Bloodlines (49 page)

I said nothing at first, speechless at her lack of restraint, and furious to see that she was actually taking pleasure in this little charade. The fact that most of my story was a lie didn’t make her description any less invasive or unfair, and I felt violated. Even in the moment, that irony was not lost on me. And I couldn’t even begin to think about the implications of what she was saying.

“So now you know what I’ve been hiding. I’ve risked telling you this because I need you,” she said with the earnest quality of a young girl, “and I want to start out on an honest footing with you. If you were vindictive, you could do some damage to me in this community even though Brian’s dead. But you won’t, because I think you have more to hide than I do.”

Perhaps for lack of a better alternative, I found myself laughing, and Anna looked on, puzzled. She thought my secret was that I’d had an affair with someone, perhaps Brian, perhaps another married man in the community, and that I was trying to protect either him from the charge of adultery, or myself from being seen as an unmarried mother and a loose woman. She had no clue what I was really concealing, or on how many levels I was living a lie. And she had no idea that if Brian was not actually the father of his four blond children, then it was at least plausible that he might be the father of my not-altogether-white child.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“Even with your vivid imagination,” I said, wiping my eyes with my sleeve, “you couldn’t possibly imagine what’s so funny.” I looked at the compelling mix of manipulation and innocence in her face, this young mother, alone. “You’ve been through some hard times, Anna, and you’re letting your fantasies run away with you. You’re talking a lot of nonsense—but I do admire your spirit, and you’re right. We could both do with a friend.” I paused. “I think we can probably work something out.”

After the incident, Jane and Letty began dropping in unannounced to check up on me, and to make sure that I was recovering from my ordeal.

“You’ve been through an awful thing, Grace,” said Letty one day. “But you just seem to take it in stride and keep going.”

“I have a farm to run,” I answered. “You can’t dodge what life throws at you. All you can do is wipe yourself off and soldier on.”

It’s what my father used to say to me, and I felt a sense of relief that what I was sharing with them was a truth from my real life. I was living so many lies, and I hated myself for the untruths I was forced to tell these two loving and generous friends.

“My father used to say I was so stubborn that I wouldn’t go around an obstacle. The only way I knew was to go straight through, regardless of the consequences.”

“I’ve heard that before,” muttered Letty, and she smiled back. “My father used to say it to me. And he was right, too.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “It’s the direct route, but it tends to exact a high price.”

“The older I get,” she said, “the more inclined I am to take the long way round. I find I like to arrive in one piece.”

We all laughed together, and that was the day they both watched me walking. I saw them exchange glances as I unconsciously draped my arms about my belly. And the next morning Andrew dropped by.

He was uneasy as he greeted me and although it wasn’t hot, there was the sheen of perspiration on his forehead. He refused any refreshment, and I led him into the study, where we sat facing each other.

“Been some time since I’ve seen you, Grace,” he said. “But I hear from Letty that you’re fine.”

“Really?” I said. “And did she also mention that I was pregnant?”

“She’s not a meddler, Grace. She and Jane are concerned about you.”

“Well, at least I know why you’re here this morning.”

He leaned forward in his chair, reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, and wiped his forehead. He was clearly uncomfortable. “Your pregnancy is not the only reason I’m here today,” he said.

“Yes, you have many reasons for being here, and multiple responsibilities. You needed to see for yourself that I’m pregnant, and you’re probably going to insist on examining me, aren’t you?”

“I do think it’s a good idea for you to get some prenatal care.”

“Which you’d be happy to provide?”

“I would, but you’re free to select another doctor if you prefer.”

“That’s not very practical, considering the nearest doctor is more than an hour’s drive. So tell me, Andrew,” I said, “when you examine me, will it be as my physician? As a medical operative for the ANC? Or will you perform your obstetric exam as Mandla Mkhize’s medical representative?”

“That kind of nastiness is uncalled for,” he said softly, “and it’s unworthy of you, Grace.” He glanced down at my belly. “Now I’m here I see you’re about three months pregnant.” He paused, his forehead creased in thought. “And the incident took place how long ago?”

“The incident,” I said, “was a rape, and it took place two months ago. So you’re mistaken. This is what two months pregnant looks like.”

He smiled. “Save the fairytales for your neighbors,” he said. “Perhaps you can fool them. But in the last twenty years I’ve delivered a thousand babies, and I know what two months pregnant looks like.” He pointed at me. “That’s not it.”

I leaned back into the cushion and crossed my arms over my belly. My anger was gone, replaced by exhaustion and anxiety. I realized, suddenly, how difficult it was going to be to keep all my stories straight.

“I’m really tired, Andrew,” I said, “tired of all this. Why are you here? What is it you want from me?”

He rose quickly and came to sit in the straight-backed chair at my side. As he did so he picked up my wrist and took my pulse with a practiced hand. When he was through he lowered my wrist, but he kept his warm hand on my arm.

“I’m here for several reasons, Grace, none of them particularly pleasant, except for my wish to see you. Unfortunately, the other reasons I’m here will probably negate any pleasantness.”

“What do you mean?” I sat up straight again, panic surging. “Is he in trouble?”

“He’s fine,” said Andrew, waving my concern away and gently pressing my shoulder back against the chair. “Now, are you going to have me guess what’s going on, or do you want to tell me yourself?”

“You’ve probably guessed already,” I said, “unless he’s told you himself, in which case you know anyway.”

“What I know is what I see, and what my experience tells me—that you’re pregnant, and that you were already pregnant before you killed Brian McWilliams in the commission of an attempted rape.”

“Attempted?” I said.

“Other than your word and a dead body, there is no proof of a rape.”

“So,” I said, aware of the harshness and anger in my voice. And the fear. “You don’t believe me?”

“I didn’t say that I don’t believe you. I’m just telling you what I know—and believing something is different from knowing it’s true.”

“Words of wisdom,” I murmured. “From the White Zulu.
Sangoma
of Science.”

“There are a few other things I know are true,” he said, ignoring my insult. “Would you like to know what they are?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Yes, you do—you can stop me anytime. What I know is that you’re going to have a baby in six months, and that the community will believe Brian McWilliams is the father. But I also know the only way he could be the father is if you slept with him at least a month before you killed him. And I don’t think that happened.”

“So what did happen?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “But I’ll make a prediction. When you give birth, we’re going to have a hell of a time making sure that the baby stays with you, because it will be some combination of a most beautiful, light-skinned mother, and a tall, black, very handsome father. And I’d put money on the fact that the race police will have questions about the baby’s complexion.”

I turned away from him. “You’re so bloody smart,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, gently squeezing my arm, “I am. And you have no idea how hard it is to be so smart and yet have no answers. If ever there was a right time for this, and if ever there were a better combination of parents, I can’t imagine it. Since I realized that the child is his, I’ve been trying to find a way to carry it off in a way that won’t upset the authorities.” He stopped and thought for a moment, his hand still on my arm. “We won’t know until the child is a few months old, but it’s possible that he—or she—will be light enough to avoid raising suspicion.”

“So what do we do?”

“We wait and see.”

I turned to look at him, intending to be sarcastic, but instead I found myself smiling at him as the tears streamed down my cheeks.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, folding the handkerchief in his hand back on itself and wiping the tears from my face. “I can understand why you’re weeping, but why the smile?”

“Wait and see was exactly what I planned to do, although I didn’t think of it as a plan. I just couldn’t think of anything else. Either you’re not so smart, or else I’m smarter than I thought I was.”

“You’re definitely smarter than you think you are,” he said, still smiling, and then his eyes clouded.

“What’s the matter, Andrew?” I asked.

“I’m here to take care of Grace Michaels and her baby,” he said, “both because of what you call my multiple responsibilities, and because I’ve become very fond of you. But what I have to say now needs to be heard through the ears of Lungile’s daughter. This is a thing of the Zulus, and you need to hear it with Zulu ears. It’s not something Grace Michaels—or even Michaela Green at her most radical—would be able to understand or accept.”

“Sounds pretty awful,” I said. My heart was racing. Whatever it was, it had to do with the part of Khabazela that was beyond my reach; the tribal part of him that connected him to a tradition I could never access.

Andrew smiled again, warily. “Perhaps not that awful, if you’re a traditional Zulu woman,” he said. “But it’s not good.”

“What is it?”

He cleared his throat and sat forward in his chair so that we were a head apart.

“One of Khabazela’s goals is to enlist the Zulu community here; to show them why they need to take control of their own future, and to give them the tools to do it. He can’t do it without first becoming a part of the community. And that’s proving more difficult than anticipated.”

“Why? He’s already part of the community. Solomon is his uncle, and he has an extended clan in the village.”

“All true. But to have stature and influence, a man needs to be like other men. The people need to see that his future—as well as his present—lies in the community. He needs to put down roots, Grace.” He paused. “He needs children.”

I put my hand softly on my belly, fingers outspread. “He will have a child,” I said. “Soon.”

He shook his head. “That won’t be enough.”

“Our child?” I said, looking up into his face. “Won’t be enough for what?”

“Grace, you’re not making sense,” he said quietly. “If you’re going to give out that the child is the result of a rape, it can’t also be his child. And even if you want the Zulu community to know the truth and to be able to claim the child as its own, it may have the wrong skin color.”

“So our child will be either too dark to be accepted by the white establishment, or too light to claim a place with his father’s people. How is it possible for two people to bring a child into a world where he has no place? And you tell me that
I’m
not making any sense?”

As I stared at him, waiting, I remember thinking how masculine Andrew’s face was, with a heavy jaw and a full mouth. The pity filling his blue eyes made me want to weep. He tightened his hold on my forearm, and reached over with his free hand to enfold mine in his.

“Grace, he’s taken a girl in the village as his wife. Her name is Miriam.” And then, as an afterthought, “she’s carrying his child.”

The chasm I was staring into opened even wider.

“She’s carrying his child,” I said. “As well.”

“Yes,” he replied, still holding my hand with one of his and my forearm with the other. “She is also pregnant with Khabazela’s child.”

I pulled myself awkwardly to my feet and headed toward the kitchen. “I’m going to make tea,” I said over my shoulder, not wanting Andrew to see the stricken expression on my face. My voice was unrecognizable—it came from somewhere high in my throat, just behind my tongue, the thin voice of a woman unable to breathe. “Wait here, please—I need a few minutes.”

The kitchen was deserted. It was early afternoon; Selina was on her break. I put the kettle on the gas flame and stood over the kitchen table, trying to absorb this new disaster, trying to measure the contempt Khabazela must feel for me to be able to do such a thing—without even telling me. I couldn’t begin to measure what this would mean for my life, and for the life of our child.

I wasn’t aware of the kettle, but after listening to its whistle for a few moments, Andrew came to investigate. He found me bent over the table, supporting myself on one hand, the fingers of the other buried in my hair. He didn’t know that, having tried to weep and failed, in my anger and fear I dug my fingernails so deeply into my scalp that I drew blood.

Without a word he made the tea, set it on a tray, and carried it into the study. Then he came back to get me, led me gently out of the kitchen, sat me down, and placed a steaming cup on the table at my side. We sat together for a long time, and he waited until I was ready to break the silence.