Disposition of Remains (18 page)

Out of the dead still of the night came the startling sound of drumming directly outside our tented cabin. I sprang out of bed and tumbled clumsily to the floor.

“What in the hell is that?”

“African wake-up call,” Wilbur shouted as he arose and wandered from his room to mine. “We see more animals in the early morning before it gets too hot,” he said through a stretch and a yawn.

“How on earth are we supposed to see them? It’s pitched black outside!”

Wilbur laughed as he helped me up from the hardwood floor.

“Go take a shower. After breakfast, it’ll be light enough to see.”

With one eye open, I staggered to the shower and followed Wilbur’s directive, completely unmindful of the fact that I was only wearing a tank top and my “smalls,”
the African term for underwear.

When I finished showering, I wrapped up in a towel and allowed Wilbur his turn in the bathroom. So concerned with covering my nudity, I ducked behind the wall of the bedroom to quickly dress. Then I instinctively poked my head around the corner, forgetting it would be his turn to disrobe.

“I really like that the staff eats at the table with us,” I offered, trying to avoid eye contact as he climbed into the shower. “Eliminates that whole ‘us and them’ mentality.”

“That’s the whole idea,” he half gurgled as the water ran over his head, causing me to forget myself and peer in his direction. It took me an extra-long moment to tear my eyes away from his naked, lathered body. But still, our easy, constant flow of conversation continued all the way through hair drying, shaving, dressing, and tooth brushing. I loved how we shared the comfort level of an old married couple with the sexual tension of a new one, yet we weren’t a couple at all.

At breakfast, Wilbur and I completely ignored our sleepy co-travelers, still engulfed in our own conversation. I was so grateful for Wilbur’s company, especially considering my alternate choices for companionship. Spending time with Wilbur gave me a sort of impending-doom amnesia. His very presence was so intoxicating.

“African massage!” Edison called out as we bumped along the dusty road. I was once again the mediator between Carol and Clifford, squashed between them in the back of the off-road vehicle. For several hours we had been following some lion tracks that Edison had spotted. The sun was out in full force, and we had crossed the paths of many impalas, baboons, warthogs, and various birds while we searched for the African king. Clifford grumbled continuously about how he had spent his savings to see all of the “Big Five”—a term coined by hunters that includes the rhino, elephant, buffalo, the elusive leopard, and finally, the great
Panthera leo
, otherwise known as the lion. I guessed the notion that Clifford had been inspired to come to Africa because of Wilbur Smith’s novels was out the window.

Carol griped about Clifford’s grumbling, all while asking an endless number of annoying and idiotic questions. The answers of which would have to be repeated by Edison several times due either to her stupidity or the fact the she was auditorily-challenged, despite her protests otherwise.

We were about to turn around and return to the camp for lunch, thereby abandoning our quest, when Clifford called from the back of the jeep, “I see somethin’ tan over thar’ in the bushes!”

Edison halted the vehicle and pulled out a pair of compact binoculars as he informed us, “We cannot drive off-road in Chobe unless we are sure there are big cats. It disturbs the environment.”

I thought it odd that it was all right to disturb the environment, only if there were also a big cat to disturb. And yet I couldn’t quite get on the side of Sally and John who contended that we should just move on and leave the microcosm that was out of our view unbothered. What were we there for, if not to gander upon Simba and Mufasa’s relatives if they were really there for us to see? Luckily, everyone one else was on my side of the bandwagon.

“I’m sure…it’s a lion,” Clifford said, but his voice was wavering, leaving me quite sure that he was not sure. He just wanted so much to believe, as did I, though a small part of me wanted him to be wrong, because the insolent cowboy didn’t deserve to be right.

Edison carefully scanned the area, fixated on Clifford’s spot with his binoculars for a moment, then mumbled something to Wilbur, who was sitting shotgun. Wilbur gave an inconspicuous nod of approval.

Without another word, off the road we went, mowing over several small shrubs, much to Sally and John’s environmentalist dismay, attempting to find the “something tan” that Clifford had seen. They cringed as we crackled over fallen braches and kicked up the otherwise peaceful dirt. I hated myself for going along with the obnoxious American mentality that we should just do whatever we want wherever we are. But my self-loathing was greatly outweighed by my contempt for Clifford and Carol, making me feel strangely better.

Carol began again with her barrage of questions.

“Are you sure it wasn’t a paper bag? Or maybe a rock? Or even a—”

“NO! I’m sure,” Clifford barked back, not even attempting to conceal his disdain for her. Yet, even with his exasperation, his line of sight never moved from the spot of the alleged predator.

“Right there! Back up a little. I see an ear,” he
announced more confidently, while pointing and attempting to stand up in the truck.

Edison complied, and as we rolled slowly backward, I saw that there was not only one lion, but four of them, lazing under a tree in the tall grass. I felt briefly irritated with Clifford as he gloated in his correctness, because I knew it was only a lucky guess. But I quickly forgot about both him and Carol as Edison shifted back into drive and we slowly approached the enormous felines.

When we arrived at what Edison considered to be a “safe” distance—literally within several feet of them—the lions glanced in our direction, but remained otherwise indifferent to our presence. Carol began to make motions as if she were trying to exit the vehicle. I gently grabbed her by the belt of her jeans and sat her back down. She turned to me with a disgruntled glare and a huff. I felt a twinge of regret that I hadn’t just let her turn herself into a lion snack.

In a hushed voice, Edison instructed that we remain perfectly still, then began to impart information about the lions. He explained that they were all female—two adults and two cubs. Despite their youth, the cubs were enormous; one swipe from their massive clawed paws and Carol’s plastic surgery would have been history.

The rulers of the African plain resembled oversized, cuddly stuffed animals. They appeared perfectly content as they lay sprawled under the baobob tree, sunbathing in the streaks of light that filtered through its branches. They didn’t have a care in the world. Lions don’t skirt off like other animals at sight of intruders; they stay and fight. I envied them. Their lives were constantly in potential danger, and yet that fact was clearly not at the forefront of their minds, as my mortality was usually at the forefront of mine.

We watched for a while, anxiously waiting for the lions to do something
—anything. They did not. Other than the occasional blink, the lions remained still, conserving their energy for nocturnal hunting. We all sat mesmerized, sure that they would stretch or roll over at any moment.

Unfortunately, my bladder was losing its capacity due to my tumor and I couldn’t wait any longer. There was no way to discreetly inform Edison of my discomfort, as I was in the most remote seat of the vehicle. To my embarrassment, I was forced to pass along the message relay
-style in a whisper. I wasn’t a fan of soiling myself in front of Wilbur. Even though I was the youngest in the crowd, it depressed me that I was the most in need of an adult diaper.

When we returned to the camp, I ran past the staff that was awaiting our arrival with
glasses of champagne in hand.

“To the lions!” I could hear the staff toast from my seat in the bathroom.

When I rejoined the group, everyone was celebrating our success. David and Mary took it upon themselves to anoint Clifford “The Lion King.” It infuriated me and I refused to call him that; Clifford, with his self-centeredness and obnoxious jokes, didn’t remotely measure up to my animated guru.

We spent the next two
days alternating between eating, sleeping, and driving in search of new game. When our last night at Chobe arrived, we celebrated with a traditional African feast. Up to that point, our food had been very much Americanized. I could tell how much the locals enjoyed explaining to us that African women eat only after their men, and that they present their husbands’ meals while on their knees. Mary and Sally were quick to follow tradition, running to fill plates, then practically crawling over to their husbands’ feet to present them with their dinner while Edison, Raashida, and the other staff laughed at the spectacle.

I had already started to concoct reasons why I couldn’t participate: bad knee and the like.

“You don’t have to,” Wilbur whispered to me, which I sincerely appreciated since I had no intention of following suit.

The experience was so reminiscent of
Evan and his expectations. If he were there, he would have sat so glibly, waiting for me to cower down worshipfully in front of him in this new and glorious way. I simply should have refused; I was past needing reasons or excuses. I was dying for God’s sake!

Still, all eyes were on me, expecting me to comply with local tradition. Having a terminal illness would have been the perfect alibi, but I didn’t want to drop that bomb for such a trivial reason. I sat there, motionless and silent instead of boldly declining. When it became awkwardly clear that I had no intention of getting down on all fours, Carol decided to fill the void. She prepared a plate, glanced fleetingly at Clifford, then veered off in Wilbur’s direction, beaming.

“Oh, no. Oh, no, no,” Wilbur muttered in a low voice.

Suddenly, all my newfound independence and resolve disappeared as fast as a prom dress in the backseat of a car. I couldn’t let it go down like that. I jumped up and ran over to the buffet area. Realizing there wasn’t time, I instead snatched a plate of food out of Raashi
da’s hands and practically mowed over Carol to get to Wilbur first. I fell to my knees in front of him and handed him his food, which he quickly set aside. Wilbur wasn’t having any of it either. He stood up and grabbed my hand to help me to my feet. Our eyes locked once again, but this time I ignored the spectators and kissed him. Everyone clapped and cheered, except the upstaged Carol and the still-unnourished Clifford.

Carol took her plate and sat down, but not before giving Clifford a good sneer. Raashi
da, with her immense pregnant belly, voluntarily served Clifford a plate on her knees, which pleased him tremendously. At this point, I knew I wouldn’t be learning something new from
everyone
I met on my journey, except perhaps, how not to behave.

Further following African custom, we were asked to eat our food with our hands. Silverware was nowhere to be found. We were given
mieliepap,
a firm porridge made from maize meal and
potjiekos,
a traditional vegetable-and-meat stew. I decided I could embrace this tradition. It was so against how I had lived in the sterile American way. The easier thing to pick up with my hands was the white-rice-looking
mieliepap
.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed Clifford furrow his face into a frown at the sight of Wilbur and I feeding it to each other as if it were wedding cake.

At the close of our festivities, we were once again led back to our tented cabin, guarded by an armed escort. We commenced our usual nighttime routine, after which I crawled into my lonely bed and again attempted to read. Wilbur appeared next to my bed, and gazed down at me.

“Do you think I could just lay here with you?” he asked, his dark, wavy hair cascading across his face.

I had been dying a small death every night that he hadn’t asked me, and had silently hoped that he would just climb in and hold on tight. Wilbur looked as tense as I felt as he awaited my answer. I could feel the butterflies going to town in my stomach, but I couldn’t find the words to articulate my feelings. Instead, I simply smiled and pulled back the covers.

Wilbur slid into the bed beside me and we lay facing one another. Tenderly, he pushed a lock of my hair from my terrified face.

“You know so much about me; I want to know all about you,” I managed to whisper.

And, finally, the floodgates opened.

He proceeded to tell me how he had grown up on a farm in Ash Fork, Arizona, population: 573. While he treasured his upbringing, he knew that small town life wasn’t for him, so he enrolled in business school via full scholarship—at Yale, no less. After having received his MBA, he was recruited to a large company in Connecticut where he worked until he got the travel bug. With the money he managed to save, he was able to start investing in properties for his travel company. He also bought a house close to his parents, so he could still see them on a regular basis. Wilbur had entirely conventional values aside from his wanderlust and refusal to settle down.

We talked for hours, and when he finally paused, I could tell from his expression exactly what he was thinking. The same thing came rushing back to my mind. The proverbial elephant had returned to the room. His intoxicating aura had caused me to forget about it for a while, but it had obviously reentered his awareness:
This chick’s gonna die.