The knife twists again. This is not about the house Abby knows. This is about Debbie and I.
“I’m sorry, Debbie, but no.”
“Why not?”
“Thirteen is a milestone age in our family.”
“I don’t see the issue.”
“It’s her first teenager party. It’s my privilege to organize it.”
My parties for Abby have always been something special with a theme and a cake I spend days creating. It’s our ritual, a rock-solid tradition we’ve got going. Weeks before, Abby and I already start discussing decorations and party favors. I may not be a perfect mother, but I’m a damn good event organizer, and I’m not giving up on making Abby’s birthday special just so that Debbie can integrate into our extended family. Especially not Abby’s first teenager birthday.
Tears pool behind her huge, brown eyes. “I’m only trying to do what’s best for Abby.”
“So do I. Soon, you’re going to have your own little girl or boy to organize birthday parties for. You’ll understand when you hold that baby in your arms.”
She lifts her chin and pulls her lips into a defiant line, but she doesn’t reply. Abby saves me from prolonging the painful conversation by coming down the stairs with her overnight bag.
“Bye, Debs.”
They hug each other and blow air kisses.
I take Abby’s hand, leading her to the garden path. “Goodbye, Debbie. Say hi to Francois for me.”
“Oh, Jane,” Debbie comes down the steps toward us, “there is one more thing.”
“Here.” I hand Abby the car keys. “I’ll be there in a minute.” I don’t want my daughter caught in our rope pulling. “What is it?” I ask when Abby is in the car.
“It’ll be better if you don’t call Abby here.”
My ears start ringing. Anger blurs the edges of my vision. “Are you telling me not to call my daughter?”
“Not when she’s with us. It makes her feel guilty.”
“How do my calls make her feel guilty?”
“She thinks you’re calling because you’re lonely.” Her face is serene, as if she’s not twisting that damn knife a little deeper, still. “It makes her feel bad for not being with you.”
I’m at a loss for words. Maybe it’s true. Yes, I miss Abby. Maybe she feels bad knowing that, but I call for her benefit, not mine.
I don’t owe Debbie a thing, but this is my daughter. I’m not going to be unreasonable for the sake of being spiteful. “All right, I’ll talk to Abby about it. If it bothers her, I’ll stop calling when she’s visiting you.”
“There’s nothing to talk about, Jane.” She places extra emphasis on my name, as if she’s scolding a child. “This is our house and our rules. No calls. No text messages. I’m sure you can last for two days. If you insist on disrupting our bonding time, you’ll leave me no choice but to confiscate Abby’s phone for the weekend.”
What the–? It takes everything I possess to force calm. “If you care about Abby, as you claim you do, you’ll consider what’s best for her, not you.”
Her mouth falls open. She’s about to say something else, but I’ve had as much of this talk as I can handle. I turn on my heel and walk to the car. I don’t care that I’m being rude.
“Everything okay, Mom?” Abby asks when I get in beside her and start the engine. She gives Debbie a quizzical glance.
“Perfect.” There are still two hours of daylight left. “I want to show you a place I’ve been looking at for renting,” I say on the spur of the moment. I was going to keep the visit a surprise until next weekend when I have Abby, but I’m too excited to share it with her. “If the owners are available, are you up for it?”
She shrugs. “Aren’t they all the same?”
I know what she means. We’ve only been looking at cookie cutter townhouses in copycat complexes.
“This one is different.”
“All right. Why not?”
Hilda agrees to leave the cottage open and gives me the code for the electronic lock at the gate so I don’t have to disturb them. The farther we drive north, the straighter Abby sits in her seat until we cross Zambezi Avenue, which forms the border of the built-up area the farthest north.
“Where are we going?” she asks, staring with dismay at the gravel road.
“You’ll see.”
Fifteen minutes later, we pull up at the German doctors’ gate. Abby has gone from dismay to quiet. She doesn’t say anything while I take her on a tour of the cottage, showing her the room facing the dam, which will be hers. Mine will be the one at the back, overlooking the hilltops.
“Well?” I ask when we exit onto the deck.
The view of the dam framed by the mountains is spectacular. The smell of a Jasmine creeper infuses the early evening air. A freshness carries on the breeze, cooling down the heat of the day. Frogs and crickets sound around us, reminding me of the Bushveld holidays of my youth.
“You can’t be serious,” Abby says.
Her words are sticks in the spokes of my excitement. My spirits drop. “Don’t you like it?”
She spreads her arms and turns in a circle. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“Isn’t that the point?”
“What about my friends?” She taps a palm on her chest. “How am I ever going to see anyone if we live out in the sticks?”
“The same as how you’ve seen your friends in Groenkloof. I’ll drop you by car or their parents will drop them here. I fail to see how living a short distance outside of town will interfere with your social life.”
“What about going to the movies or shopping malls?”
I try to hug her, but she moves out of my reach.
“As I said, I’ll take you. It’s the same distance to Menlyn Park, whether I drive from here or Groenkloof.”
“You don’t understand!”
“Explain it, then,” I say, perplexed.
“Debbie says I’ll soon be old enough to go by myself.”
“Go by yourself where?”
“To meet my friends at the mall.”
My anger escalates, but it’s not directed at my daughter. “How are you supposed to get there on your own?”
“By bus,” she says as if it’s the most obvious explanation in the world.
“There are no busses, Abby. Not safe ones, anyway. How many times have we talked about kidnappings? Do you know how many girls of your age disappeared this year?”
I’m not saying it to frighten her. It’s a reality. When you live in a dangerous and violent country, you need to be streetwise. You need to be prepared. How can Debbie be so irresponsible?
Abby crosses her arms and turns her back on me, staring out over the water.
“Would you rather live in a flat with a brick wall for a view?”
“You don’t understand.” She sniffs.
“I’m trying really hard.”
She flings around. “Have you signed the lease?”
“As a matter of fact, I have.”
“So, my opinion doesn’t matter anyway.” She throws her arms in the air. “Why did you even bother to show me?”
“I hoped you’d be excited. It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“Well, I hate it.”
My elation at what I’d considered a good find in terms of a home deflates. “All right. You’re entitled to your opinion. Give it a couple of months. If you still hate it, I’ll find someplace else for us to live.”
“Great. That means we’ll have to move twice.”
“Okay, so we won’t unpack except for the most important essentials.”
“And live between a mountain of boxes? No thanks.”
“You may end up loving it here.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“Look, this is your home, too. If you feel so strongly about it, I’ll pay the penalty for breach of contract, and we can start looking from scratch.”
“Forget it.” She barges to the door. “Can we go home, now? I’m hungry
, and I’ve got homework.”
“Yes, we can go.”
I’m beaten to silence. At times like these, I question myself. Am I even a good mother?
Brian
I’m preparing Sam’s lunch for school on Monday when Tron throws open the back door.
“Monkey sent for you.”
My gut turns cold.
I continue spreading peanut butter on the bread as if he’s not just told me my life can be extinguished in the next few minutes. Shooting a glance toward the corridor to make sure Sam and my mom aren’t within earshot, I say, “I have to drop off Sam, and then I’ll be over.”
“I’ll drop her.” He plants his feet wide.
The only way I’m walking past him is if I put a bullet in his heart.
“Sam!” I slap one piece of bread on top of the other and wrap the sandwich in foil. “Time to go.”
Schoolbag in hand, she rounds the corner. “Oh, hi, Tron. I didn’t know you were here.”
“Say bye to Mom,” I instruct, taking her schoolbag. I pack the sandwich and an apple before handing her back the bag when she returns. “Tron is dropping you off.”
She looks at Tron. “You are?”
Tron gives her his big, harmless, bear smile. “Your bro’s got business to take care of.”
“Bye, Brian.”
She hugs me and bounces through the doorframe ahead of the giant.
He gives me a warning look on his way to the door. “Don’t be late. He won’t take it kindly.”
During the drive to Monkey’s dealership, I prepare myself mentally to be beaten, tortured, or killed. Not one is a prospect I look forward to, but I’ll sacrifice myself gladly if it’ll save Sam and Mom. On a first warning, if I go to him as ordered, he won’t touch my family. He’ll shunt me around and maybe send me home with a shiner if I’m lucky, or in a body bag if my luck has run out.
The door and windows of the workshop at the back are closed. Not a good sign. Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades and down my spine as I get out of the truck and assess the situation in case I’ve missed an escape option. Knowing what I know about Monkey, there’s none. Lindy must’ve shot off her mouth about our conversation.
Grabbing the doorknob, I pause to take a deep breath. The metal is cold in my palm from the early morning air. The rest of me is hot, adrenalin coursing through my veins. I close my eyes briefly and push open the door. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the somber light. The scene unfolding in front of me isn’t what I expected.
A man is kneeling on a plastic sheet spread out on the floor. His hands are tied behind his back and blood is running from his nose and mouth. His head lolls on a shoulder. He doesn’t look up or lift his eyes when I enter. He’s either close to passing out or dying. My attention moves to the men behind him. Monkey stands at his back, nursing his bloody fists. Two of his goons flank the helpless man, each carrying a gun.
“’Bout time.” Monkey spits on the floor and waves me closer.
The sound of my boots echoes off the concrete. Each step I take is the tick of a clock, a time bomb about to explode. I hold my breath in the volatile silence as I stop in front of the beaten man.
“Caught him breaking into Tron’s yard,” Monkey says. “Not the first time, either.”
He kicks the man on a kidney, causing him to grunt and fall face-down.
It takes a dry swallow to find my voice. “Why am I here?”
Monkey grabs the alleged offender’s hair and drags him back onto his knees. “To finish him off.”
10
Brian
“No.” The word is out before I can stop myself.
Monkey scoffs. “It’s not as if it’ll be the first time you take out a man in cold blood.”
“This is different.”
He scrunches up his eyes. “How?”
“It’s not my fight.”
He takes a step closer, scrutinizing me with a tilted head. “Are you saying the neighborhood isn’t your concern?”
I’m treading on fragile fucking bird eggs. “I’m saying I wasn’t there. I haven’t seen shit.”
Monkey rounds the man and puts his face in mine. Spit flies from his mouth. “Are you saying I’m a liar?”
“No.” I don’t back up. Any sign of weakness will cost Monkey’s respect, and not even Lindy’s pleas will save me. “I’m saying I’m not killing a man who deserves to rot in jail.”
The goon on the left smirks. “Tron was right.”
“About what?” I spit out.
“You refuse to give your fists’ worth to the neighborhood watch.”
“The neighborhood watch is trouble. One day, it’s going to blow up in your faces.”
“The police aren’t worth the herpes on a whore’s cunt.” Monkey snorts from deep in his throat and projects another ball of slime on the floor. “No one is going to watch out for this neighborhood if we don’t.”
“Save your justifications for someone who cares. Shoot me if you must, but I don’t want any part in it.”
“Shall I put a bullet in his balls?” the goon on the right asks.
Monkey laughs softly. “Nah. I like his balls. Figuratively speaking, of course. Besides, he needs his testicles if he’s to give me grandkids.” He looks me straight in the eye. “You’ve got guts, kid, I’ll give you that. Enough to marry my daughter.” He grips the back of my neck and squeezes with enough force to crack my bones. “What I don’t know, is if you’ve got enough to take over the business.”
Dating Lindy is one thing. Taking over Monkey’s business is another. I don’t have the right answer, and the wrong one can still get me killed, so I keep my mouth shut.
Monkey lets go with a shove. “Finish him off.”
I stumble a step, not sure to who he spoke and to who he referred, but before I can find my bearings, a shot rings out, and the man falls forward for the second time. This time, he won’t be getting back up. I stare at the suited guy on the left who shot the poor fucker in the back of the head.
A smile curls his lips. “No one steals from us and gets away with it.”
“That’ll be a good lesson for his buddies,” says the other bodyguard, or whatever Monkey calls them.
Monkey dusts his hands. “Dump the body where the rest of his gang will find it.” He gives the corpse another kick for good measure. “Fucking scum.”
I’ve seen enough not to flinch or blink an eye. I’ve seen all I could the day my mother lay bleeding on the grass with her six-month pregnant belly. I’ve felt all I could when my father brought her home alive from the hospital only for her to die a little with each passing day. All I feel is pity for the poor dumb dead bastard who was stupid enough to try and rob, and maybe even kill, Tron. Sadly, most robberies also mean killings. The thieves seldom leave the people they rob alive.
Monkey pats my shoulder, his manner almost jovial. “Swing by the office one evening for a brandy and Coke. We’ll talk about a job.”
“I’ve got a job.”
“Slinging bricks?” He laughs. “No daughter of mine marries a man who can’t put a palace roof over her head.” He slaps me again, a little too hard, this time. “Stop by sooner than later.”
The stench of blood and gunpowder stir memories best forgotten. I turn for the door, pacing my strides. I don’t want to make it seem as if I’m running.
“Brian.”
I freeze when Monkey says my name.
“You may not have pulled the trigger, but you had your part it in.”
The warning is clear. I’m a witness. If I don’t go to the police, I’m an accomplice. We all know I’m not going to the police. That makes me as guilty as them.
“I expect you to start courting Lindy soon, and you better do it right.”
This is how he’s going to blackmail me. My family is only the sword he holds over my head.
If I open my big mouth now, there’ll be no one to blackmail and nothing to protect, so I just keep on walking until I hit daylight.
Jane
The idea I had on Brian’s back porch has been turning in my head all day, but it’s best to approach Toby with matters that require his approval after a drink. I arrange with Loretta to pick Abby up from school and let her stay over at their place for a couple of hours while I corner Toby at our office bar when our working hours come to an end.
I push a Bacardi Breezer into his hands and take one for myself. “I’m drowning. I can’t keep up with all the new projects.”
“No shit.” He takes a long sip, giving me a sidelong look. “You know the solution.”
“Delegate.” It’s Toby’s favorite word.
“Exactly.”
“Except, I don’t have anyone to delegate to.”
“You have Candice.”
“She’s an assistant. She’s great with admin, not with creative or strategy.”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“I’m not employing another advertising officer. We don’t have the budget.”
Knowing how Toby’s head works, I’m ready for this. “I’m not asking for another ad exec. I’m asking for an intern. Call it a trainee.”
He turns on his chair to face me. “Elaborate.”
“I’m asking for a student, someone who can work part-time with the team. It’s a win-win. I get the help I need for a lower budget,” which will still be a hell of a lot more than what Brian is currently earning, “and he gets in-house experience as well as a foot in the door for when he graduates.”
“He, huh?” he says, reminding me he’s not a fool. “I gather you already have a candidate in mind.”
“I do.”
I push the CV I’ve prepared for Brian over the counter. I hope to God Brian won’t mind that I accessed his file via an acquaintance of Francois at the university. I played the card of the agreeable ex-wife. I didn’t say it in so many words, but I implied that Francois said I could call him. As it turned out, Brian is an A-grade student. He’s top of his class, and his lecturers’ notes are glowing with praise for his potential. I didn’t want to ask Brian straight out and get his hopes up if Toby was going to refuse the idea. Not just a little guilt eats at my gut as I study Toby’s expression while he reads through the document. I’m not even sure how I’ll explain it to Brian if Toby agrees.
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