The Boy Next Door (24 page)

I have an essay to write, due in on Monday, and a dissertation proposal to draw up; I shouldn’t have asked Bridgette over.
I switch on the TV and I’m in luck. There’s
Tom and Jerry,
David’s favorite cartoon now that he watches TV and Satan hasn’t made an appearance. He sits on the couch, the giraffe lying
on his lap, his hand on it. I sit down at the dining-room table, arrange my books, and try to write my essay: “Discuss: The
Role of Positive and Negative Reinforcement in Interpersonal Human Development.” I look at the title for a long time and know
that I’m going to have to ask for an extension from Mr. Davidson. There’s not any chance I’m going to get even half of it
done. I close the books, leave the table. I go on the couch next to David, and we watch Jerry teasing Tom together.

It’s ten o’clock and Ian still isn’t back.

I think of all the places he could be.

All the Rhodie hangouts, the places I won’t go to, the places where he won’t take me.

Sarah’s Nightclub in town or that place over in Avondale, where a black guy was beaten up, or the Keg and Sable in Borrowdale…
the little entourage that he’s become part of: Heather; Duncan (her lout of a husband); Clive, he of Great Zimbabwe fame;
people who drift in and out of the house, making me feel as though I’m a guest or worse still…

“Not exactly multiracial, Ian,” I try, hearing the edge in my voice, which doesn’t escape him.

“Get off your high horse, Lindiwe. They’re here, aren’t they? You should see how you look at them, I’ll get you a picture.
What about you and your expats? Here today, gone tomorrow, creating more shit with their solutions. Who’s fooling who?”

“
They’re
not racists, Ian.”

“Lindiwe, enough. One incident and you’re still smarting about it. He was just talking.”

Duncan, last week.

“Shit,” I had heard. “We’ll show these munts real tricks, give old Bobs a real right show. You should see how those munts
poop themselves when they come to the skydiving club for tryouts. To this day not one has made a jump, speaks for itself,
I say.”

They were out on the patio, the lounge doors wide open; he didn’t see me come in, not that me being there or not would have
made much difference to him.

Hearing me, he twisted his neck over the sofa and said, all smiles and ruddy cheeriness, “Howzit Lee, just jolling about Gooks
and Spooks Weekend. Oops, I mean heroes. Yes man, all the dead terrs, now we’re supposed to be honoring. What about the Rhodesian
soldiers? They sacrificed a heck of a lot more. Reconciliation my foot, and what’s the other bit of that holiday? Oh yes,
Ancestors Weekend, that’s a hang of a mouthful if you ask me.”

I didn’t bother with any kind of answer, and I was moving into the bedroom when he called out.

“Hey Lees, have you heard the latest on Banana, your former chancellor, the guy’s an out-and-out moff; he’s got his you know
what stuck up some football chappies over at your varsity. Hell, that’s what you get for making a banana a president.”

Hee hee ha. Hee hee ha.

Beer was spurting out from his mouth. He looked as though he had been dropped in a vat of oil and left out in the sun to dry.
His easy familiarity with me made me sick. He was the son of the owner of a building company, but most of the time, he seemed
bored and mad as hell that he had been cheated out of the war; he fancied he would have made one helluva Selous Scout. Enter
the skydiving at weekends and the overgrown thatch on his chin.

Heather was always wearing dark glasses, and her face had far too much foundation plastered on it, even for a Rhodie.

Later, when he was gone, I told Ian that if his friends were going to come over, they should stop with the racist comments.

“He didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t be so sensitive all the time; sometimes it’s just talk.”

“Right,” I said. “Of course, it’s nothing. To him, to you. Kaffir, gondie, munt, boy, etcetera, etcetera; but it means a lot
to ninety-nine percent of the population, to me.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he shouted. “Give it a rest, just once.”

“You never want to talk about it.”

“I know the tune, Lindiwe.”

And then he was gone, slamming the door behind him.

Sometimes, I thought, people change; sometimes not enough.

*    *    *

Days, weeks pass like this.

“You think so,” he goes on, goading me about my expat friends. “Trust me, they’re the worst kind. The Right On brigade. Wait
till they ever have to make a choice, a real flat-out choice; wait till their head is put on the wire… What do you think they
talk about when you’re not around, huh? The bloody Africans, the natives, you, me.”

Every time when I ask him why he disappears, takes off, he says I should relax; he’s just getting a breath of fresh air, as
if I’m…
we’re
stifling him here.

“You wanted this,” I shout at him. “We’re here because of you, Ian.”

“I’m working, aren’t I? I’m supporting you. Get off my back. Or you’re so used to the expat lifestyle, you’re having trouble
coping with local rates. How come you’re so into foreigners?”

That’s always his last card. The thing he flings casually at me. The arrow he thinks finds its target.

“Chill,” he says, as if he’s still fifteen, sixteen, as if I’m the nagging housewife.

And when he thinks maybe he has pushed it a bit too far and is regretting some of it: “I’m trying, Lindiwe. I’m trying.”

As if he’s carrying the heaviest load, the responsibility of it.

He’ll reach out to me, try to draw me close.

And then I’ll wonder if it’s me who is being judgmental, rigid.

If I shouldn’t be more honest. “Yes, Ian,” I could tell him, “I miss going out to restaurants and talking about books and
movies. Sometimes I can’t stand to be in this cottage. I can’t. I get a sudden rush of claustrophobia. Is this it? I keep
asking myself. Is this it?”

*    *    *

I hear the lock in the door, and I can tell by his fumbling, the dropped keys, that he has had too much to drink, that if
I stay awake there will be an argument.

I go quickly into the bedroom, undress, and go to bed.

I hear him open the door, mumble shit, run the tap, and then he’s here, on the bed, taking off his shoes.

The room fills up with Castle.

I get up, walk past him, shake off his hand, and go out, away from him, to sleep on the couch.

“Hi!” I virtually yell out, and Bridgette steps back from my crazed welcome.

I take the bottle of wine from her and usher her in to the lounge where David stands against the couch, Jade between his legs.

“David, this is my friend. We went to school together, Aunty Bridgette.”

Jade wriggles her way out and starts running, as is her way, around the room in loops around the furniture, taking nips at
the straw chairs, circling David, me, and Bridgette. I have my thoughts about the mental stability of this dog. Then, when
she’s all tired out, she flops dead at David’s feet.

“Hi, David,” says Bridgette, going towards him.

“Hello,” says David.

He bends down and starts playing the rolling game with Jade. David rolls and Jade, who’s risen from the dead, rolls over David.

“Cute,” Bridgette mouths to me, and I know that she won’t be leaving until all the juicy details have been extracted from
me.

We’re seated in the lounge when Ian strolls in dressed in yesterday’s clothes, his hair all over the place, the smell of stale
alcohol about. He glances over at Bridgette who is staring at him.

“Ian, this is Bridgette.”

I make my voice as normal as I can; I try to sound as though it’s the most natural thing in the world to be here in this cottage
with Ian and David and now my long lost school friend, found. As if it’s my destiny.

Ian says, “Howzit.”

Bridgette has an amused look on her face.

“Howzit,” she says.

If he senses that she is poking fun at him, it flies right past him. He goes into the kitchen and for a moment we are all
still, David, Bridgette, and me, as we hear him rummaging about.

“I’m off,” he says.

Showered, dressed, and ready to roll, the keys dangling in his hand.

“Cheers.”

I don’t tell him, “But you’re supposed to have lunch with us. You’re meant to be part of this production.” No. I let him go.
No worries.

Bridgette doesn’t say anything about him, not until after the pasta, and David’s fallen asleep on the couch, her hand brushing
against his fiery hair.

“Okay Lindiwe,” she says, putting down her glass. “Can I humbly ask what in the Lord’s name is going on?”

And I’m glad she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I thought I knew but I don’t.”

And it’s good to say this out loud, to admit that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I don’t know what the hell I’ve let
myself in for.

“Okay miss, shall we at least start from the beginning. Child… how, when, where? Who—I’ve already got the picture, if that’s
who I think it is. What is up with you?”

I start smiling and then I laugh.

She looks down at David.

“How old is he Lindiwe? Five, six?”

“Six. Six and a half.”

“Lindiwe, that was when I had the—”

“After. I found out after you left. It was a one-night thing. It just happened.”

“But you were such a
good
girl.”

“I know, I know, and maybe that’s why it happened. I was kind of infatuated with him. Don’t look at me like that, Bridgette.
I don’t know, I found him really romantic and maybe I felt sorry for him…”

“Lindiwe, a romantic killer—”

I jump up.

“That’s not true, Bridgette! He was cleared.”

My heart is thudding, painful.

David stirs.

“I’m sorry, Lindiwe. Come on, sit, or do you want to beat me up?”

I sit down keeping my eyes on David.

“And the setup here?”

I watch her eyes traveling around the room, and I’m embarrassed by the cheapness, the makeshift quality of the furniture:
the straw couch she is sitting on, care of the vendors along Avondale road, the table made of crates, the bookshelf balanced
on bricks. Suddenly with Bridgette here, it doesn’t seem to amount to much, the life I have with Ian and David.

“Lindiwe, khuluma! Speak!”

“I see Mrs. Moyo’s classes at school had some effect.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Lindiwe, he’s a Rhodie!”

“A Zimbabwean, Bridgette.”

Another roll of the eyes.

“
Maybe
he’s a new breed of enlightened Rhodie, but Lindiwe he’s still a Rhodie.”

“Bridgette, he’s the father of my child, and he’s a good person. Don’t look at me as though I need a stay in Ingutsheni, Bridgette.”

“Okay, then, so what are you going to do after university? You
do
have a
plan
for your
future?
”

“Bridgette, I… I just don’t know. This has all just happened, I…”

“Don’t get pregnant.”

“At the moment I don’t think there’s any chance of that.”

“So why are you…?”

David lifts his head, looks sleepily around, and slumps down again.

“You should go away, take off. I mean it. Do something for yourself. Leave him with the kid. Come on, Lindiwe. Knowing you,
you must be getting top marks. Why don’t you do another degree? Go to London. I can get details about scholarships.”

“Stop, you’re making me dizzy, Bridgette.”

“Good, you. Think of it this way… the more qualified you get, the more you can take care of him. I mean, your son. No offense,
but your Mr. Right doesn’t look like he’s exactly rolling in
cash.
”

I don’t tell her that he doesn’t have O levels.

“Anyway, what does he do?”

“He’s a journalist, a photojournalist. He’s done lots of work in South Africa.”

I don’t mention the other work at TV Sales and Hire, the installing of fridges and stoves.

“Lins… no, nothing.”

“Just say it, Bridgette, you’re on a roll. I’m listening.”

“Okay. How can you seriously live with a man who… who might be… Lindiwe, you don’t know, not really, how can you ever feel
safe?”

I pick up the cork of the wine bottle and roll it in my hand. And then I say, “Come on, let’s have some coffee.”

When Bridgette leaves, I go for a walk with David and Jade. David is holding onto the leash, which Jade keeps biting at and
doing elaborate dances around. I don’t know I’m walking so fast until I turn around and see boy and dog, two tiny blobs in
the distance; I can’t tell if they’re moving or still, and for one magical instant, I could just run away, leave, disappear,
be free, and then the thought breaks up and I run back to where David stands and Jade sits.

“Mum,” David says to me. “Look, I taught her.”

And I look at the dog and say, “Good girl, Jade.”

I look at the boy and say, “Well done, David.”

We walk back home, the three of us.

Mr. Chambers, my
psychometrics lecturer, gives me a lift home. We sit in his car at the gate for ten, fifteen minutes, going over some detail
about my research project. When I get inside the cottage, Ian is standing by the window, hands crossed over his chest.

“God, I’m hot, Ian. Water.”

There are four bottles of Castle in the sink.

I stand there against the sink, looking at his back. I found him this morning face down on the couch. I tried to wake him
up so that David wouldn’t see him like that. I drove to the school, spying David in the rearview mirror, so small and quiet,
his hands pushing against the vinyl seat, his head heavy with all the fighting and tears and silences. I remembered David,
the barefoot boy in the pyjamas, whom we stole from his grandmother. We had promised him so much. We owed him so much. We
kept letting him down.

When I came back to leave the car, he was still comatose on the couch.

I look at Ian, and everything I’ve been holding back, I feel pressing against my tongue, lashing at my heart.

“So now we’ve started in the morning, Ian? Did you even go to work?”