The Boy Next Door (23 page)

I haven’t told my mother we’re coming.

“They dumped her there,” he told me when he got the notification of her impending evaluation. “They didn’t know what to do
with her.”

She is going to undergo some tests, and if these go well she might be released. She’s now living in a more open wing of the
hospital, for patients who are considered low risk.

I look up at Ian and brush the crook of my finger on his chin, feel the stubble here. He takes the finger, squeezes tight,
nibbles at it.

The thought of our visit fills me with unease; I haven’t slept for two days. On Christmas Eve we’ll go to Ingutsheni, the
three of us, and we will meet her. Ian will introduce her to me, me to her.

I look out the window, at the hacked trees and where the ground has been scorched. I have tried to imagine the kind of trauma
being in that fire might have caused; the type of breakdown it might have precipitated. Words and ideas from my studies have
leaked out, attaching themselves to the unknown: personality disorder, schizophrenia, psychotic episodes.

Nineteen-year-old Ian, coming out of jail, his first visit to his mother, what, who did he see behind those walls? His mother’s
reality must have shifted so that where she was, where she found herself, became the norm: what kind of adaptations had her
mind made to survive?

That was an essay topic last year: does madness really exist or is it just a reasonable response to a set of events?

I look back at David. He’s grown. I look down at his feet, at the new Bata tackies we got on Saturday (when I said “tackies,”
the young shop assistant looked at me with her Big City Girl attitude. “Oh, you mean
sneakers,
” she said). I see his bare feet on that morning months and months ago when we lifted his sleeping body out from his grandmother’s
grasp.

“They need to see that she has some kind of support system,” Ian told me.

A support system, I thought.
We can barely support ourselves.

We haven’t talked about how we’ll manage.

We are staying at, ironies of ironies, the Grey’s Inn, former all-exclusive Rhodie Hangout. It is two blocks from The Selborne
and caters for the budget traveler. We are refugees in our own town. Looking up at its colonial facade, I think of my schoolgirl
self sitting in the car while Ian stood behind a fence trying to connect with an old school friend in Khumalo, arranging to
meet here to check out the new contingent of expat chicks.

While Ian sleeps, I go with David into town, his hand in mine, still a surprise.

We go into Woolworths.

“You can have a sweet, David. Any one you like.”

I watch him take in the assortment of delights, hazards. The fudge and licorice sticks, the cool cigarettes with their white
peppermint stalks and red tips, snug in their packet; Rita would “smoke” them during lunchtimes even though they were forbidden
at school, blowing elaborate circles in the air with her exhaled “smoke.” I look at the jelly babies, red, white, yellow,
orange, and feel the sticky mess of them in my fist.

I look over the counters at the gift packages of men’s aftershave and ladies’ perfumes: Impulse spray, Shield deodorant for
men. I would save months and months ahead for my parents’ gifts. I think of the day after Christmas when I saw Mummy giving
my present away to Rosanna. She wanted the perfumes that came from Europe, that were sold only in Edgars.

“Maybe some chocolate?” I ask him. “Those peanut clusters are delicious.”

We stand there together until finally we take the escalator and go upstairs to the supermarket to see if there are any toys
there.

I stand upstairs and memory gushes at me: Daddy maneuvering the trolley, the wad of dollars in his shirt pocket, Mummy holding
the list, slowly crossing out the found items. I walk up and down the aisles, lifting the familiar objects as if they were
artifacts. The same things as in Harare, but here in this place, they seem to resonate with meaning.

There’s a selection of balls in one corner, and I notice David eyeing them.

I’ve bought him a football for Christmas, and it’s in the suitcase with the other gifts. Back in Harare there’s the bicycle
waiting for him; Ian got it on account from Manica Cycles. But I want him to have something now. I want him to have a memory
of this moment, me and him together.

“You can choose a ball, David, since you didn’t have any sweets.”

I almost add “please.”

He picks up a red plastic ball, throws it carefully up in the air. And then he puts it down again. He takes hold of my hand.
And we take the stairs downstairs.

When we get back to the hotel, Ian’s not in the room. I wonder if he has gone to the pub or if he’s driven off somewhere.
We wait until it gets dark, and then we eat the chicken sandwiches I brought with us and we both fall asleep watching TV.

We drive through the gates bearing gifts: a sweater in baby blue four-ply wool, a pair of yellow socks, a toothbrush and toothpaste,
a bar of soap. This time I do not stay in the car waiting for Ian to get back. I step out of the car. David and I find a bench
to sit on while Ian goes up the stairs.

“She’s sleeping,” he says, when he comes back alone.

We sit on the bench, the three of us. I close my eyes and imagine music playing through the air here, something with strings
and maybe a flute, something so soft and fragile if you breathed too hard it would shatter.

“I’ll go and check again,” Ian says, and I notice that this time he takes the gifts with him.

I look down at David and find the giraffe in his hand; he’s gnawing at the giraffe’s head.

I push the giraffe’s head away from his mouth.

Where are all the inmates? Do days like this, days of celebration, make them edgy? Are they given more medication than normal
to blot out memory, desire, longing?

As if in answer, a shriek pierces through the silence and David stiffens next to me. At this moment it seems such a foolhardy
thing to have brought him here.

Ian returns alone. The gifts are gone.

We spend Christmas in the hotel. We eat the buffet lunch. I don’t say anything about Ian’s drinking, the Castles cluttering
up our table.

Later I go to see my father. Like Ian, bearing gifts.

Mummy is sitting outside by the veranda with Aunty Gertrude.

It is a shock to see Aunty Gertrude there. They watch me in silence as I go inside the house. I go into the bedroom. All the
curtains are drawn, and in the darkness I can hear Daddy’s raspy breathing.

The room smells, and for a moment I think of Ian’s mother, if she might not be in a room such as this, not in size or shape
perhaps, but in how it feels.

I go to the windows and gently draw back a curtain, enough for a shaft of light to fall over the left side of the bed, Daddy’s
side.

I go around the bed, and standing there, I remember that day when one moment Daddy was sitting on his favorite chair in the
lounge having his tea, and the next, the cup falling from his hand, the tea spilling onto his lap, onto his slippers, and
Daddy’s head slumped forwards. And I remember that, while I called the ambulance, Mummy went to the bedroom and I could hear
her prayers. Later while we waited for the ambulance, she made phone calls to her Manyano friends, and I thought then how
girlish she sounded as she related the calamity that had befallen her.

I lay down my gifts at my father’s feet. A scarf and a hat.

I go to the back of the house to the workshop. I find a dog, barely a puppy. I think of Roxy who the vet put to sleep because
of the pain he was suffering from a tumor in his neck, and I remember my father’s grief at the loss of him; when I came back
from school, he told me that he had no choice but to agree with the doctor.

The dog is lying on the mat in front of the door, and when she sees me, she whimpers. I lift her off the mat; she is little
more than bones. I go to where the vegetable garden used to be and run the tap. I watch her lap at the running water. I look
out at the house next door.

There is no sign of Tess, the cocker spaniel who Daddy got (just before his stroke) and who I’m sure is the mother of the
puppy in my arms. She must finally have got herself pregnant, because when she was in heat, she would always manage one escape
from the yard, biting right through her leash when she was tied to the gum tree.

Carrying the puppy, I go and see if Rosanna is around. I knock gently at her door. When I push it open, there is a faint smell
of perfume but that must be my wishful thinking.

I stand by the veranda trying to find words. Mummy and Aunty Gertrude don’t even look at me.

On the drive back to Harare, David sings just under his breath Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds,” the track that Ian’s been
playing at home. He knows the words, I think.
He knows them.
I look at Ian who smiles at me. We were right not to bring him to my mother. It’s a gift to have him singing this; The Lord
Is My Shepherd spirited away.

The dog sits quietly on his lap.

“
Bridgette
!”

“Oh, my God!”

“Bridgette!”

“Lins!”

It’s Saturday morning, and I’m sitting in the hairdresser’s chair when she walks in. I don’t see her straightaway because
I’m reading
Femina
magazine and my head is bent low because Bea is putting the straightening lotion right at the back. Then I hear, “Hello,
I’d like to have my braids undone.” I look up, almost knocking the brush from Bea’s hand.

“My God, Bridgette, what are you doing here?” I ask her as she drags a chair and sits next to me.

“I’ve just come back from London. And you, Little Miss Thing?”

“University.”

“Of course.”

Her “of course” takes me right back to my fifteen-year-old self. How irritating I must have been then and how generous of
her to be my friend.

Bridgette reschedules her appointment so that as soon as I’m finished we go upstairs to the Book Café. We order coffees and
pancakes.

“So,” I say, “fill me in, all the juicy details, please.”

“I’m dabbling in import, export. Hair products to start with. I’m thinking of setting up some salons.”

“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.