The Boy Next Door (33 page)

I find David at the bottom of the garden, sitting on the borehole, dismembering a locust. Even from here I can hear Ian’s
mother snoring out by the gazebo. He looks up at me while his fingers keep working on the locust. And then, he chucks the
bits of locust away and stands up.

Even the neighbors must be able to hear her.

“You know, she reckons she’s a ghost, so it doesn’t matter what bad thing she does because she doesn’t exist. That’s what
she told me yesterday.”

“Well, she’s a very noisy ghost, David, that’s for sure.”

We exchange shy grins.

“She’s just talking. Old people do that sometimes.”

That brings out a stretching of the lips which I take for an introspective smile.

I put my hand gently on his wrist (how long his limbs are).

“David…”

He stands so still then. Just his soft breathing. In and out, in and out.

And before he can be off again, I tell him about Bridgette.

We stand together there, quiet. The sun is beginning to set. The day is coming to a close, and I am standing here with my
son. The thought seems incredible to me at this moment. He scratches his right shoulder, pulls at the sleeve there. I can’t
believe how much he’s grown. I’m looking
up
at him. He’s wearing sports shoes one size smaller than Ian’s. And he’s got muscles now. He can outrun me. Sometimes his manliness
intimidates me. I thought that he was going to be one of those nerdy kids, his head always in a book, perpetually afraid,
timid. I thought I would have to deal with bullies.

“We can visit, right?”

“Yes, yes, we can. It’s far, but of course, we can visit.”

“So we’ll see her again.”

“Yes, yes.”

“She’s sick isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

And it’s as if for the first time, I’m acknowledging this to myself.

“Jamaica. Cool. I could learn to surf, water-ski.”

“Great, another reason for me to get a heart attack.”

“I wish we could head off to Bulawayo. I’m bored here, Mum.”

I wait for him to say something more. He waits for me.

“We will. Sometime, soon.”

I can smell the locust off his hands. He rubs the smell onto his jeans.

He’s about to wander off when I remember something I’ve been meaning to ask him for some time.

“David, over at the gardens, what do you guys do?”

“Stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah. Just stuff stuff.”

A thought strikes me.

“I hope you’re not smoking.”

“Oh, please, Mum.”

And then another thought that sends my heart racing.

“And I hope it’s not girls.”

“Mum, enough already.”

“Well, okay, I just hope you’re not messing about at the back, you know, over the fence. You know you can’t go there. It’s
a restricted area. You’ve seen the signs.”

“You mean where the army is?”

“Yes, David. You’re to stay in the gardens, okay? Doing whatever innocent thing you’re doing.”

I wait for him to say yes.

“What do they do there anyway? Lots of activity, trucks coming in and out, packed with—”

“David…”

“Okay, okay, Mum… chill.”

I try to think of all the boys I know. Not much. The Secret Seven. The Hardy Boys. What do boys do? They get up to mischief.
They have adventures. They build tree houses… I think of my father. What did he do as a boy? Terrorize the countryside with
his homemade catapult? Herd cows, yes, now that would be a great help!

“Are you building a tree house?”

The thought fills me with so much hope.

David looks at me with something like pity, and then he offers me a lifeline. “I’m taking pictures. Nature.”

Now this, I can believe in, happily live with.

It’s either the Walkman or the camera, sometimes the two of them in tandem, a double act. The camera, one of Ian’s old ones,
the one Ian says of, “I tell you, my boy, if that camera could talk, the things it’s seen…”

“For the class project. Environmental Science.”

“Good. Just stay in the gardens, okay? Or you’ll have me tagging along.”

He pulls a face.

“So about this school camp, are you sure you want to go?”

“Definitely.”

“
Two
whole weeks?”

He stretches out his hands in a long, extravagant yawn.

“Definitely, definitely, definitely
fucking
sure.”

And then he bursts out laughing and runs away.

When I phoned this morning, Rosanna said they had received a visit from some youths demanding that they show their ZANU-PF
party cards.

Luckily, said Rosanna, she had Maphosa’s card which he had left behind.

I thought of the Unity Accord signed in the late ’80s that had finally put a stop to the Fifth Brigade terror in Matabeleland
and effectively demolished Nkomo and the opposition. How Nkomo had been accused of selling out the Ndebeles by former Ndebele
fighters like Maphosa, and yet now, so many years later, some of the same fighters had maneuvered themselves in good positions
in the unified party. They virulently supported Mugabe in his sporadic attacks against white farmers and his default revolutionary
cry to wrench the land from them. And now, there are reports of farmers being harassed and chased off their property.

“The youths are so ignorant,” Rosanna said. “They did not even read the name. Anyways, they were drunk and they were satisfied
when I gave them some chicken and bread.”

She said Daddy was sitting up these days, more and more, and that he was writing things with his right hand.

“You must come and visit, Sisi. He would like that very much.”

I felt a stab of guilt. It’s been almost a year since I last saw him.

“He is missing little David. How is he?”

“He’s fine, Rosanna. What about Danielle?”

Peals of laughter from Rosanna. “She is fine, fine, fine, Sisi. She is doing so well at school; she is in Form One now. She
is catching up. Thank you for the moneys that you are sending for her education.”

“I’m glad it’s helping. Has Mummy called?”

She had taken off again to Botswana. And every time she left, she took more and more of the furnishings of the house with
her. It was as if she was moving away in bits and pieces. When she came back, she would throw Rosanna out.

There was a little silence, and I imagined Rosanna nervously twirling the cord between her fingers.

“No, Sisi. Not at all.”

Ian finds me on the veranda.

“Guess who called? You won’t believe.”

“Who?”

“The President’s Office.”

“What? You’re joking.”

“Listen to this one.”

“Yes, what?”

“They want me to take some portraits.”

“What?”

“Tomorrow. Can you believe it?”

“What did you say?”

“
Say?
I had no choice in the matter, girl. It was a summons, not an invitation.”

“Presidential portraits?”

“Ugha, and I’m thinking now, maybe these are the ones that are going to be anointed with the ‘all-seeing eye.’ Jeez, man,
I’m good.”

“Maybe you can say you’re sick or something.”

“What! You know how much I’ll get paid? It’s not like we’re exactly swimming in dosh, is it? And don’t look at me like that.
Principles, my foot. About the eyes, I’ll try to get Bob to look down, or I’ll do something when I develop the things, maybe
an Andy Warhol kind of thing, you better believe. I’m supposed to get my ass over at State House nine sharp tomorrow. Maybe
I’ll get to see Grace and the kids. I’m going to Graceland, Graceland—”

“Try not to get shot while you’re there.”

“No worries. He’s got enough issues, what with the war vets camping outside State House. I hope they get me in through a back
door; I don’t fancy a confrontation. By the way, we’re jolling tonight, you and me dolly bird.”

“Jolling?”

“Jolling, for sure, over at that fancy place at Highlands, where all the Pajeros, VIPs, expats, and local fundies hang out.”

“Now, you’re joking.”

“No, my child. I’ve booked us a table and everything. Don’t look so shocked. We’re talking class here.”

“And what’s the occasion?”

“
Occasion?
What? I can’t just take my chick out? Okay, but you’re really chissering me. You mean to tell me that you’ve forgotten our
anniversary.”

“Anniversary?”

“Anniversary, for sure, now you’re
really
burning me.”

“What anniversary?”

“You don’t even remember. Man, I’m burnt.”

“Ian!”

“That day at the bus stop. That day I picked you up in your netball getup.”

“Oh, I…”

“It’s official, an anniversary. Fifteenth anniversary, if you please, plus or minus. You have two and a half hours to doll
yourself up.”

“What about David?”

“All taken care of. He’s spending the night at Charles’s.”

“Your mother?”

“Ma Patience is coming over.”

“A well-planned operation, I see.”

“Yes man.”

Ma Patience comes in with her customary heaving and sighing.

“Hello. Hello. I am here now. Where is that big boy known by the name of David? Where is he right now?”

David, of course, has long gone. He has had more than enough experience of getting squashed up in Ma Patience’s ample hands
to hang around.

“Hello, little madam. I have come. I have come. As you can see, I am here.”

Ever since Ian’s mother has moved in, I have become the “little madam.”

“I will go and see madam now. You can go. I am ready. Have a good time now, you young people.”

And with that she giggles into her fist and heaves and sighs out of the room to find the (big) madam.

“You look nice,” he says, opening the door for me.

I don’t say, “what the…?” although I’m tempted to.

“Thank you.”

*    *    *

Even though it’s a Tuesday, the restaurant car park is almost full. The guard directs us with a flourish of his baton to an
empty space.

“Stay right there,” says Ian jumping out of the car.

He darts around to my side and flings open the door.

What the
…
?
“Thank you.”

Ian tells the young lady standing behind the dais his name and the time of his reservation.

The lady looks at Ian and then me and says, “This way, sir.”

Ian fairly vibrates with importance.

I’ve heard about this place. Bridgette’s told me. But nothing has prepared me for the fairy-tale display of light, water,
and foliage, which spreads out before us, as we sit on a table on the veranda. There is the sound of running water, lights
shimmering along its path as it darts in and out of the green.

“Wow.”

“Can you believe, Enterprise Road is just behind all this?”

We are with the beautiful people.
We
are the beautiful people.

I reach out and squeeze Ian’s hand.

The waiter takes our orders. A Thai curry for me. Lamb for Ian. A bottle of red wine. An extravagance.

I feel not myself, as if I’m on a stage set. I wonder if Ian feels the same.

“Here, I got you this.”

He takes the packet from his jacket pocket, puts it on the table between us.

“Can I open it?”

“Sure, why not.”

I wait until the waiter pours the wine and leaves.

Inside, a single golden heart.

A locket.

A teenage boy’s gift. Lockets and lip gloss, daisy chains, whispered intrigues in the back of the class. Something to wear
under your school uniform, to steal peeks at between lessons, feel its lovely coldness against your skin, to sneak out in
the toilets, in the changing rooms.

Ian and his gestures. The flame lily earrings, the box of pictures, the notebook. The owner’s deed he made me sign, “It’s
this way or no moving on up, babe… ,” he said, and there were our names, side by side, newly minted homeowners.

I lift the locket out from the box, open the gold heart. Inside, a paper folded and folded, over and over again, until it
fit in the golden heart; Ian with his large, bruised hands doing this delicate task.

I work on the paper. Over and over. Until there it is open in the palm of my hand. I read, a single momentous word:
Us.

There is such an ache in me. Something so sharp and terrible. So tender. So brutal. “Ian…”

And then, the moment is shattered by the explosive frenzy of masked men rushing in, upturning tables, the crash of glass,
plates, shouting: “Wallets! Money! Cell phones! Car keys! Valuables! Rings, necklaces, earrings! Watches! Move! Come on, move!”
The blur of a man wearing a balaclava; another one, something dark in his hand; another wrenching a watch from a hand. “Come
on, I said, move,” a voice behind me shouts. Clink of cell phones, keys, jewelry. Slap, slap of wallets. A hand swiping them
off the tables into a black bag. “Down! Down!” A gloved hand pushing a man on the floor; bodies scrambling off chairs. “Down!
Down!”

And then, feet rushing, a car engine, engines, starting; squeal of tires followed by silence. Just the sound of the water
trickling between the fairy lights. A woman sobbing, “Oh, oh, oh, oh…” A man shouting, “Fucking bastards!” A fist on the table,
shattering glass. “Calm down, shamwari.” “Don’t tell me to calm down, white boy; this is not Rhodesia.” “Oh, foosake man…”
“Ian, please, please, just…”

I’m shaking, shivering; I can’t seem to stop. “Lindiwe. Lindiwe. Look.” He opens his hand, and there resting in its cradle,
a golden heart. “No ways was I letting them get away with it, not a chance.”

He holds me tight in his arms, squeezing the breath out of me into him. He holds me there.

It’s early morning when we finally get home, after giving the police statements. Ma Patience is sleeping on one of the couches
in the lounge. She sleeps as she moves. With a lot of heaving and sighing.

Ian puts me to bed. He pulls the duvet right up, but I can’t stop shaking, shivering. He tucks in a blanket and sits on top
of the covers, his hand on my head, nursing me.

I don’t know when I finally sleep. When I wake up, it’s past midday and he’s gone. There is a note on the bedside. He scribbled
it in a hurry: “Sorry. President. Late Already. Stay in bed. Rest.” He started another word but scribbled it out so hard that
he made a hole. I sit on the bed listening. For something. Anything. The house is quiet.