Private Lies (25 page)

"You're making wild assumptions, Meade," Eliot
said. Maggie sensed his double meaning, but was too frightened and upset to intrude.
Did Meade suspect that it was Eliot who sabotaged his van? Or worse? She felt a
tightening in her gut.

"Am I?" Meade muttered. "There's more here
than meets the eye." He shot Eliot a hostile glance.

"More fantasy than truth, I suspect," Eliot said
gamely. "You mustn't panic, Meade. Things are not always as they
seem."

Eliot, she noted, seemed determined to remain calm and
rational. She decided to follow his lead and not let dark portents dominate her
thoughts.

"As you know, Meade, Mrs. Butterfield has considerable
experience with the ways of Africa," Eliot said.

"And my husband is a very bright and resourceful
man," Maggie said defensively, taking her cue from Eliot.

"Who doesn't know a damned thing about Africa,"
Meade countered.

Both she and Eliot, she observed, had assumed a posture of
injured dignity. Meade scratched his head and sucked in a deep breath.

"Bloody good, then," Meade sneered, but their
attitude seemed to have done its work. "Then we'll not think the
worst." He peered through the windshield into the relentless rain. "I
suppose we could cruise for a while. If they're still out there, they could see
our lights."

Meade gunned the motor and started across the plain, which
had softened even more, creating tire slippage and zigzagging. The rain had
slowed considerably and the thunder and lightning grew fainter. They no longer
heard the agonizing cry of the elephant.

They drove through the darkness for what seemed like hours.
Occasionally Meade would exchange words in Swahili with the black man, who
stood in the rear, his head poking out the portal. At intervals Meade would
stop the van, flash his brights, and honk the horn. Then they would wait. After
getting no response, they would move on.

"We had better get back to camp. Start again at first light,"
Meade said. "Mustn't get the men edgy."

"I'd prefer that we keep going," Maggie
protested.

"Afraid we can't oblige your preference, Mrs.
Kramer," Meade said with disgust.

"He's right, Maggie," Eliot said. "And we'll
need rest."

"That we will," Meade muttered between clenched
teeth. "Rest and hope for a miracle."

He beamed his flashlight at the compass again, set a
course, and headed back to camp.

Maggie felt queasy from hunger and fright. She reached out,
grasped Eliot's hand, and felt him return the pressure.

"I'd prefer to be optimistic," Eliot said.

Meade shrugged.

"No point in contacting the authorities until we've
had another go at it," Meade said in a tone that sounded ominously
conspiratorial. Maggie imagined herself and Eliot on trial for murder, both of
them in prison garb and short haircuts. The image terrified her. Not guilty,
she protested in her mind. We are innocent. Aren't we? Remorse began to attack
her. She looked toward Eliot and their eyes locked. He seemed to want to tell
her something. She imagined the message. Not our fault? She nodded in
agreement. Poor Ken, she sobbed inside of her. Forgive me.

It took more than an hour to get back to the camp. The rain
had diminished to a light drizzle. A group of the men stood waiting for them,
smiling incongruously as they came into the rim of light from the van. There
was even a welcoming orange lantern glow in their tents.

When the van came to a stop, Maggie jumped to the ground
and felt her knees buckle. Eliot caught her before she fell. She leaned against
him as they made their way toward their tents. Meade got out of the van and
strode over to where the men were waiting under a canopy that kept the rain
from dousing the cooking fire.

"He knows about us," Maggie said. She had begun
to shake.

"We won't think about that," Eliot said.

"And he suspects about the van," Maggie said.

Eliot didn't respond and they moved toward their tents.
Suddenly Maggie heard Ken's voice.

"You sure had us worried," he called from inside
the tent. She could see his form through the mesh window of the undone flap.

Carol came out of her tent, catching them in the beam of
her flashlight.

"We thought you were lost," Eliot said. "Or
had tangled with that mad elephant."

"Eliot was nearly trampled," Maggie said with
some resentment, as if it had been Ken's fault. "He went in to look for
you."

At that point, Meade came up behind them.

"He's bloody lucky," he said, glancing at Eliot
with a knowing, insidious smile.

"Thank God," Carol said.

"Jesus, I'm sorry, Eliot," Ken mumbled.

"I know we should have stayed put. But Ken got this
fool notion," Carol said.

"Once you pick up the rhythm of Africa," Ken said
with theatrical modesty, "the rest is easy. If you concentrate hard
enough, you can see the signposts along the way. So we struck out, followed our
noses, and blundered through." He shrugged. "Actually, you weren't
far wrong, Eliot. We were a lot closer than we realized."

"Yes," Eliot said, with a telling glance toward
Meade. "The trick is not to panic."

"We didn't," Carol said. "Anyway, we're all
here and that's what counts."

When Maggie came out of the shower, Ken was lying on his
cot, a book open on his belly.

"You know, I could really get into this African
shit."

She felt her anger rise but with effort she repressed it.
"We practically went crazy looking for you both," she said, falling
exhausted on her cot.

"Well, now you've found us," Ken said.

Fuck you, she told him silently, crying inside herself with
rage.

"We thought you both were killed, trampled by that
elephant." She grew suddenly silent. The point was that everything had
ended happily.

Hadn't it?

She turned away from him, fearful that he might see her
disappointment.

SOMETHING WAS DIFFERENT. It was as if the calibration that
governed their environment had gone awry, like a subtle change of musical pace
in the middle of a ballet.

At first Carol attributed it to her own concentration. She
was too watchful, too focused, too concerned with every nuance—a raised
eyebrow, a stolen glance, an uncommon retort. She found herself growing edgy,
looking forward to leaving the Samburu for their next camp in the Masai Mara.

Eliot seemed more reflective, less talkative. For the past
two nights he had muttered words in his sleep, had tossed and turned in his
cot. On the second night she had been awakened by a lion's roar and discovered
that he was gone. It was still dark, jet black with a thick cloud cover that
hid the moon and the stars. Unzipping the front flap of the tent, she had
peered out and saw him sitting alone near the fire's dying embers wrapped in a
blanket. Just before dawn he had come back into the tent. She pretended to be
asleep. But the experience reinforced the notion that something very profound
was going on inside him, something she had never seen in him before.

She worried that their original plan had somehow gone
terribly wrong, had taken them into strange and uncharted territory. She chose
not to share this fear with Ken. Not yet. For some reason, too, it was
increasingly difficult to find a moment to be alone with him physically. Or
perhaps it was her own heightened sense of caution.

Nor were Eliot and Maggie as outwardly friendly to each
other as they had been before. In fact, Maggie also seemed withdrawn,
different. She did not hang on Eliot's every word as before and they appeared
to have less to say to each other. Perhaps she was simply reacting to the
aftermath of what had happened with the elephant. Meade had recounted the
experience the next day at breakfast.

"It was a bloody close shave," he told them.
"Bugger came this close." He showed his hand, indicating a small
space between thumb and forefinger.

"It was frightening. I can't remember coming this
close to my maker," Eliot admitted, looking toward Maggie.

"We were all a bit shaky. He was a bloody big bastard,"
Meade emphasized. "Wasn't he?" he said, turning to Maggie as if cuing
her reaction.

"I wish..." Maggie said tentatively with an odd
glance at Meade. "I wish I had shown less hysteria."

"Only natural," Meade said. "I thought she
was going out the door to pull him in." Maggie flushed, as if the memory
embarrassed her.

Carol also detected a discordant note of ridicule and
disrespect in Meade's tone that seemed inappropriate to the explanation. She
noted, too, that his face was unusually mottled and that there was a distinct
odor of whiskey fluming out of his mouth as he spoke. It was obvious that he
had spiked his coffee.

"Maybe we should have stayed put," Ken said.

"That elephant would have made you both into a
pudding. Might have provided a tasty breakfast for the hyenas," Meade
said, again turning to Carol. "Or a snack for the vultures."

"Getting back to camp was dumb luck on our part,"
Ken said, taking a deep sip on his coffee.

"Dumb it was," Meade muttered as if it were a
rebuke. He seemed strangely out of synch with his previous attitude, which was
one of authority tempered with deference. They were, after all, his clients,
which implied certain rules of respectful behavior.

Eliot's attitude toward Meade also seemed odd, Carol noted.
On other trips Eliot wouldn't have stood for either sarcasm or surliness.

"What would you have done, Meade?" Ken asked,
cutting a glance at Eliot, who turned away as if in retreat.

"I'd have gone back with Butterfield. You don't know
this country." He turned toward Carol. "Nor is Mrs. Butterfield,
despite some experience, an expert. It was damned stupid of you both to stay in
the first place."

Carol prepared an argument, then demurred. Meade's anger
seemed to be building. No point in exacerbating things. She recycled the experience
in her memory. Eliot was going to check his bearings, come back with the man.
Maggie opted to tag along, which meant she was to be alone with Eliot, which,
of course, was what she and Ken wanted. And, certainly, she had reveled in
being alone with her lover.

Perhaps it had gotten slightly out of hand. Ken had seemed
determined to lead the way back to the camp. All right, it was against all
previous safety instructions, but he had been right. And it turned out that
they weren't really that far from camp at all.

Ken had shown resourcefulness and courage. When they had
seen the smoke from the cooking fire, they had stopped and embraced,
celebrating their good fortune with a long furtive kiss. It had turned out to
be a wonderful adventure.

"Meade's right," Eliot said. "I should never
have left you and Carol there. It would have saved us all lots of
anxiety."

But Meade hadn't said that at all, Carol remembered. He had
called Ken and her fools for not going with Eliot. Another item out of sync,
she thought, her concern growing.

"Bloody van is still a puzzle to me," Meade said,
directing his remark to Eliot.

"I vote we put all this behind us," Maggie
interjected suddenly. "Chalk it up to good grist for the memory mill and
we leave it at that." She offered a smile that seemed forced.

"I second that," Eliot said.

"Do something like that again," Meade grumbled,
"and I pack you all in. Leave you here to play Tarzans and Janes. I could
have lost my license."

"And what are our lives compared to that?" Ken
said with cheerful sarcasm.

A flash of tension crossed Meade's face and he turned angry
eyes to Ken. For a brief moment, Carol thought a confrontation might be in the
making, then Meade said:

"Bus leaves in ten minutes." He got up and headed
toward the van.

"Bit on the moody side this morning," Ken said.

"I'm afraid he had a rough time of it yesterday,"
Eliot said, as if he were offering an apology for Meade's conduct.

"He's also boozing," Ken pointed out.

"He'll be fine," Eliot said, but he sounded
tentative.

It was Eliot's docility and acceptance that surprised Carol
most of all. Somehow it was this attitude that lay at the heart of the puzzle.

They roamed the plains for two days, snapping pictures,
following herds of different animal species, tracking the elusive leopard,
finding none. Each afternoon, clouds gathered and angry storms soaked the
plains, turning the ground to mud and making it too soupy to take the afternoon
trips.

"Hope it's drier in the Masai," Meade remarked,
his surliness proportional to the booze he was taking in. He had at least the
partial good sense to limit himself to one flask when they traveled in the van.

It was too wet to sit by the open fire during their two
remaining evenings in the Samburu and more time was spent in the mess tent, which
contributed to Carol's sense of constriction. She hadn't been able to find a
way to be safely alone with Ken for two days. Both couples seemed always
together now and she began to have confused feelings of insecurity, as if she
were under observation.

During dinner on their last evening in the Samburu, Carol's
sense of unease seemed to reach a breaking point and, sending Ken a determined
message with her eyes, she moved out of the mess tent in the middle of the main
course.

"Bit of a stomach upset," she said.

"Better turn in, then," Meade said. "We've
got a long haul ahead of us over bad roads to the Masai country."

Considering Meade's accelerating drinking problem it was a
bleak prospect. The road leading to the Masai, Carol knew from experience, was
a mess.

Carol waited for Ken on the far side of her tent, out of
view of the others. She felt depressed, despairing. It was becoming more and
more difficult to suppress her fears. She needed to be with Ken alone.

He came up behind her and she turned and looked beyond him,
making sure they could not be seen.

"What did you tell them?" she whispered.

"This is a visit to the loo," Ken replied.
"Anyway, I seemed to have been out of the conversation."

He put his arms around her. When they spoke, they kept
their voices low, speaking directly into each other's ears.

"I'm frightened, Ken," she said. "Something
isn't right."

"You sensed that, too."

"Do they seem to be watching us more closely?"
she asked. "I think they suspect. Maybe they know something."

"How could they?" Ken said, but the question
seemed purely rhetorical. "We've been careful as hell."

"No, we haven't," Carol protested. "We've
taken chances."

"Not in front of them. We've been proper and
indifferent." He looked around them suddenly. "Unless they've got us
under surveillance." He chuckled lightly.

"They could have seen us," Carol replied.
"That day on the plain. Meade, too. He's part of it. He would be their
witness. Haven't you seen the difference in him as well? They're conspiring. I
feel it. They know and they're playing with us now like cat and mouse."
She felt the cutting edge of hysteria beginning. "Eliot is going to take
everything away from me. I feel it, Ken. He's just biding his time."

"Well, then," Ken said. "Let him. We'll
still have each other."

She stiffened and moved out of his embrace. Not that again,
she told herself, her mind groping for logic.

"I know," Ken whispered, holding up his hands.
"Forgive me."

She was not going to give up what was rightfully hers. It
wasn't fair for Eliot to do this to her. It was unjust, mean-spirited.

"We've got to do something," she whispered. He
reached out and she came into his arms again.

"You've got to calm down, think things out."

Then it occurred to her that maybe she was investing Eliot
with evil motives that might be totally unjustified. She had been a good wife
to him, caring and efficient. He had not been harsh or cruel to her. Cautious,
yes, but not ungenerous. The fact was that she was the unfaithful one, the
betrayer, and Eliot was the injured party. This was a very worrisome condition.
From her African experiences, she knew that an injured animal was the most
dangerous of all.

"You're only assuming, Carol. You can't know this for
sure."

"Then why do things seem changed?" Carol asked.
"You told me you sensed it, too."

"Sensing isn't knowing."

"The feeling is strong," Carol said.
"Very."

"Could be the weather," Ken replied calmly.
"Weather has a profound effect on the mind."

"I don't think so," she said after a moment's
reflection. "It's just not working out the way we hoped."

"I don't think all the votes are in yet, Carol."

"Eliot and Maggie barely looked at each other the last
few days. That's hardly a sign of growing affection. For some reason, they seem
to be drawing apart."

"Or they're faking," Ken replied. "Like us.
Playing their own game."

His observation surprised her, set off a new path in her
mind. Perhaps panic was making her paranoid, making her lose sight of their
true purpose, encouraging Eliot's and Maggie's attraction, creating the conditions
for a divorce on her terms. Recalling that, she felt somewhat calmer.

"You really think that?" Carol asked, grasping at
the idea. "The part about playing their own game."

"Well, we are playing ours," Ken said. "I
don't think we should ever underestimate the opposition."

She thought about that for a moment. Opposition? It implied
confrontation. War!

"I suppose that is the reality of it," Carol
sighed.

"The fact is, Carol, Eliot is the enemy. We are trying
to outfox him, aren't we?"

"The reverse of that is troubling me. He could be
trying to outfox us. Especially if he knows what's happening between us."
She looked up at him. "And Maggie as well."

"That is not a very comforting thought," Ken
said. "Maggie is not one to be scorned. She is also capable of extracting
a healthy pound of flesh."

"Maggie?"

She could not keep the surprise out of her voice. Maggie,
whom Ken had characterized as the nurturer, the great Earth Mother, had seemed
the most vulnerable to their persuasion. She had always appeared to both of
them to be halfway there already, Eliot's admirer and sycophant and, therefore,
more open to suggestion. Up to that moment, Ken had assured her of that. They
had both calculated that Maggie, with her big, amply endowed body and good
mind, had the physical and intellectual allure to entice Eliot, and, given
their persuasive manipulations, the seductive power to force Eliot into
returning the affection.

Perhaps, she thought, their initial victory had made them
too optimistic. Or, contrary to their original intention, maybe they had been
too indiscreet themselves, giving themselves away. The fact was that they had
never calculated that Eliot and Maggie would discover their affair.

"She certainly wouldn't be approving," Ken said.
"She would consider her options."

"Take what she can?"

"Of course. She's a businesswoman. And there are the
girls. I was talking of a pound of emotional flesh."

"Eliot would be ruthless. Leaving us with
nothing."

He shrugged and they were silent for a long time.

"You think I'm overreacting," she said,
"reading too much into things?"

"Maybe. After all, they haven't really shown their
hand."

"Just in case, then," she replied, "we had
better be more discreet."

"In the future, you mean," he said, reaching out
to her. She pressed her body against him as he embraced her. "I love you I
love you I love you," he whispered, his lips finding hers.

She felt him tug at her pants, unbutton them, push them
down. She did the same to him and soon they were feeling each other's bare
flesh.