sun beat down, and Nadine prayed that George was wrong.