Night Must Wait (7 page)

"Storm coming," Christopher said behind her. "Dry storm."

Figurative or literal? She turned to smile at him and he smiled back before walking around the corner of the house to rejoin the work group in the front yard.

Chickens muttered and clucked under the hedge and Gilman heard the distant rhythmic slash of a machete in the roadside grass. She remembered the sway of bodies and blades when the servants cut the rank lawn yesterday. How far removed seemed the world of lawnmowers. Gas powered lawnmowers, pure safe water rushing out of faucets, refrigerators that worked. The clean predictable world of America faded like some dream she had taken out to look at too many times.

She heard two men talking beyond the corner of the house. No, not the stranger but two of Wilton's servants. The words took a moment to register.

"No, Henry, no," Christopher said. "Even when Professor Wilton is gone, we always talk English on this property. If we do not obey there be plenty bushmen come beg for our places. She says we don't learn English if we talk village palaver. You want to go back to village? I, Christopher, can tell her that is what you want, today."

"No, Christopher, sah." Henry's subdued voice blurred behind her.

Even while this country fell apart, Wilton's man Christopher maintained consistency, his loyalty to an absent mistress foremost. How did he feel about his country if he had such dedication to her instructions when she wasn't even here? Gilman stubbed out her cigarette and buried the butt under a rock.

She straightened, looking at the bright moss roses where their magenta clashed against the red-orange earth. The vivid spill of purple bougainvillea on the hedge, the little manikin birds fluttering on the stony ground where they collected seeds and gravel, peeping to each other for comfort and courage.

Gilman would never tell anyone, but sometimes when violence surged past the doors of her hospital she wished that she, like the little birds, had someone to peep to for comfort and courage. She hadn't bridged the differences between herself and the Nigerians in these two years. Surface friendliness and warmth, yes, but she sensed resentment from the other doctors. Wariness from the nursing staff. Too many do-gooders came and went after mere months. The rural folk had a passionate affection quickly offered, but she wasn't sure she was human to them. No one offered the kind of friendship that she'd had back within the brick walls of the Wellesley years, except for Wilton and Sandy. Sister Catherine was a friend, but she must be nearly fifty and so nunly.

Once Gilman had a house in the suburbs in her sights. She'd almost married John when some deep unease about the good old USA, a picket fence, a husband and a couple of babies sent her fleeing to Africa. Now the idea of John's hands on her skin made her shudder like a horse under an unwanted touch. Bridge parties. Hamburgers and hotdogs on the grill, a T-bone steak. Gilman shook herself. The comradeship she wanted wouldn't be there either. She took out another cigarette, glanced behind her as if Wilton might be watching.

No, not for her. Even if she didn't have fellow birds to cheep with, Nigeria was worth its price of discomfort and unease. Lindsey and Sandy had each other in Lagos. She could feel envious. She wondered what Lindsey might be doing. Did Lindsey meet Wilton's expectations?

Chapter 9: Wilton

December 1966

Ibadan, Western Region, Nigeria

Wilton hesitated in the doorway. Sandy saw her and jumped to her feet with a wave of her beer bottle. "Wilton, dammit, aren't you ever going to learn to tell us when you're coming?"

Any place was cooler than Lagos, any season. The two friends shared an apartment in Lagos, convenient for weekdays, but they had a whole house to themselves in Ibadan for weekends. No funny stuff, as Sandy would say, no intimate expectations, simply companions in an alien land pooling their resources. They had each other's backs.

Lindsey and Sandy's house in Ibadan had old mahogany door frames and white painted cement walls that made Wilton think of the kind of American ice cream that came in boxes.

Wilton crossed the high-ceilinged room, her sandals almost soundless on the palm matting. Lindsey and Sandy sat drinking beer and eating fresh-fried peanuts, rock and roll music low in the background. Wilton didn't like that kind of music. The smell of the nuts filled the room with a lovely mix of hot salt and oil. Wilton hadn't noticed her own hunger until the scent surrounded her. She'd traveled through the night from Nsukka with only a short break between her car ride and the plane. No time for food.

Wilton watched Lindsey rise to her feet, classic features undisturbed, the chestnut coil of her chignon emphasizing her control over all, even the humidity. Spotless in her pale shirtwaist dress. Antithesis to Sandy with red flyaway hair coming loose from her long braid and her rumpled shirt and pants. Businesswoman and geologist. Maybe the disparity protected their friendship.

Wilton shook hands. Sometimes she had to remind herself to smile because it was what Americans expected. The houseboy Jonas came in, perfect in his whites and handed Wilton a freshly uncapped beer bottle in a folded napkin.

"Wilton don't be such a schoolmarm, beer's good for you," Sandy said. "Drink up."

Sandy probably drank more than she should. Sometimes it seemed as if she'd never stopped being rebellious against some hand that had long since dropped away. Wilton gave the proper greeting to the houseboy. "I see you, Jonas. Thank you."

She touched the beer to her lips and drank, and as though that passed as a signal of acceptance and release, both Sandy and Lindsey sat down again. But Wilton walked around the room, too restless to sit yet, viewing the masks and feathers on the walls, the bright calabashes and painted carvings, an array of thorn carvings contending for space. Sandy traveled all over Nigeria, geological surveys mapped by this array of curios. On the top of the bookshelves mineral samples green with malachite and pink or violet with rose quartz and amethyst glittered. How much of Sandy's life was spent running away?

"Do you come here every weekend?"

"It's our 'house on the Cape,'" Lindsey said. "Takes over two hours to drive up here from Lagos on weekdays, or we'd do it every day. We need a break—insane city noise day and night."

"And God, the humidity," Sandy said. "By ten it feels like I'm swimming in hot soup."

Wilton took a swig from the bottle, the cold bitterness reviving her. She felt dwarfed here, outmeasured by her friends, their possessions and their ease. How well did she know them? She wound her energy tight. She must pace herself, test responses. Lindsey's answers would lead Sandy.

"Lindsey, Sandy. Listen to me. Time for you to get out of Nigeria, now," Wilton said. Firm tone, barely a hint of condescension. "The violence grows. It's terrible in the North, and spreading. Nigeria's falling apart. We're a long way from Wellesley College. I can't watch you get hurt. I'm the one who brought you here. We had grand ambitions to shape Nigeria and her people and government—but war changes the game, Lindsey. Time to take our losses and leave."

She stopped and put down her beer, leaned both hands on the teak table, looking at them over the gloss of the wood. The slow fan rotated overhead, stirring the cooling night air. Sandy glanced at Lindsey then took another handful of the peanuts. Wilton felt her heart lurch with hope. They'd already talked about this before her coming.

"A couple riots," Lindsey said, "two military coups, and you tell me to flee? Run home with a few credits to my name so I can tell stories at cocktail parties about how great I could have been?"

Mockery in Lindsey's voice, certainty, a tilt to her head. Wilton lifted her hand to hide her mouth and looked down. But a jolt of power like an electric shock made her quiver.

"What's happened to you, Wilton? Have you no faith?"

"I've never had anything else but faith. Persuade me," Wilton said. She hid the exultation, wiped her face with both hands as if to smooth away stress and tension. Not the right time to smile, she must show reluctance, be forced to agree. "Lindsey, tell me what entitles me to risk your life for a purpose not your own."

"Because I believe in my plans. I gave my word to carry through. This isn't your purpose. It's mine. Besides, Wilton, I could never position myself in America the way I have here. I couldn't write history. In America I'm a woman, and as you said to me years ago, it may be the sixties, but women still live in the kitchen, spread their legs in the bedroom and wash the floors when they're not shopping."

"Yuck," Sandy said.

"Oh Lindsey, there are tons of causes in the US you could join. The antiwar movement, the end of segregation, ecological awareness, the new feminism…Our own country's barely begun..."

Lindsey smiled, head high. "You said the magic word, Wilton,
join
. I'm no joiner. Never have been. I move people like chess pieces here, influence votes of ministers of state and military officers by buying up their debts. I've gone far beyond your calculations and your schedule. I'm not leaving my investment now. And it's a big investment. You have no authority over me. Disasters make opportunity—I'm here for mine."

"Besides," Sandy said, "where else could I expect a minimum of one marriage proposal a week?"

"Yeah," Lindsey said, "it would mean more if it weren't merely a courteous Nigerian habit. And if your suitors weren't already married."

"Hey, don't spoil my fun." Sandy crunched up a handful of nuts. "I could be number three or four wife. It's legal here."

Wilton shook her head, swallowed hard. Careful, even in your success, in the fever of your triumph. Never let them know you came to turn their inclination to stay into zeal.

"You give me heart, Lindsey," she said, and that much was true.

"I'm sure of one thing." Sandy pointed her beer bottle at Wilton. "Damned sure. No matter what you're saying we oughta do, you're not fucking leaving yourself. Besides, we're guests in this country and here being a guest's damned serious. I can go camp out in the wilds and nobody bugs me except the little kids waiting to see when I go pee if I'm really white all over. No one in Nigeria would harm us."

Wilton stared at her, startled Of course, what Sandy said was true.

"So that discussion's over. How long can you stay? It's a long trip from the Eastern Region to Lagos. Twelve hours driving? More?" Sandy waved her beer again, grinning, as if suggesting nights of drunken debauchery.

"I flew," Wilton said, "but I'll be gone by tomorrow afternoon. I have classes to teach back in Nsukka next week."

"Birds?" Sandy pushed the peanuts in Wilton's direction.

"Ornithology, yes." Wilton took two of the nuts, only two, and passed the bowl back. Self-denial was a skill that could never be practiced too much. "And classes in Intro Zoology. You'd like the field trips, Sandy. Hedgehogs and rock pythons, more ground squirrels than you can imagine with black-and-orange fur, striped tails."

"Keep me near flush toilets." Lindsey smiled as if she'd won the discussion.

Wilton smiled back. "Speaking of such?"

"Down the hall on your right," Lindsey said.

Wilton left them, but she continued to listen. Blessings on the transom in the bathroom door that let their voices drift in.

"You think Gilman will leave? She's right in the trouble zone in a way we're not," Lindsey said. "Out there in the East she's going to see a lot of damaged people coming out of the North."

"But I'll bet you dollars to donuts she's not going to get scared out. No way is Gilman going to show a yellow belly when Wilton's watching." Sandy chuckled.

Or when you're watching.
Time for Wilton's transplanted Americans to meet again under her roof in Nsukka. Time for them to feel again that edge of competition, the push to excel. Savory food, gin and tonics, conversation on Wilton's enclosed porch so no one had to worry about mosquitoes and stories between friends.

They'd been separated for months and distance healed wounds. Gilman and Lindsey wouldn't openly fight this time, but they'd be the sharper for the friction and she knew how each thirsted for her approval. Oh, Lindsey probably denied it to herself, but Wilton read the signs. Only Sandy didn't care about Wilton's opinion—seemed to have her own private drive to continue here in Africa. Wilton wondered why.

Chapter 10: Gilman

December 1966

Nsukka, Eastern Region, Nigeria

The third evening at Wilton's place in Nsukka, Gilman heard the putter of a Citroën in the yard. The air shaded to violet and pink in the sudden shift from afternoon to night. Wilton back? Wonderful. Gilman pushed the reading lamp to one side and closed her book, stretching her bare toes and wriggling them. Wilton would scold her for not wearing shoes. Snakes and scorpions, centipedes and other biting, stinging things invaded houses so easily.
Tough, Wilton.
Gilman did, however, tuck her cigarettes into her breast pocket.

"Hello." Wilton opened the glass-paned door, but she didn't step in yet. "I've brought company."

Company? A scuff of feet on the path and steps.

"Hey, Gilman," came Sandy's voice. "Still emptying bedpans?"

"Hah." If Sandy were here, they could both smoke. Sandy sauntered in, tanned, thin and angular, the only concession to her sex the thick braid of hair down her back.

"Where the fuck are you hiding the cold beer, Gilman?" As if no time had passed, Sandy still looked a college student, complete with baseball cap tugged low over her green eyes. She grinned but Gilman tensed, waiting for the door to swing again.

Gilman watched Lindsey step in. A different kind of strut but still a strut. Deliberation in every bone, as if Lindsey knew people looked at her, not for beauty in this climate but for the sense of chill her pale face and copper eyes carried, the passionless but lovely mouth, the carriage of royalty. Like a millionaire. Pale-blue shirtwaist dress, trim belt. Glossy chestnut hair twisted into a chignon, restrained. To look at her was to feel a slob. Lindsey, an iceberg walking. No wonder they all loved her.