Relief washed over me, along with an enriched sense of my uncle’s goodness. “I’ll help with the boys, if you like. For the next few weeks I can work my normal hours and study at night.”
“The twins will be glad to see you. They still call themselves ‘the Dirty Dees.’” His amused smile and the warmth in his voice proclaimed an understandable affection for the twins. The attachment had come at an opportune time since I was about to ease my way out of my responsibilities in the shop. I decided I wasn’t going to worry yet about the day Mrs. Swale would need the boys in the grocery store.
Looking wistful, my uncle put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to miss you, Bonesy … er, Bones.”
My eyes welled. “I’ll miss you too.”
16
AND SO BEGAN A DISORIENTING period during which I lived and worked in the village of my birth but my hopes and dreams resided at Motembo. I wasn’t a soutpiel exactly, but my situation appeared similar to Jackson’s: one foot at home, one foot in a welcoming African outpost. As for my piel, it and the rest of me were quite happy to remain in the vicinity of Mima Swale.
For a few days, though, I seldom found time to see Mima, let alone be intimate with her or even tell her my plans. With Stash’s approval, I enlisted the Dirty Dees to assist in rebuilding the home and garden section in the grocery store. My uncle had already taught the boys excellent work habits and the basics of tool safety. Donovan had become proficient at measuring, marking, and cutting lumber. Drew appropriated the nail gun and handled the tool with due respect.
Once we had finished the carpentry, the boys made a game of restocking the shelves. Like Mima, they paid meticulous attention to order and symmetry, although their efforts more closely resembled boys building forts with blocks than storekeepers arranging goods on shelves. Without direction, Donovan picked up a broom and swept the construction area more or less clean.
On the days Mima and I worked together in the store, floods of customers claimed her attention. Her sale on damaged products attracted a significant number of shoppers, who added regular merchandise to their baskets of bargains. As the shelves emptied, the cash register filled up.
“I’m going to the bank, Bonesy,” she whispered one afternoon when I was preparing to leave. “Want to go too?”
I leapt at the chance to be alone with her, to tell her the news I had been itching to share. We left right away, with her at the wheel of the new truck. She stopped in front of Stash’s workshop to let me run inside. Excitement motored through me as I explained our errand to my uncle, retrieved the fat check from Jackson Quinn, got Stash’s endorsement, and hurried back out.
Yet once I was sitting in the passenger seat again, I found myself in no hurry to talk. I gazed sidelong at Mima’s fine profile, watching her hair stream in the breeze. While she talked about the unexpected success of the damaged goods sale, I imagined us speeding through the bush in an open four-by-four. The life we would share at Motembo—the never-ending variety and adventure along with well-paid, meaningful work—seemed almost too good to be true.
I recalled a conversation I’d had with Luke about the advantages of employing committed pairs. “Everyone in the safari business prefers to hire couples,” he had said. “‘Twofers,’ we call them. Twofers have no problem sharing a tent. They form a working team from the start and, importantly, exert a cooling effect on khaki fever.”
“Khaki fever?”
“A common ailment among guests. They see a handsome guide in khaki shorts and a manly khaki shirt …” He paused. “A guide doesn’t even have to be that handsome or wear khaki, if you want to know the truth. Women, and sometimes men, get the hots for him. Serious, aggressive hots. It happens once or twice a season. Female guides can spark it too.”
My jaw had dropped. I pressed my lips together and made an interested sound.
“As you might imagine, khaki fever puts the guide, man or woman, in a difficult spot. Everyone in camp can detect a flirtation a kilometer away, no matter how discreet the parties think they are. A liaison, real or imagined, between guide and guest wreaks havoc in every corner of the property. The other guests feel slighted or jealous. The husband or wife may be furious, embarrassed, morose, or all three. Resentment sours the rest of the staff because they have to work twice as hard to maintain a cordial and positive atmosphere.
“So of course, we don’t encourage flirtations with guests. We make sure the newcomers know right away that Jackson and Kiki are a couple and Jaleen and I are a couple. It helps a little. Newsom, whose wife lives in a village about five kilometers away, has to fend for himself.”
“Newsom?” He was at least seventy years old.
“Even Newsom.”
“Are you listening, Bonesy?” Mima glanced my way.
“Uh, yes,” I said, hoping I hadn’t missed anything important. We had almost reached town.
“I brought the title to the new truck for the safe-deposit box,” she continued. “Mother made me a signer along with her, so we both have access.”
I nodded as though I regularly visited safe-deposit boxes. In truth, I had never seen one. For a moment, silence hung between us.
I cleared my throat. “Mima, I want you to know why I haven’t been coming to the store after work.”
I regretted this opening as soon as I said it. Her face went slack, pale as an antelope’s belly. She looked as though she expected something bad, news of another girlfriend or a horrible contagious disease.
“It’s all good, Mima. Really. I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve been studying.”
“Studying? For what?”
“To be a safari guide. If I work hard, I can be ready for the written exam in a few months.”
She took a moment to absorb the news. “And then?” Distracted, she eased up on the gas pedal. A boy on a bicycle cruised past. Someone honked a horn.
“Maybe we should pull over.”
She steered the truck off the road and onto a patch of hardpan. When we came to a stop, she shut off the engine and turned to face me. Her expression said nothing. My heart thudded as I took her hand in mine. Over the next several minutes I explained it all, from my bone-deep connection to Motembo and the people there to Jackson Quinn’s encouragement and offer of a good job when I completed guide training. I mentioned the advantage of having couples on staff, leaving out the part about khaki fever. As I talked, I watched the color slowly return to her cheeks.
“I want you to come with me, Mima—after training, when I’m certified. I’d like us to start our life together at Motembo.”
Now her face was alight with something I couldn’t decipher. The hint of a smile played on her lips, but she still hadn’t said a word.
“Would you like that?” I pressed. “To live and work in a very nice safari camp? With me?”
“This is a lot to take in, Bonesy.”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. My name is Bones now. Just Bones.”
“Well, Just Bones, I’ll tell you one thing. You never stop surprising me.”
* * *
At the bank we made our cash deposits and then followed a clerk to the safe-deposit vault. I had never seen a door as thick as the one guarding the chamber inside, a room lined with rows of small metal doors. Mima signed a slip, and when the clerk looked questioningly at me, Mima nodded. The clerk hesitated and shrugged, apparently bending the rules. I too could enter.
When we got inside, Mima fished in her bag for a key and handed it to the clerk. He produced another and used both of them to unlock and swing open a numbered door. Mima extracted a long metal box. The clerk invited her to step inside a booth for privacy, but she declined, taking only a second to slide the title under the lid.
Witnessing such extreme security measures got me thinking about the items stored inside the walls all around me. Jewels, probably. And vehicle titles, like the one Mima had brought. But could
n’t a person put in anything that fit? Especially in the privacy of the little booth? I felt a shiver. This was a chamber of deep, dark secrets.
Mima slid the box back in its cubbyhole. The clerk relocked the door. Something about the proceedings gave me a pang of recognition, but I couldn’t figure out what. I had never been inside a vault or owned anything so precious that it required two keys and a signature to protect. Maybe the locks had captured my attention. They weren’t too different from the one I had installed on Stash’s cash drawer. The slender hinges interested me too.
I imagined a tour in which I pointed out obscure details to a following of fascinated hardware tourists, not unlike a safari guide noting a tiny frog or the notches in an elephant’s ear: Bones’s Amazing Safe-Deposit Safari. The notion put a smile on my face. But it wasn’t the only reason I felt lighthearted as we left the bank. I saw Mima’s guarded interest in my news about Motembo as our first step down a thrilling new path. Her caution seemed appropriate and prudent in view of the radically altered future I had proposed. Though her response hadn’t been the outpouring of enthusiasm I had hoped for, I wasn’t the least bit discouraged. On the contrary, I felt almost giddy with happiness and relief.
In the following weeks, my campaign to convince her turned almost playful, a sweet courtship. Whenever I talked about guiding or the camp, she listened carefully, laughed in the right places, and asked probing questions about Motembo and its staff. I saw her a few times a week. My visits usually were short and, when we found ourselves alone, intense. Lovemaking took on a heated, breathless urgency. When we were apart, I couldn’t wait to be near her, yet we both accepted that for now, studying and work took precedence over everything else.
Early on, I sought out Marks both for guidance and as a conduit to Jackson Quinn. I was a little nervous about seeing him for the first time since I had discovered his elevated status in the world of guides and rangers. But I wanted to dispel any doubt I might have left in Jackson’s mind about my determination to become a guide.
I found Marks at Captain Biggie’s. He was sitting at the same table in back where I had seen him with Baba. On this occasion he sat alone, peering at a map. As I passed the bar, I nodded at Captain Biggie, who surprised me by remembering my name.
“Hello, Bonesy.” The long strings of wooden beads around his neck clattered against the bar.
“Uh, hello. It’s Bones now.”
“Well then, Bones, what can I get you?”
Being recognized at my local bar was a new and heady experience. For a moment, I imagined myself bellying up and ordering a beer. But I said, “Coke.”
“Welcome back,” said a friendly voice. I turned to find Marks standing beside me. He pointed toward the table with the map. “Let’s sit and catch up.”
As it turned out, Marks didn’t need much catching up. He already knew I was preparing to be a guide. He knew my uncle supported my decision. And he knew I was studying for the exam.
“Who told you? Baba?”
“Word travels fast, doesn’t it? I hope you don’t mind. I already let Jackson know you’re on track. He and I are in touch almost daily.”
“I don’t mind. I want him to know.” I sipped my Coke, thinking about the tight-knit world of guides and rangers. “I’m sorry about your friend Bongani Baas.”
A shadow crossed his face. “Thank you.”
“Did you find out who killed him?”
“We don’t know the identity of the person who fired the AK. But we know the network—paramilitaries who’ve recruited, pushed out, or murdered almost all the subsistence poachers in the region.” He glanced over my shoulder. “I come to this table once or twice a week. If anyone has information to share, they know where to find me.”
I felt the skin tighten on my scalp. I turned and peered into the dark recesses of the tavern, looking for informants and assassins. “Is it okay I’m here?” My voice was reduced, almost inaudible.
“Of course. Come whenever you wish. I’ll quiz you before the test.” He wagged a finger at me. “I can be a tough examiner.”
I swallowed. “You’re on.”
* * *
The workbooks and manuals Jackson had given me held a daunting volume of information. I often studied late into the night. For relaxation, I read a memoir by a guide, who wrote tips such as “When you don’t know the answer to a question, look it up. Clients do not expect you to know everything.” I found this advice so reassuring that I recorded it in my journal.
Soon after I began my studies, I took a Saturday morning off to visit Roop and Granny Nobbs. The Ovambos went berserk as usual. I wove my way across the yard with an alarming number of chickens squawking and pecking at my shins. Roop appeared on the porch. When he saw me, he laughed, same as always.
“Hi, Bonesy. I heard you were back.”
“Sorry I didn’t get here sooner.” I swatted away a savage hen and vaulted up the steps. “How’s everything at Rotting House?”
“Less rotten. The new roof has made a big difference. Granny’s fine too.” He gestured toward the chickens stirring up dust in the yard. “I’m expanding the business.”
A rooster that had chased me up the steps spun around to attack Granny’s empty rocker. I moved away, keeping a wary eye.
“A vendor in town wants a regular delivery. He sells poultry and supplies a restaurant. After hearing about Granny’s walkies, he came to find us. He said, ‘Chicken feet usually lead to chickens.’”
“A reasonable assumption.”
“Yep. And I’m learning to drive.”
“Oh man. No road will be safe.”
He ignored me. “The Swales sold us their used truck. Did Mima tell you? They were very generous in their pricing.”
“She didn’t say.” I felt pleased that Mima and Mrs. Swale had been kind to my friend.
“Who didn’t say what?” Granny asked, appearing at the door. When she saw me, the familiar gap-toothed smile transformed her face. “It’s Bonesy!”
“Hi, Granny.” I kissed her lightly on the lines scored into her cheek. “I hear you have a new truck.”
She toed away the rooster and settled in her rocker. “Parked in back. Now Rooper can make deliveries far and wide.” She was wearing a cotton dress with a droopy collar, and her cord necklace swung into view.
I stared at the small silvery key. “Uh, Granny. That key …”
“Never leaves my neck.” She fingered the cord. “How you found this little thing in the rubble … I still can’t believe it.”
Something tugged at me, a memory. “May I have a closer look?”
“Sure.” She shrugged. “It hasn’t changed much.”
As she sat forward, I turned the worn metal in my fingers, squinting at the faint imprint on the surface. “This might not be for your jewelry box.”
“What?”
“I think it’s a safe-deposit box key. Mima Swale has one like it.”
Roop leaned in for a look. “Safe-deposit box?”
“For valuables. You can store jewelry and important papers in a locked box in the bank. Mima put her truck title there.”
Roop stared at me. Then he turned to Granny. “Did you and Grandpa have one? A safe-deposit box?”
“If we did, I didn’t know about it.” She slumped back in her rocker, blank-faced.
I felt a pang of regret. Had I ruined the keepsake that gave her so much pleasure? Or uncovered a hurtful secret? I looked at Roop. “I’m probably all wrong. You could ask at the bank.”
Before I left Rotting House, I mentioned that I was studying to become a guide. I kept the news casual, almost offhand, dreading my friends’ reaction almost as much as I dreaded leaving them behind. Granny nodded and smiled, not really understanding.
A cloud passed over Roop’s face. Then he grinned and slapped me on the back. “That’s great, Bonesy.” He trie
d to sound enthused, but his voice came out strangled.
I didn’t have the heart to tell them I also had a new name.
* * *
I didn’t see Roop again for weeks. My days started early and ended late, crammed from end to end with work, studies, and as much time with Mima as I could fit in. Stash had received a big order from an exporter for handcrafted baby cradles and a commission for a custom walnut-slab dining table. Mr. Kitwick wanted bookshelves for the school. The twins came to the shop most afternoons to hone their drawer-making skills and stuff themselves with Aunt Letty’s fresh-baked cookies. The shop pulsed with noise and activity.
I stayed up later and later each night, cramming as much information as I could into my overtaxed brain. I had moved through the training syllabus to the heart of my studies: flora and fauna and how to identify individual species in the wild. On weekends I hiked far into the bush or sat by the river with Baba’s binoculars and a backpack weighted with reference books, trying to name every plant and animal I saw. I collected unfamiliar seeds and leaves between the pages of my journal to study in detail at home. I filled a rucksack with small rocks: granite, limestone, quartzite.
When the guide exam was only a week away, I went to see Marks. “I’m ready for you to quiz me,” I said, hoping this was true.
He sat alone at his usual table with some paperwork spread out in front of him. He wore his olive-green ranger uniform, the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and double-knotted boots coated in dust. A canteen and binoculars hung below the field jacket slung over the back of his chair. Although I had seen him there before, in the dusky light of Captain Biggie’s, the tavern still struck me as an alien habitat for a man so attuned to the open air. He looked ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.
I placed my study manuals on the table in case he wanted to consult them. He laid a hand on top of the pile. Later I would realize that he had questioned me without opening a single book.
The Story of Bones Page 18