Disposition of Remains (23 page)

I instructed Raashi
da to push once again, and I delivered the placenta while Edison continued cringing. I had admired Edison so much in the weeks we had spent with him, but he was so hugely disappointing in the face of fatherhood. It reminded me of how I’d imagined Evan would have behaved if we had ever had a child. I wanted to rejoice with Raashida and her new miracle, but Edison’s reaction annoyed me so much, I couldn’t focus on the triumph of the situation. My rising adrenaline was causing me to shake. Maybe, if he held the baby, I thought, then he would start to bond.

“Edison, would you like to hold your son?”

“Son?” Edison looked pleadingly at Wilbur.

Wilbur leaned toward me and said, “Raashi
da is Edison’s sister.”

When I finally lifted my jaw from the floor, all I could do was laugh. I laughed an insane hyena laugh. Adrenaline had replaced my brain cells and I couldn’t stop. I was laughing so hard that I couldn’t catch my breath. My maniacal amusement was apparently contagious, as Wilbur, Raashi
da, and Edison began laughing along with me, or
at
me. I wasn’t sure.

I
cut up some bed sheets and then grabbed the baby back from Wilbur. I then used one of the cloth pieces and safety pins from the first-aid kit to fashion a diaper. I swaddled the baby tightly, as well as I’d done when it was my job to do so. I felt exceedingly proud of myself as I handed the bundle to Raashida.

“Jesus, Stacia!” Wilbur exclaimed. “You’re like the MacGyver of the African Bush!”

And then I fainted.

I was thankful to have listened to Victor back in South Africa and had not worn white throughout my African travels. Although, had we stayed with the geriatric tour group, I would have been the clear winner in the wet T-shirt contest. Overspray from Victoria Falls drenched us like rain as Wilbur and I hiked the tree-lined path, ducking into various alcoves to admire the breathtaking view.

The falls are named after Alexandrina Victoria Guelph, the monarch of England at the time of their christening. They were named by
David Livingstone, the Scottish missionary and explorer who was credited with discovering Victoria Falls in 1855. Apparently, no African native had ever noticed the enormous gorges with astounding waterfalls enshrouded by a cloud of mist that rises into the sky.

The falls lie between Zambia and Zimbabwe, and naturally, each country had concluded that their side was the most spectacular. I wanted to decide for myself. After completing our hike on the Zimbabwean side, we made our way back to the truck
that Wilbur had borrowed from his camp and drove into Zambia, where we rented a small boat and headed for Livingstone Island.

After the short walk across the island, Wilbur held my hand as we climbed over the jagged, volcanic basalt rocks to reach the clear, blue water on the other side. We paused for a moment at the top of the waterfalls, on the spot where
David Livingstone had stood when he first laid eyes on the falls, describing it as a scene “gazed upon by angels in their flight.”

As I looked over the heavenly mist to the falls below, I reminisced my way back to the Piazzale Michelangelo, to that perfect moment I
had stared in awe at the red rooftops of Florence. Everything was right with the world again. I could even mentally conjure the music to “Time To Say Goodbye,” as I stood alone with Wilbur in the presence of this astounding beauty. There was no Clifford or Carol to irritate me, no Evan to intimidate and rule me. There was nothing but the sound of the “Cloud of Thunder” as the Natives call it, and the imaginary music in my head; nothing but the crystalline water flowing and plunging past the rocks, foliage, and trees into the chasm below.

“Jump.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Trust me. I’ll jump with you,” Wilbur said in all seriousness.

He pointed straight down to a pool of water that rushed over a cliff, plunging one hundred meters into the gorge below.

“This is the Devil’s Pool. It’s on every world traveler’s bucket list.”

He bit down on his tongue the moment his words left his mouth, realizing the insensitivity of his statement.

Wilbur hadn’t acknowledged it in so long—my sad truth. It wasn’t as though the reality of it ever entirely escaped me, but our
days had been so full that I’d hoped it had escaped him. But it hadn’t. It had found him and, therefore, found me. It could not be escaped. It would continue to stalk me no matter where I was, or whom I was with. It would track me down me in any remote corner of the planet I chose to visit. As I stood gazing upon the glorious Victoria Falls, my sad truth found and overwhelmed me.

As I stood there, I realized that this is what I should be doing with my last
days. I should be participating in once-in-a-lifetime death-defying acts of bravery instead of riding along on some safe tour with a bunch of geezers. I should be living on the edge, and possibly even jumping over it.

So that’s exactly what I did.

Without another thought, I jumped into the water that rushed toward the edge, toward the cliff that might well claim my life. I was stopped short from falling into the gorge by a natural rock wall that plunged deeper into the water than my feet could reach, a wall that was virtually invisible at first sight: the ultimate infinity pool.

Wilbur followed me into the water and guided me to hold on tight to the wall. I hung my head over the edge of the pool as he held onto my feet. Rainbows emerged from the mist as I took in the terrifying but glorious sight
.

I closed my eyes as the
deafening flow of water pounded against me, rushing past me into the void below. My life flashed before my eyes as I dangled over the edge of nature’s miracle. I saw images of my mother dancing, of Evan looking at me with his scornful disappointment, and of the coyote that kept haunting and taunting me. So many images were spiraling through my brain. Then there was the old Havasupai man, staring at me with those black eyes, peering through the depths of my soul.

“Why are you here?” he demanded.

“I don’t know!” I screamed. And suddenly, I was being pulled back to reality, yanked back from the edge by Wilbur. I clung onto him with everything I had, shaking from the intensity of the moment.

“You don’t know what? Are you
all right? Wilbur asked as he held me.

Of course I’m not
all right. I’m dying, for God’s sake! I’m trying so hard to live, and yet the end result is the same: death. I saw some things, met some people, and enjoyed myself, but what does it all mean?

I buried my face into Wilbur’s chest in a ridiculous attempt to hide from the old man in my head. I didn’t want to hear or see or feel him near me—the Havasupai demon of death trying to suck me into his vortex to Hell.

I wanted to feel something different. Something good. I wanted to feel Wilbur. I lifted my head from his chest and gazed into his eyes, certain that his soft lips would once again taste mine. He brushed my wet hair back from my face and kissed my lips, my cheeks, and my neck. He pressed up against me, embracing me tightly against his soft, warm skin.

“Stacia, you’re shaking.”

“It’s all right; I’m just cold,” I said as I noticed Wilbur’s wound in the water. “Your arm. You shouldn’t get it wet.”

It was so much easier to focus on Wilbur than on myself.

The moment broken once again, we headed back for the truck and took a short drive into the town of Victoria Falls. It was the most civilized place I had been since South Africa. It was also a much more touristy place, made up of many resort-style hotels. Our hotel towered above the edge of a cliff, overlooking a game reserve with a watering hole. There was a patio and a deck where you could just sit out all day, order cocktails, and watch the wildlife stroll by.

I sat on the patio, soaking in the tranquility of the place while Wilbur went in search of a doctor to prescribe some antibiotics for his arm. After having gazed upon the animals for a while, I finally delved into that Wilbur Smith book. Since I had already failed miserably at being the good person I’d intended to be, I
had essentially stolen Clifford’s book when we snuck out of the camp in Hwange earlier that morning.

I would look up after every few pages, to see which animal was making its way toward the watering hole in the ravine below. I was studying a group of baboons playing when I noticed a long, steep walkway that led from the hotel down to the ravine. Curiosity got the better of me and I began to search the grounds for the entrance to the staircase. I wandered around for about an hour, combing the rolling hills of grass and flowers surrounding the hotel. Finally, I caught a glimpse of a staircase behind a tree and a gate with a sign stating, “Employees Only.”

The gate was short enough to straddle, so after verifying a lack of witnesses, I snuck over it. Several hundred rickety, wooden steps lay ahead of me, and I skipped down them at a rapid clip to assure I would reach my destination before being noticed. A taller chain-link gate stood at the bottom, bearing yet another sign. This one read “Beware of Wild Animals.” I decided not to be a Carol and ignore every warning, so I stayed put. Still, I had an amazing, close-up, private viewing of the baboons at play.

I sat on the stairs for a while, just inside the gate, when I heard a noise in the tree directly above my head. I looked up to see what bird or varmint was scurrying around, when instead, I saw a spotted paw. I arose quickly and took a few steps back, and there he was: the elusive leopard, hanging in the tree just above my head. He was merely turning over in his slumber to readjust his napping position, paying no attention to me whatsoever.

On each and every game drive, I had sought him out. I had combed tree after tree just to catch a glimpse of the spotted beauty, but always to no avail. But right then, the leopard could have bitten me in the ass before I had noticed him.

I crept slowly backward up the stairs so I could get a better view, all while praying that I would continue to go unnoticed, when I bumped into something soft behind me. I turned around to find a
tall, African man wearing only a straw skirt and a large, colorful headdress.

“You are not supposed to be here,” he scolded.

I considered pretending that I didn’t speak English, feigning that I had just wandered down the stairs by pure accident, but I was too excited by my find.

“It’s a leopard!” I squealed in a half-whisper and pointed, trying not to jump up and down.

“I see that. We must go,” he prodded in a gentle, yet insistent voice.

He grabbed me by the shoulders and inched me slowly up the stairs in a backward fashion. The leopard stirred a bit, but never seemed truly aware of our presence. About thirty feet up, the man turned around to face forward and walked up the stairs, frequently glancing over his shoulder to make sure I was cooperatively following him.

When we reached the gate at the top he said, “That was very dangerous; you should not have been down there.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t see the leopard until I was already down.”

“Many people in Africa believe that the leopard is the animal guide for the spirits of the dead,” he said with a smile.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“No. The leopard helps the dead find their final resting place.”

I had been actively seeking out the leopard, the death guide. Instead
, he had found me. But I wasn’t ready to be guided through death; I still needed guiding through life.

First it was the Cactus Ferruginous pygmy-owl in Sedona, whose sighting implies imminent death to those who see it; then the ground hornbill, whose very presence means someone is going to die; and now the leopard, the guide of the dead into the afterlife. And yet, after having spotted all the creatures of doom, I was still living and breathing. They were just taunt
ing me—letting me know my place; my inevitable future. And then there was that smirking coyote bastard. What horrible thing could it mean to keep seeing him over and over again?

“I am Hondo. I work at The Boma,” the man said with an outstretched hand, startling me out of my preoccupation.

“The Boma?”

“Yes. You will have to come and see,” Hondo laughed, then turned with a smile and strode away.

By the time I made it back to the room, Wilbur had returned and I shared with him my encounter with Hondo of The Boma. I decided to keep Earth’s animal prophets to myself.

“We’ll go there tonight,” Wilbur offered with a smile.

We dressed in our best clothes and walked a good distance to The Boma restaurant, a large, open, thatched hut partially surrounded by the lush Gusu forest. The walls were splashed with vibrant paint that formed brightly colored works of African art. The hostess covered both Wilbur and I in flashy traditional robes called
chitenges,
which tied over one shoulder. Then, to the vibrating rhythm of the drums, she escorted us to our table.

Warthog kabobs, ostrich steaks, crocodile tail, and impala-knuckle terrine were all served buffet style. I decided to be adventurous and try a little of each. We ate in awed silence as fire pits blazed and
dancers whirled around us in colorful outfits. Hondo waved to me from across the room.

My eyes were focused on the festivities, but my mind was entirely preoccupied by what might occur when it was over: Wilbur and I alone in this amazing place. My thoughts wandered back to that kiss we’d shared earlier, how it had melted away the thought of my impending death. I wanted to experience its intoxicating wonder again. I wanted to get lost with Wilbur in a blur of warmth and flesh.

Following the dancers, a witchdoctor and a local storyteller spoke to the restaurant’s patrons at length, attempting to imbue us with local culture and tradition. I knew they had many interesting things to teach, but I couldn’t concentrate on their words. Botticelli could have returned from the grave to give me a private lecture about Renaissance art and I wouldn’t have cared at that moment. I was inextricably focused on Wilbur, like a love-sick teenager.

Suddenly, we were pulled up
from our seats by the staff to participate in the entertainment. The men joined the drummers, and the women, the dancers. I caught Wilbur’s gaze from across the room and held it. I knew then, as he beat on his drum, that he was thinking the same thing I was. We were letting the wild energy of the place warm us up for the main event. 

We had barely closed the door to our hotel room before the animal magnetism took over and my lips were pressed against his. We were kissing in a way we hadn’t yet: more sensually, more urgently.

His hands traversed every curve and explored every crevice of my form, gathering and tugging at my dress and my hair. Before I knew it, my dress was on the floor. I’d been so wrapped up in the moment, I had barely noticed that I’d been disrobed. Wilbur unhooked my bra with magician-like ease, sending it flying across the room before he began caressing and kissing my breasts. My entire body tingled in a hypersensitive state. Warmth surged down my core and mixed with the moisture in my womanhood below.