The Boy Next Door Read online

  “You look great, Bridgette.”

  And she does with her tight T-shirt and jeans, her sky-high stilettos.

  “Thanks. Not too bad yourself. What you’re studying and more to the point, any nice Shona specimens over there?”

  “I see some things never change.”

  I tell her what I’m studying. I go on and on about that. How great it is. How interesting it is. How enlightening it is…

  “Lindiwe, please, move on.”

  “Okay, I’m also doing part-time work. I’m a production assistant at an advertising agency, which basically means that I—”

  “Come on, Lindiwe, I know you’re hiding something.”

  I don’t even try to carry on with my routine.

  “Well, I’m living with someone.”

  “I knew it! Well, well, well, so Little Miss Innocence herself has been deflowered, wonders never cease. Details, details.”

  “And I have a son.”

  I say that last bit very quickly. She makes an O of surprise.

  “A son,” she says. “Now this is unexpected. When, how? I mean, obviously it’s a university guy. I hope he’s good-looking and gifted in the lower departments.”

  “Bridgette!”

  She waits for me to go on.

  How can I? Where do I begin?

  “Come on,” she says. “I’m dying here.”

  “He’s not a university guy. Bridgette, it’s a long story and I’ll tell you another day. I just want to enjoy your company today. This is such a surprise. So tell me about these plans of yours.”

  There were so many rumors when she didn’t return for the second term: she was at a boarding school in London, she was being sequestered in a Convent in Ireland, she had been forced to marry a sekuru somewhere deep in the communal lands, and simply, she was dead. How I had missed her! When my own scandal broke, I finally understood how lonely and desperate she must have felt.

  She looks at me and decides to leave me alone, for now.

  She talks about how her parents took her back to London and left her in the care of an aunty. She talks about importing and exporting and her hair salons. She tells me about her diplomas and her life in London.

  “Why don’t you come over to my place for lunch tomorrow?” I ask her as we get ready to leave.

  “Yes, yes, I’d like that. Lins, my girl, can you believe it, we’re women now.”

  I give her the address; tell her to come to the small gate, not the black electric gate, which is the entrance to the main house where an Egyptian diplomat lives.

  “You’ll be introduced to my little family.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Nice hair,” says Ian, when I meet up with him and David at Greenwood Park. “Can I touch?”

  “As long as you don’t mess the curls.”

  He lifts his finger, snakes it through some curls. And then he rubs his finger on his jeans.

  “It’s conditioning cream, Ian.”

  “Asch Lindiwe, I just prefer you with your hair natural, that’s all.

  I march off to the ticket counter and buy a whole wad of tickets.

  David has a train ride with Ian and then with me.

  Then it’s off on the trampoline, David jumping up and down on the tarp that is stretched over a hole about three meters deep. I can’t stand to look while Ian is busy calling out instructions on how to do a somersault. And then he is in the canoes with Ian, the two of them almost capsizing as they try to take a bend.

  We sit down on the grassy patch under the bridge eating ice creams, watching the train make its route around the park.

  “They don’t sell beers at the canteen,” Ian says. “Man, I’m thirsty.”

  “Water is always an option, Ian. There’s a tap, down there.”

  He stands up and starts fiddling with his watch.

  Once Ian’s offloaded us at home, he goes straight back out the door. He’s meeting up with some guys, watching a rugby match. That’s the story.

  I look about me for a moment and a wave of despair leaves me immobilized there.

  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 rolli
ng 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.

  12.

  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.