by Webb, Peggy
Lorena Watson. Silly old fool. The only good thing she could say about herself was that she had not told Brett she loved him. At least she’d saved them that embarrassment.
When the kettle whistled, she got her cup and her tea bag then sat back down at the table. She’d drink her tea in the dark. It was the best way to contemplate the misery of unrequited love. And maybe in the morning when the sun came up over the Virungas, she’d be too busy chasing that ornery old buffalo out of her garden to be miserable.
o0o
The deed was done.
Malone sat in his Jeep, hidden by the dense bushes at the side of the road, unable to move. Suddenly he jerked his face upward, toward the mountains. The jungle was full of eyes, and they were all watching him, accusing.
The bile of shame rose in his throat. He bailed out and stood heaving. Sounds seemed louder, more distinct. A Jeep coming around the bend in the road sounded as if it would run right through him.
He jerked his head up, alert as a cornered animal.
The last person he wanted to see was at the wheel, the one person who would look deep into his eyes and know what he had done.
Malone cowered there like a naughty child until his brother had passed by.
Chapter 45
The rhythm of the drums took up their beat inside Margaret Anne, the desperate, pounding rhythm. She slid a lace-edged handkerchief out of her pocket and lifted it to her face so the lavender would cover the scent of Africa— the smell of decay, of the ancient jungles caught in the grip of time, their enormous trees shedding leaves and limbs that lay molding and rotting under her feet. Everywhere she looked were signs that time would not be cheated.
Such terror overtook her that she leaned into her handkerchief, coughing and shivering.
“Are you all right?” Eleanor touched her upper arm, the silver in her hair shining in the moonlight. How could she stand to wear the banner of age?
Margaret Anne wanted to scream at her, to tell her that she hadn’t been all right in a very long time. But pride held her back. They believed the fiction she’d created. Sometimes even she believed it ... except times like these, times when the sleek young bodies swaying before her reminded her of long-ago dreams, and desires unfulfilled.
“I’m fine,” she said. “A little tired, I guess. Africa has been quite an adjustment from Mississippi.”
“I’m sure it has.”
Eleanor eyed her pink voile dress and her strappy high heels. Well, let her get her eyes full, Margaret Anne thought. Anybody who went around in baggy britches and colorless shirts was bound to be jealous that Margaret Anne had managed to spend a week in Africa without sacrificing one iota of her femininity.
“Do you want to call it an early night? I’m sure you’d like to have time to pack and rest up before you start that long journey home.”
The long journey home. Back to an empty house where the clock ticked without ceasing. Back to defeat. Back to oblivion.
“You are so thoughtful. But I think I’ll stay till the dancing is over. I’d hate to miss a thing. After all, it’s my going-away party.” The native beer she’d drunk made everything around her softer, as if she were seeing through mists. She wondered if she could smuggle some back to Mississippi. “But you go ahead if you’re tired.”
“Of course not. I’ll stay.”
“I can’t tell you how much this visit has meant to me. Seeing how contented my daughter is with your son has made me a very happy woman.”
Eleanor didn’t know if the woman was totally dense or merely a damned fine actress. As she glanced at her family gathered round the fire, she swore never again to interfere with any of their lives. Brett hovered on the edge of the gathering like a dark avenging angel. Malone was so drunk, he couldn’t even sit up straight.
And Ruth. Her chin was high, her face a study in determination. She hadn’t left Malone’s side since they’d returned from the States. Every gesture, every word, was carefully solicitous. She was an absolute model of the perfect wife.
But her eyes were tragic.
Eleanor had made all of them miserable. She swore to herself that when this was all over, when Miss Hospitality of 1944 finally went back home, she’d tend to her own business ... after she’d mended a few fences with her daughter-in-law.
The only one of them who had escaped the consequences of Eleanor’s meddling was Joseph. Lord, he didn’t even know he was in the world, sitting over there talking gorillas with Matuka’s husband, who didn’t give a flip about a thing Joseph said, but who loved him so much, he grinned and nodded with every word her husband uttered.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance to visit with Cee Cee,” she said to Margaret Anne, though why she bothered was beyond her. The woman was obviously interested in nothing except making sure her nail polish matched her dress.
“Maybe next time.”
“Certainly,” Eleanor said.
“Time has a way of flying by when you’re having fun, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
It was understandable to Margaret Anne that anybody who spent all her time with monkeys would hardly be able to carry on a conversation except in monosyllables. How anybody would want to hole up in these nasty old mountains was beyond her, though the Dark Continent certainly had its compensations. She glanced over her shoulder. One of the bold young dancers stared back at her.
Where would he go when he left the compound, that fierce young Watusi? And what would he do, that strapping dark man with his dangerous smile?
Ruth saw the look her mother exchanged with the Watusi dancer, and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end.
“Malone?”
“Whash my li’l girl want? Huh?”
Memories that don’t hurt. A different life..
“I want us to say good-bye quietly to Margaret Anne, then go home and get a good night’s rest so we can start fresh tomorrow.”
She felt Brett watching them, but she didn’t look, wouldn’t let herself look.
“Jush one more pombe, honey.”
When she’d married Malone, she’d counted so heavily on his kindness that she’d overlooked his weakness. Her heart felt like a stone.
“Come on, Malone. Let’s go home.” She leaned close and whispered in his ear. “Do it for me, darling.”
“Anything for my baby.”
He leaned heavily on her. Margaret Anne pretended not to notice, but Eleanor didn’t pretend. She met them halfway across the clearing.
Ruth lifted her chin. She’d take her share of the blame for Malone’s drunkenness, but not all of it. By George, not all of it.
To her astonishment Eleanor, who hardly even touched her own husband in public, put her arms around Ruth.
Ruth knew the difference between real hugs and false ones, had learned the difference many years ago when she’d come back from New Orleans in Max’s fine car and her mother had hugged her in the front parlor filled with Oxford’s elite. Eleanor’s hug was real.
“I only want what’s best for my family,” Eleanor said.
It was a peace offering and an apology ... for everything—for the accusations at Brett’s camp, for springing Margaret Anne on her, perhaps even for Malone’s behavior.
“And Ruth, in spite of everything, I think you are good for Malone.”
“Thank you.” Ruth almost cried.
When she told Margaret Anne good-bye, it wasn’t her mother she reached for but her mother-in-law. She felt the warm pressure of Eleanor’s hand.
“Malone and I came to say good-bye.” She couldn’t bring herself to say “Mother.”
“Good-bye? Not good-bye, darling. Au revoir. Until we meet again.”
Ruth vowed that when she got out of everybody’s sight, she’d stop smiling and not smile for a week, maybe even a month. And not even then unless she had something darned good to smile about.
Malone saved her the embarrassment of some inane reply.
“Until we meet again, beautiful Mom.”
His beer-fogged brain understood the seriousness of the occasion, and he said his farewell without slurring. He even managed to bend over and kiss Margaret Anne’s hand without falling into her lap.
Later, lying beside him on the bed with her legs apart from his so she wouldn’t have to touch him, and her face turned away so she wouldn’t have to breathe his alcoholic fumes, Ruth remembered things she’d tried to forget., She thought of the way Brett had looked at her when he’d removed the torn ribbon from her hat. Such a look. As if they were alone on the planet, as if nothing else mattered except their shared touch.
She left the bed and went to the window. There was nothing to see except darkness, a night so black, it had swallowed every living thing, a giant trap, as dark and scary as the one Ruth was caught in.
She was glad she wasn’t pregnant yet. But if she was, would it not make things better? Wouldn’t Malone have more reason to stay sober? Each month when her menstrual cycle began, he said they’d have to try that much harder. He really did want a child.
On the bed he snored and mumbled in his alcoholic stupor.
Tomorrow it would be the same. And the next day. And the day after that. Unless Ruth did something about it.
Hands on her hips, she marched to the bed.
“Malone Corday, if you think I’m going to spend the rest of my life watching you kill yourself with alcohol, you’re sadly mistaken. In the morning the first thing you’re going to get is a pot of strong black coffee. The next thing is a lecture from Ruth Bellafontaine Corday. And if you think that’s something to take lightly, you’d better think twice.”
Of course, he didn’t hear a word she said, but that didn’t matter. The important thing was that Ruth was taking charge of her life once more.
She lay down beside her husband, careful this time to take his hand. Lacing their fingers together, she held on as hard as she could.
“We’re going to have a real home together, Malone Corday. I mean that.”
Chapter 46
The screams woke him up.
Brett bolted from his bed and raced toward his Jeep, pausing only long enough to grab his pants and shoes. They came again out of the night, high-pitched screams of terror.
“Let this not be what I think it is,” he prayed as he revved the engine to life and raced down the mountain toward the compound. It was a dark, moonless night, exactly the kind of night for the monstrous deed Brett feared was happening. He hoped and prayed he was wrong.
The screams came once more, closer now as he veered off the road and pressed into the jungle. Progress in the Jeep was nearly impossible through growth so thick, it swallowed up anything that passed through. Abandoning his vehicle, Brett set out on foot, loping in the long, loose gait he’d learned as a child from the natives.
As he passed the nesting place of Doby’s group, he saw the gorilla’s huge shape, agitated, swinging from branch to branch checking on his females and their offspring.
“Thank God,” he said. If any of the male silverbacks in the Virungas could be trusted to keep his group safe, it was Old Doby.
A small herd of duiker flashed by, and the air was thick with birds frightened from their night perches. One single strangled scream sounded from the distance, and then there was silence, eerie silence more terrifying than sound.
Brett was too late. Still, he kept running, pushing as hard and fast as he could through the tangled limbs and vines that tried to keep him from his purpose.
He came upon them unexpectedly. Two bodies twisted together, grunting and screaming with such an excess of passion that they had not heard anything else. The pink voile dress lay torn on the jungle floor. She still wore her high-heeled shoes. They flailed the air with each vigorous thrust of the strong young Watusi above her.
At first Brett thought she was being raped. He searched the ground for a weapon, anything large and heavy he could wield across the gleaming naked back.
“Pleasepleaseplease,” she begged. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop, Lerogi!”
Lerogi, the young stud from the village of Kisoro. The tales of his conquests were known far and wide ... and now he would have another conquest to add to his list, another tale to tell: how he had seduced Ruth Corday’s mother.
“Over my dead body,” Brett said. “Lerogi!” he yelled, startling the young buck so that he rolled off Margaret Anne and landed on his backside.
“She asked me to,” he said in rapid Swahili. “She followed me from the compound. I told her no, I don’t want no old dried-up white woman, but she said she’d pay me.”
When he lied, he rolled his eyes back, showing the whites like two large summer moons. Lerogi was renowned for his lack of discrimination. Anything in a skirt would do to appease his randy appetites.
“How much?” Brett carefully averted his eyes from Margaret Anne Bellafontaine. She made small mewling sounds as she scrambled to find her clothes.
“Ten American dollars. I’d have done it for free.”
Brett pulled out his billfold and started counting money into Lerogi’s palm. Movement on the ground caught his attention. Margaret Anne, in her slip and high heels and holding her dress against her chest, was scuttling toward the path.
“Stay right where you are. I want you to hear this.”
“How dare you tell me what to do!”
“I dare.” One look quelled her. He guessed Malone was right. His brother often said that when Brett wanted to, he could look like the very devil himself.
“I’m not paying you for services rendered, Lerogi. I’m buying your silence.” Even after the young Watusi’s face showed his satisfaction with the deal, Brett continued to count out money. When he’d paid what amounted to a fortune to the young man, Brett pocketed his billfold.
“If I ever hear one word of what happened tonight, I’ll deal with you personally. Is that clear?”
The Gorilla Man had a reputation of his own. With nothing more than his bare hands, he’d gone against a giant wielding a knife. The story of his battle with the Bat was a legend that had been enhanced with each retelling. The sight of his eye patch was enough to make most men think twice before they crossed him.
“You can count on me, Gorilla Man. Anything you want, you call Lerogi.” Lerogi bowed so low, his forehead nearly touched the ground. “At your service, Gorilla Man.”
The young Watusi disappeared quickly into the jungle, moving as silently and as swiftly as the wind.
“My Jeep is nearby,” Brett told Margaret Anne.
“What makes you think I’d go anywhere with you?”
“I’m taking you back. You have no choice in the matter.”
Margaret Anne considered her options. It had been a long walk in her high-heeled shoes, a walk she’d gladly make twice a day for the pleasure she’d received. No, not mere pleasure. Ecstasy. Something approaching the way Blue had made her feel. She wanted to scratch Brett Corday’s eyes out, more for the deprivation than the humiliation.
He didn’t look like the kind of man she wanted to argue with. More like the kind of man she’d like to bed. Too bad he’d seen her at her worst. She must look a fright with jungle leaves tangled in her hair and her makeup melted off by Lerogi’s vigorous sweating.
“Well, are we going to stand here all night, or are you going to take me back to the compound?”
He didn’t even take her elbow but left her to struggle along behind him.
“A gentleman always takes a lady’s arm in terrain like this.”
“In that case neither of us need be concerned about breach of manners.”
She hoped one of the jungle limbs would swing around and put out his other eye.
“I’ll be glad to get back to Mississippi, where the only animals I have to deal with are the teenage sackers in the grocery store.”
He didn’t acknowledge her presence by so much as a grunt.
When she finally got to his Jeep, she didn’t even bother asking him to turn his head while she put on her dress.<
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“You will never again humiliate Ruth in this way,” he said.
“I was the one humiliated. By you.”
He acted as if he hadn’t even heard her. She wondered if the knife had sliced into his ear as well as his eye.
“What you do in Mississippi is of no concern to me, but if you ever return to the Virungas, you will conduct yourself like the lady you pretend to be.”
“You wouldn’t know a lady if you saw one, living in this godforsaken place with nothing but a woman who dresses like a man for an example. I’ll have you know I’ve earned the right to be called a lady.”
Somewhere in the jungle was Brett’s worst nightmare come true—poachers—and he was stuck in his Jeep playing his brother’s keeper. Only this time his brother wasn’t his main concern. Suddenly the softness of Ruth invaded his senses, and he felt a growing kindness, even toward the woman sitting on the seat beside him.
Who was he to judge her, he who coveted his brother’s wife?
“Mrs. Bellafontaine, I don’t mean to be harsh and judgmental with you .”
“You could have fooled me!”
“There is a code of honor we live by in the Virungas, and if that code is violated, someone will pay. In this case, Ruth. I’m sure you don’t want to do anything to hurt your daughter or to besmirch her reputation in her new home.”
“What she does is her business, and what I do is my business, no matter where I am. Besides, she didn’t bother informing me about her wedding. Why should I bother to inform her of my extracurricular activities?”
Brett saw that he was fighting a losing battle. No matter what he said, he would never get through to this woman.
She would fly home in a few hours, and if the fates were kind, she wouldn’t come back to the Virungas. Wishful thinking. The fates were seldom kind, especially in Africa. Didn’t he know that more than anybody?
Who knew what fate had set in the path of Margaret Anne Bellafontaine? What she needed was not censure but mercy. What they all needed was mercy.
