Shooting Butterflies

by T. M. Clark

  Ironically, it was the boarding school she insisted on sending him to that had freed him up the most from his own guilt over being forced to abandon Tara and the loss of their baby. His time away at boarding school had also cemented his bubbling anger and resentment with his mother.

  It had taught him to focus on what was important and ignore what was incidental. In his life, she’d given birth to him, and that was all.

  ‘Morning, Isabeth,’ he said, and continued his breakfast, a polite coolness between them.

  ‘Samuel will bring the car around at ten o’clock for us to travel to your father’s funeral.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. There was no need for Samuel to have to play chauffeur, he could attend the funeral as the driver from the farm, instead of working that day. She knew that Wayne was perfectly capable of driving them to the funeral. Hell, he could drive more than just a car. With his training, he could fly her there in a plane too if he wanted to, about the only thing he couldn’t drive was a nuclear submarine. Yet, he was past the point of rising to his mother’s bait. Gone were his days of being manipulated by her. He knew she liked to fight, that was her thing, and he no longer indulged her.

  ‘Wayne, this is nonsense!’ Isabeth said. ‘You can still call me Mum, you know.’

  ‘I could,’ he said, ‘but I choose not too. You lost the privilege of being called Mum a few years back. You might be the woman who birthed me, but it was Dad who was the parent. It was Dad who constantly supported me, guided me in the direction that was good for me, not good for you. Now that Dad has gone, I see no point in keeping up the pretence. You can’t hurt him anymore with your threats of divorce and of leaving him alone, like you did any time things didn’t go your way. You manipulated him every opportunity you had, threatened him into doing what you wanted whenever he defied you. Just like you did to me and Tara. But you will no longer dictate what happens in my life. Those days are long gone, Isabeth. You are not part of my life. I will not be coming home to run Kujana as you instructed in your letter to the army either, but will be remaining in the Recces.’

  ‘You’re just like him!’ she said.

  ‘Good. Because as a person my father was kind, compassionate and a decent human being. I’m not saying he was perfect. He indulged you constantly. That was his biggest character flaw, because mostly he tried to be the best man he could.’

  ‘Oh that he did, he was always the better man. The better person. Everyone had to see him as that. Even when he was young, before we were even dating. He was the perfect gentleman! Now he’s done the gentlemanly thing and gone and died on me. Leaving me alone. I’m not even fifty yet. And he left me.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, he can’t help having a heart attack, Isabeth. It’s not like he chose that!’ Wayne pushed his plate away and rose from the table. ‘I’ll get ready. See you at the car at ten.’

  The lawyer’s office was starkly decorated. Wayne tugged at the collar on his shirt and tie. Damn, he didn’t miss these when he was in the bush. His camo was so much more comfortable.

  The receptionist answered her phone. Then she stood up and crossed over to Wayne and his mother. ‘Mr Bezuidenhout will see you now.’ She led them through to a boardroom.

  Mr Bezuidenhout opened the large glass door from the inside. ‘Come on in,’ he said as he shook first Isabeth’s hand, then Wayne’s. ‘Please have a seat.’ He motioned to the chairs around a large oval table, and held out a chair for Isabeth. ‘Maree, hold my calls.’

  The receptionist nodded, closed the door and walked back to her desk. Wayne watched her go. He recognised her as one of the girls who used to be friends with Dela at school. He wondered if afterwards he could ask her for a drink and see if she knew anything about Tara’s whereabouts. After all, Hluhluwe was such a small place, it was uncharacteristic that no one knew anything about where the Wright family had gone.

  Mr Bezuidenhout sat in the chair opposite Wayne and Isabeth. ‘Thank you for coming. And again, I’m so sorry for your loss.’

  Wayne nodded. Isabeth sniffed into a tissue.

  Mr Bezuidenhout continued. ‘This is a formality. I have to say that I’m conducting this meeting at the wish of the late Johnny Bird Botha. Johnny asked that you both be present at the reading of his will.’

  Isabeth shifted in her chair. ‘Ben, I’m not so sure why we’re having such a formal meeting. Johnny and I came in here often enough to sort out everything for the farm with you.’

  ‘Death is never easy, Isabeth, and so often estates are left in a state of unorganised chaos. But not with Johnny. You have been spared that.’ He opened the file in front of him. ‘Johnny was my friend as well as client. It’s still hard to believe he is dead.’

  Isabeth crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. Wayne stared at Ben Bezuidenhout, wondering what was so important that they had needed to come into town to do the reading, and why Ben hadn’t just come to the house, and visit like he always did.

  ‘Johnny was meticulous with keeping his will up to date.’ He looked at Isabeth. ‘I have often updated both your wills on separate occasions. So this was his last will and testament.’ He handed both Wayne and Isabeth a copy.

  Wayne began to read it, the legal jargon flowery at the beginning. Then he got to the part where it said that there was to be a lump sum payment to Isabeth, so she could buy a house in the city, and which would keep her for her years, until either she passed or she spent it all. She wasn’t entitled to more. Wayne inherited Kujana, the farm, along with a substantial working capital. Although John wrote that he assumed that at the time of writing, he knew Wayne wasn’t interested in continuing being a sugarcane farmer, and there was an instruction that the farm should be sold if Wayne chose, with all the proceeds go to Wayne.

  The third legacy was a lump-sum payment, held in trust, with a monthly annuity to continue being paid to his grandchild, Josha Wright.

  Wayne sat numbly.

  He had a son.

  He had a son, and his name was Josha.

  ‘Continued? Continued? Johnny paid that bitch and never told me!’ Isabeth was shouting. ‘How much money has already gone to that little bastard? Has she been blackmailing my Johnny all this time? Ben, how could you let this happen?’

  ‘No, Isabeth,’ Ben said. ‘Johnny was clear on this when we set the trust up almost six years ago. Tara Wright was supported while she finished school, and expenses were paid to cover her costs in having to relocate to have the baby. The baby was to be kept in the fashion that he would have been if he were within the Botha household.’

  Wayne turned to his mother. The look on her face was one of total contempt, and hatred.

  He couldn’t breathe. He wanted to smash something.

  ‘Another lie, Isabeth. You told me that Tara had aborted our baby. You told me Tara had it killed!’

  She darted a look at Ben and she put her hand on her throat. ‘Wayne, perhaps this isn’t the place and time—’

  ‘It’s the perfect place. In front of our lawyer. Our family lawyer.’ Wayne flexed his fist. Anger like he’d only experienced once in his life bubbled to the surface. ‘Did you know that Tara had kept our child?’

  ‘That little bitch disappeared before I got to take care of that business. So the child was as good as dead anyway,’ she said.

  ‘You kept this from me …’ Wayne said quietly, and Ben stood up, as if realising how short the fuse was that Wayne kept tightly under control.

  ‘No,’ his mother said. ‘I didn’t know about this.’ She burst into tears and slammed her hands on the table. ‘He paid her off, he went behind my back after all and paid her off. And you helped,’ she rounded on Ben, poking him in the chest. ‘That’s why she could disappear. I had the appointment made, I was going to drive her to the doctor in Johannesburg myself to ensure she had the abortion and she couldn’t ruin Wayne’s life.’

  Ben pushed her hand away slowly. ‘Please sit down, Isabeth,’ he said in a calm voice.

  Isabeth collapsed into the ch
air.

  Wayne asked Ben. ‘Where is she? Where is my son?’

  ‘I don’t know. My company pays the money into an account every month. We haven’t had direct contact with her since 1984 when the initial paperwork was organised with our sister firm in Durban.’ Ben shuffled his papers. ‘Wayne, there is this envelope for you too. From your father. He kept it updated after he found out about his angina.’

  Ben handed him an A3 envelope.

  Wayne opened it and pulled out the contents. A handwritten letter on thick paper, and a second envelope that had instruction on it. Do not bend. He read the letter.

  My son

  You were a lucky token, coming so late into my life. I never thought I would get to have a child, let alone a beautiful son. I am so proud to have been your father.

  There are so many conversations I wish we could have had … but if you are reading this, time has run out for me.

  Your mother was pregnant when she married me. The first time, she had an abortion, without telling me. The next time around I wasn’t letting her have another one. I was with her twenty-four hours a day to ensure she didn’t, I couldn’t let her destroy another life. I was already forty and she was only nineteen. At first I thought she’d give birth to you, and just leave, and I would have you to myself, but life didn’t turn out that way. She stayed because you became her weapon against me.

  Make no mistake, I love your mother, but as you know she’s my Achilles’ heel. I guess this is what happens when love is one sided. I got a trophy wife and a son to love, and she got an old man and his money. Our age gap was large, but I always thought that my love could overcome that.

  I was wrong.

  But I can say with a clear conscience that I never gave up or that my commitment to love and cherish her always ever strayed. I hope you won’t be too hard on her.

  I have enclosed three pictures of your son Josha. One from when he was born, one from a few years ago, and the final one Tara sent to me through the lawyers last year, of them in a park together.

  Of all the things in life I am proud of, I am proudest that I could help you, and help your Tara to escape Isabeth’s jealousy and acidic nature and have your baby. I wish I could have been the grandfather that Josha needed, active in his life. Not the unknown man he will never know.

  Tara looks like she is a good mum. I only ever asked for one photograph, and she has sent three.

  Josha is a beautiful boy.

  I knew that day after I sent you to boarding school that I had made the second biggest mistake in my life by agreeing with Isabeth and sending you away from me. I lost you then.

  I also know that you’re too proud to ask for help a second time. I understand that you’re now a man, no longer a boy, and you want to do things in your own time, and with your own money.

  You once came to me for help, and I couldn’t openly show it to you for fear of your mother divorcing me, and taking you away from me. I can think of not one case when my friends have got divorced that the father has been granted custody in South Africa, even when the children were over sixteen. As you know, the mother always gets the children.

  I told you that day you asked for my help that I don’t believe in abortion. I believe that every life is precious, and family is important. I just wish I could have told you then that I would protect your baby no matter what Isabeth said.

  I have a grandchild. You have a son.

  Know that the farm now gives you total financial independence, and moving your mother into town will give you the space and peace and quiet you need when you bring your family back together.

  You can sell it if you wish, but I have had many happy moments watching you grow up there, and I hope that this way, you get to experience those same memories, with your own son.

  Come back to civilisation.

  I love you my son. I have always loved you.

  Dad.

  Wayne opened the next envelope and looked at the pictures. The first was of Tara and Josha right after his birth. She was sitting in a wheelchair, in a pink hospital gown, her hair tied back, and he could see how she’d been sweating. In her arms she held a baby wrapped in blue, and she looked down at it with a love that radiated from the picture.

  His son. So tiny.

  He turned the photo over, and on the back was written: Josha – 11 April 1985.

  He took in a deep breath, and pulled the next picture to the top of the small pile.

  It was just Josha by himself, his hair blonde and curly around his head, his big beautiful blue eyes large in the close-up. Eyes shaped like Tara’s, but the same colour as his own. The photo was sharp and clear, as if it had been done professionally. The third photo was the most recent. Josha was a lot taller. He was standing in front of Tara, giving her a kiss as she sat on a picnic bench. His blond head was only millimetres away from hers. She still wore her hair in its blunt bob as she had when he had last seen her the day they had parted on such bad terms, only now her hair was blonder. She was highlighting it. She had her arm around Josha’s middle, and she looked like she was laughing. Josha wore a uniform, of a white short-sleeved shirt, with grey socks, and black shoes. He couldn’t see the insignia on the shirt, and it could have been from almost any school in South Africa.

  He flicked through the photos again. There was nothing in the pictures to see where they had been taken.

  ‘Ben, as my lawyer, do you know where she is?’ Wayne asked.

  ‘No. But we can initiate a search for you. There are people who specialise in finding those who don’t want to be found. But it will cost a fair amount.’

  ‘You know my financial situation better than anyone, having worked so close to my dad. With his money that I have just inherited, can I afford those services?’ Wayne asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then, do it.’

  Wayne sat on a plastic chair under the tarp at Doppies Base Camp. Terry sat near his feet as always, his head resting on his front paws.

  Bevin coughed to get Wayne’s attention. ‘You know the Lieutenant suggested when we wrap up here at the end of the month, we get away, clear our heads. Travel, get in to city life again.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Wayne said. ‘Would be in July, the coldest month. We couldn’t wrap up in September when the temperatures are decent, before the heat and the rain arrive.’

  Bevin smiled. ‘So, I have arranged to visit my great aunt in Karoi, in Zimbabwe. She’s sold her farm at last and is coming to live with my folks. She asked me to come for one last visit, help her pack her things, make sure she leaves nothing behind. You’ll like her. She used to be a tobacco farmer, but she’s now diversified and put in game too. For an old lady she’s one hell of a farmer.’

  ‘She’s the farmer?’

  ‘Yeah. For years she was just keeping afloat until she got her new bossboy, Jamison. He’s the one who’s basically been running the farm for her. Although my mother tells me my aunt is in no way acting like an old woman yet.’

  ‘Sounds good. Hope you have a great time.’

  ‘After that, a week on her houseboat in Kariba. That is going to be a party! But I wanted you to come with me, you know, travel together.’

  ‘Does she know you’re bringing a guest?’

  ‘Yes, I wrote and told her two people would be visiting.’

  ‘You assumed I would go with you? Why?’

  ‘Because you need the break. You’re coming with me, my friend. Time for you to live a little and to give yourself a rest from looking at that photo of your child and your girl all the time.’

  Wayne smiled. ‘It’s become a bit of an obsession. I still can’t quite believe that it’s real. I have proof that I have a son, not just a feeling. Remember when I once told you that it was possible Tara hadn’t had that abortion, that she had lost things in her life that she loved, that I thought she would fight with everything she had to keep our child. Well, I was right. I guess having my dad on her side helped her to win the battle.’

  ‘You have your
fancy lawyer trying to track her down. There’s nothing you can do while you wait. So now that you’re not squirelling away your money like you used to, and have moola to travel, we’re travelling, boet. It’s already arranged by yours truly. You can thank me after we get back,’ Bevin said.

  Wayne put his hand on Terry and looked around. In a week they would be leaving the camp. Closing it totally. The Recces would leave, and then operations personnel would clear everything out. Strip the camp down and leave it empty.

  Since the release of Mandela in February, the SADF had begun getting ready for a transition to a black government. Only this time there was nowhere left for the white minority to run south too. They were as far south in South Africa as you could get.

  So they needed to protect those who couldn’t run.

  Protect those who would remain in the society for years to come, and whose families would continue to live in South Africa.

  Documents had been burnt.

  Files had been destroyed so that no trace of what was happening would ever fall into the wrong hands. So that every soldier who fought during the Apartheid war would be protected from a guerrilla government should the transition become a bloodbath. Should anyone seek justice for acts to protect their country be misconstrued as crimes committed during a war time.

  Since 1948 South Africans had been fighting Soviet, Korean, Chinese and Cuban forces on the front line, as well as all the black factions, yet now it was over. They were being sold down the drain into black empowerment. South Africa could either change without mass violence, as F.W. de Klerk was trying to achieve, or there could be full-scale mass murder and genocide, as had happened in almost every other African country.