Catch Me Twice

by Charmaine Pauls

  Jake gets up and offers me a hand. When I’m on my feet, he doesn’t let go immediately. “You’re sure about this?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Just wanted to double-check.”

  “Are you…? Do you…?” I can’t ask if he’s having doubts.

  He squeezes my fingers and drops my hand. After searching my face for another moment, he turns and strides back to his workstation, saying from over his shoulder, “I’m keeping the photo.”

  It takes me a second to catch on. “You have to delete it.”

  “See you tonight, ginger.”

  When he shovels the raw bricks on the paddle, no longer paying me attention, I don’t have a choice but to go home.

  When I tell my mom I’m going to see Jake’s parents, she insists on coming with. It takes a lot of arguing to persuade her to let me handle this on my own. At six sharp, I wait at the gate of the trailer park. A minute later, Jake pulls up in Hendrik’s brand-new Toyota truck.

  “Your dad lent you his truck?” I ask as I climb inside.

  “It’s a long way. I wasn’t going to make you walk.”

  He’s wearing a clean T-shirt and pair of jeans, and he smells like soap and the cheap brand of aftershave from the supermarket. My cheeks heat as I recall how I sniffed every bottle on the shelf until I found the one that smelled like him. I bought one I’m hiding in my underwear drawer. Whenever I unscrew the lid and bring the blue liquid to my nose, the reconstruction of his physique is so vivid in my mind’s eye, I can pretend he’s standing right next to me.

  He shoots me a sidelong glance. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “No more puking?”

  I laugh. “Only like ten more times today.”

  “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

  I motion at his clean clothes. “You showered.”

  “I went home a little earlier for the truck.”

  He did that just so he could fetch me. “Thank you.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  The truck wobbles over the potholes, making me bounce in my seat. “You’re going to a school in Dubai, right?”

  “My father has some contacts. He managed to secure an intern position for me with a company specializing in restaurant management. I’ll work there part-time, and go to school to get my degree in finance.”

  “Don’t you have to speak Arabic?”

  He gives a rare full-blown smile. My ignorance amuses him. “The school I’m going to offers their classes in English. It’s an international school.”

  “With a fancy reputation, no doubt.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Is that what you want to do? Restaurant management?”

  “I want to open a restaurant specializing in South African dishes abroad and develop it into a chain.”

  “Dreaming big, huh?”

  “You’ve got to. Life’s too short to be mediocre.”

  “It depends on what you perceive as mediocre.”

  He glances at me. “Explain what you mean.”

  “I think we’re all different, and that’s okay. We have different ambitions. For some, it’s to work at your dad’s factory. I don’t think it’s mediocre.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know what you mean. You want to fly higher than the rest of us. You want to go all the way to the moon and find out if it’s really just a big old, fat chunk of cheese.”

  He laughs. “You and your words, Pretorius. You sure have a way with them. What about you? What’s your ambition?”

  “To be happy.”

  “Happy? That’s it?”

  “Isn’t that the ultimate goal?” I ask a little defensively.

  “Let me rephrase that. What are your ambitions for being happy?”

  “To get a degree so I can get a decent job and earn enough money to move into a real house.”

  After a short silence, he asks, “How is it to live in a trailer?”

  “Cramped.”

  “Seriously. I really want to know.”

  “Haven’t you ever taken a holiday in one?”

  “My mom hates camping. We usually book a hotel.”

  “I’ve never stayed in a hotel.”

  “You haven’t?”

  “Nope. In fact, we’ve never been away on holiday. The farthest I’ve traveled is Johannesburg.”

  “Jeez.” He drags a hand over his head, shooting me another look.

  “What’s the nicest hotel you’ve stayed in?”

  He’s quiet for a while, seeming to consider his answer. “The Mount Nelson in Cape Town. There was this lobby boy who taught me card tricks.”

  “You’re choosing Mount Nelson because of the lobby boy?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Not because of Table Mountain or the V&A Waterfront or Robben Island or high tea or any of those things?”

  How lonely is Jake Basson really? He’s an only child, like me, but I never feel lonely. My mom has always been there for me, and I’ve been friends with Nancy since kindergarten. Now that I think of it, Jake doesn’t have any close friends. He’s always been the most popular boy with the girls, and he was always surrounded by groups of boys, but I’ve never seen him single out anyone. Despite being the center of every group he’s been part of, he’s remained on the outside. He has everything going for him—money, good looks, talent, and plenty of intelligence. It never occurred to me that he could be lonely.

  He dismisses my question with a shrug. “You didn’t answer my question about the trailer.”

  “Besides the stigma, it’s actually not that bad. One, there’s a lot less to clean than when you have a big house. Two, we get to eat outside all the time. Three, I’m never scared to go to bed after watching a horror movie because my mom is only an arm-length away.”

  He chuckles. “You have a nice way of looking at things.”

  When iron gates similar to the ones at the factory come into view, my stomach contracts. My mouth is suddenly too dry to swallow when he parks in front of a two-story house with stone walls and a broekie lace veranda.

  Turning off the engine, he faces me. “Ready?”

  I nod, even if I want to run straight back home. The house sitting in the middle of the huge lawn is intimidating. The lights inside the pool make the blue water look like liquid turquoise. The fragrance of the rambling roses that cover the gazebo drifts on the early evening air. Everything is so huge and pretty and out of my league.

  I’ve never spoken to Jake’s parents except for a polite greeting whenever I ran into them in town. I was right there in the kitchen with Nancy when Jake’s mom, Elizabeth, told Nancy’s mom, Daphne, that my mom is an atheist who has no respect for her body or else she wouldn’t be so easy.

  Jake hops out and comes around to open my door. In our town, gentlemanly behavior is drilled into boys from the age they can walk. It’s considered as big a sin as blasphemy if a man doesn’t get up when a woman enters a room.

  He holds the front door and motions for me to enter ahead of him. I stop in a huge entrance hall with a terracotta tile floor and a mural of what looks like a Tuscan village framed by vineyards.

  “This way,” he says, going down the hallway.

  We stop in front of a solid wooden door at the end. He knocks twice and waits.

  “Enter,” a deep voice calls from inside.

  I don’t miss the way sweat breaks out on his forehead as he pushes open the door and pulls me inside by my hand. We’re standing in a room the size of our school library. Shelves filled with books line the walls on one side, and a sitting area with stuffy couches take up the other. The books all have burgundy spines with gold lettering. A huge desk stands on a Persian carpet in the middle of the floor. Hendrik Basson sits behind it, his glasses pinched on the tip of his nose. He doesn’t look up from the big ledger in which he’s writing but finishes his sentence before raising his head. His gaze falls on me. The way in which he examines me with u
nmasked disapproval makes me fidget. I pull on the hem of my sweatshirt, stretching the sides that are already out of proportion.

  “Yes?” he says, directing the question at me.

  Hendrik is a huge man and not the friendliest in the world. He makes me feel like an annoyance, as if I’m here to sell girl scout cookies he doesn’t want.

  “Sir,” Jake says, “we’d like to talk to you.”

  Hendrik turns his attention to his son. “Close the door and try again.”

  A red flush moves up Jake’s neck. He balls his hands into fists but walks back to the door and shuts it. Then he approaches again and says, “Good evening, sir.”

  Hendrik leans back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “That’s better.” He turns his head to me.

  Oh. “Good evening, sir.”

  He nods stiffly. “What can I do for you, Jake? I’m busy.”

  “I need your help.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I need your help, sir.”

  “I’m sorry, Jake. I don’t hear you.”

  “I need your help, please, sir.”

  He sighs. “Manners. You’d think we didn’t do our job as parents.”

  Oh, my, gosh. What a jerk. My mom would never humiliate me in front of my friends. If she had a problem with my manners, she’d tell me in private.

  “I assume whatever you need help with involves Miss…” He looks at me pointedly.

  “Kristi Pretorius,” I say.

  As if he doesn’t know who I am. My mom cleans his offices and scrubs his toilets, for crying out loud. He must walk past her at least ten times a day. Plus, this is Rensburg where staying anonymous is as impossible as turning a frog into a prince with a kiss.

  “Well? I don’t have all night. What do you and Miss Pretorius want?”

  I hate to ask this man for money. If there were any other way of getting the cash, I’d walk out of here right now.

  Jake glances at me before clearing his throat. “Kristi is pregnant. We need money to terminate it.”

  Hendrik crosses his arms. “Who’s the father?”

  My soundless gasp catches in my throat at the crude insinuation. Jake’s nostrils flare. His chest rises and falls twice before he says, “I am, sir.”

  Hendrik drags his gaze over me again. “Are you sure, son?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jake grits out.

  “In that case, you’re both in a sad predicament.”

  “Which is why we’re here, sir,” Jake says.

  “What you do suggest, son?”

  “We can take Kristi to a private clinic in Joburg. If we keep it quiet, we won’t ruin her reputation.”

  Hendrik leans back farther, making the back of his chair squeak. “No.”

  Jake blinks. “Excuse me?”

  “Abortion isn’t an option. We taught you better values than to come here and ask for this.”

  Jake’s mouth drops open. “We can’t have a baby now. Our lives will be ruined.”

  “You should’ve thought about that before you took your dick out of your pants.”

  “Look, I made a mistake, and I’ll be damned if Kristi is going to pay for it.”

  “Watch your language, son. I won’t allow you to disrespect me in my own house.”

  I turn my head between Jake and his dad, my anxiety with how the conversation is going growing by the second. I just want to get out of here.

  “Jake.” I touch his hand.

  He jerks away and takes a step closer to the desk. “It’s not like you can’t afford it. It won’t even make a dent in your bank account.”

  “It’s not about money, Jake. It’s about principles, and if you can’t figure that out you’re a bigger disappointment than I thought.”

  I try to catch Jake’s attention again, but I may as well not exist.

  “What do you suggest she does?” Jake exclaims, pointing at me. “Her mother can’t afford it. Knowing how well you pay your staff, I doubt she can afford to pay for the birth.”

  Hendrik turns to me. “Does your mother have medical aid?”

  I’m trembling with anger and humiliation. He pays his staff a gross salary exempt from fringe benefits because he’s too stingy to contribute the required company portion of a medical or pension fund. His employees are forced to take out private medical aid plans, which, in a country crippled by a low life expectancy, doesn’t come cheap. He knows darn well what my mother has.

  Forcing myself to speak, I say, “She has a limited medical aid fund, sir.”

  “Ah.” He removes his glasses and places them squarely on the ledger. “In that case, birth won’t be covered. You’ll have to go to the public hospital in Heidelberg and try your luck there.”

  Jake’s voice climbs in anger. “I can’t believe you said that. Don’t you watch the news? Last month, twelve babies died in that hospital due to negligence. Everyone knows in what state the public hospital is.”

  Hendrik raises his hands. “What do you expect me to do? Clean up your mess? Sorry, son. You made the bed.”

  Jake stabs his fingers in his hair, clutching the dark locks. “What do you want from me, Dad? What else must I do to win your approval? Work harder? Longer hours? Wait, I already work seven days a week. I guess breaking my back isn’t going to do it. Better grades? Oh, I got straight A’s. I guess not. Tell me. What will it take?”

  I clutch the chair back in front of me, my head spinning from the animosity flying through the room.

  “Man up, Jake. Face your responsibilities. Nothing in life is free. I worked for every cent I have. No one gave me a dime.” He turns his palms to Jake. “I earned what I own with these two hands. That’s the biggest gift my father gave me—nothing. It taught me the value of things.”

  “What do you suggest we do?” Jake cries, shaking with rage.

  “Jake.” I take his arm. “Let’s go. Please.”

  “You’ll be employed by January,” Hendrik says. “Your contract comes with medical aid.”

  Jake shakes me off again. “What are you saying?”

  Oh, no. “Jake, no.”

  “If you’re the father, as you claim, you’re going to do right by the girl and marry her. Your medical aid is comprehensive. It’ll cover her medical expenses for the birth and healthcare for the baby.”

  “Wait. You’re saying I should marry her, go to Dubai, and leave her here to have a baby alone?”

  “I’ve always told you not to stick your dick in a woman you’re not willing to marry, son.”

  I can’t listen to this conversation any longer. “Jake, I’m leaving.”

  “You’re a fucking hypocrite,” Jake sneers.

  Hendrik turns white. Pressing his knuckles on the desk, he pushes himself to his feet. “What did you say to me?”

  “I know you fucked Dollie Brown for years. The whole town knows. They laughed behind your holy back while Mom sobbed herself to sleep every weekend you were away for work.”

  The chair hits the floor as Hendrik pushes away from the desk. I jump. Jake is tall and lean, but Hendrik is a giant of a bulky man.

  The look on Hendrik’s face is murderous. “You’re never too old to be put back in your place.”

  When he stalks around the desk, unbuckling his belt, I stifle a scream.

  “Jake, please!” I pull on his arm with all my might, but he’s like a block of granite.

  “Come on,” Jake says. “Want to take your failure to be a decent husband and father out on me? Do your fucking best.”

  The belt zips through the loops in Hendrik’s waistband. He folds it double and grips it in one hand, his knuckles clenched around the leather. When he charges, nostrils flaring and arm lifted, Jake doesn’t cower or budge.

  “Jake!” His dad is going to hit him. “Mr. Basson, no!”

  Without thinking, I throw myself between the two men, trying to stop an assault in which Jake stands no chance. I try to catch Hendrik’s arm before he brings the belt down on Jake, but the force of his momentum
is too big. The leather cuts through the air with an angry hiss. Pain explodes on my cheekbone. I stumble, crashing into Jake’s body. He catches me under my armpits before I hit the floor. The pain blooming on the side of my face is so intense, black spots pop in my eye.

  “Kristi!” Jake twirls me around. “Oh, fuck.” His eyes turn cold and hateful as he lifts them to his father, who stands frozen to the spot. “It wouldn’t have been the first time, but this was the last time you raised your hand at me.”

  My cheek throbs with heat. Something warm trickles over my skin. I press my fingers to the spot. When I pull them away, they’re covered with blood.

  Jake takes my arm and pulls me to the door. It opens just before we reach it. Elizabeth Basson rushes through the frame.

  She covers her mouth with a hand when she sees me. “Oh, my goodness. What happened? Jake?”

  He pushes past his mother, dragging me along.

  “Hendrik?” Elizabeth runs after us down the hallway, her voice hysterical. “Someone, please tell me what’s going on.”

  Jake doesn’t stop until we’re outside. He opens the truck door and lifts me into the seat. He jerks off his T-shirt and pushes it against my face. “Hold this. It may need stitches.”

  I’ve never experienced domestic violence. I’m shaking uncontrollably as Jake starts the engine and spins the wheels on the gravel.

  “Fuck, Kristi. I’m taking you to the clinic.”

  “No,” I say quickly. “We can’t afford the clinic. Just take me home.”

  Chapter 6

  Jake stands awkwardly to the side while my mom cleans the cut on my cheek with a wet facecloth in the ablution block. The bleeding has stopped, but there’s a five-centimeter-long gash on my cheek. The metal buckle must’ve caught my skin. Kudos to my mom for not freaking out after Jake told her his father hit me in the face with a belt by accident.

  Watching my mom work, Jake chews his bottom lip. He’s pale and quiet.

  My mom clicks her tongue. “It needs stitches.”

  “Can’t you just put on a plaster?” I ask.