Brutal Legacy

by Tracy Going

  When I asked why I had never met anyone, he explained it so easily: “I just want to be with you.”

  I was flattered.

  I was not to be distracted.

  I was a woman falling in love.

  Besides, it suited me. Presenting a breakfast show brought its own limitations on my time; my days were long, my nights short.

  So, in the beginning, he would make his way over in the evening for a chat and a laugh. Other evenings, he wouldn’t. Sometimes I wouldn’t see him for a few days. I had no idea where he lived, but he assured me it was unimportant and that he preferred being at my place. It was convenient and practical. Besides, I couldn’t really press for more information as he had yet to make any promises.

  So he’d disappear for a few days … and then he’d be back.

  We’d go out for dinner or settle in for a quiet evening twirling a glass of wine on my veranda.

  It was all so gradual and casual and wonderful.

  The first night he stayed over just happened. It is hardly worth mentioning; he was tired, it was late, and he suggested staying right where he was on my couch. And he did. It made sense.

  The next night was the same.

  And the next.

  That was how he slipped into my life. Straight through the front door.

  And he arrived without even a suitcase.

  Nine

  “You’re just like my mother, you fucking bitch,” he snarled.

  Me?

  Like his mother?

  No, not me.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “So, so sorry …”

  But he never heard me. He was gone.

  My intention had never been to hurt him. I’d been mulling my words mindfully for a while, rolling them round, trying to find the most pleasant way to present my poison. I wanted him to move out. We had never agreed to him moving in. In fact, it had never even been discussed. It didn’t suit me. I had a son, after all. He also had yet to offer anything toward his board and lodging, and it had been about two months.

  Our conversation had not gone well. I hadn’t expected it to, but I hadn’t anticipated him being quite so wounded. How could I have hurt him so?

  I was so sorry.

  So dreadfully sorry.

  Was I really like his mother?

  That was a terrible thought.

  I set my pots aside and switched off the stove. I leaned in to the counter and held it tight as his rage choked me and his words ricocheted around in my head. We’d never fought like this before. A few weeks earlier he’d been upset, yes, but nothing like this.

  Then he’d taken me away. It was the first time we had been truly alone. My son was with his father and the two of us were off to Mpumalanga for a dreamy getaway weekend. We’d left at midday to avoid the Friday rush-hour traffic, which meant it hadn’t taken long for Johannesburg, with its gold and dust, to disappear behind us and for the landscape to change from dusty, dry and brittle to soft and gentle once we’d passed the mines of Ogies and Witbank. As the afternoon touched the tar, the road ahead became silky and flat and empty. It was just the two of us, alone, in his red Alfa Romeo.

  By the time we turned off onto a rutted road and slipped into the green, the sun had draped itself over the day and fused itself to become one with the warmed earth. To our left were litchi trees deceiving us in their dormancy. And to our right, orchards of macadamias giving permission for the last of the day’s rays to filter through the density of whorled leaves. Further away, avocado trees were ready to drop their swollen fruits. The land was generously offering its abundance, rich in texture and taste.

  We arrived at a manor house that was a protraction of this plenitude. It was all so luxurious and opulent and lovely. Our suite, with its fine furniture, overlooked a shaded, cobbled courtyard, but we had rushed inside and barely given it a glance as we tossed our bags down and made our way back to reception to enjoy the last warm glimmer of the day. We settled ourselves down on the pillared veranda and ordered our drinks: a single-malt whiskey for him, a glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc for me.

  Dinner was an elegant and intimate affair. The small restaurant was full, light music teasing the evening air. We were seated at a small table draped in white cotton slightly rough to the touch. The heavy silver cutlery sparkled in the dimmed light and a candle flickered between us. The evening was ours.

  He selected a bottle of red. The sommelier half-filled our glasses and then surreptitiously slipped away before I lifted my eyes to him, and smiled.

  He didn’t.

  His eyes had lost their warm brown hue. They were icy as they drilled into mine.

  I instantly felt their chill.

  “I can’t do this!” he spat.

  “What’s this?” I asked, my voice thin.

  “This. Us. I can’t do it,” he said. “It’s too much!” He heaved himself up, throwing back his chair.

  Then he was gone.

  He was not coming back, that much was obvious.

  It’s too much.

  What did he mean?

  I lowered my eyes and stared into my glass of wine. It seemed the contents had flushed to a deep, scarlet red. Swirling, staring back at me accusingly like blood on white cotton. As my shame washed over me I finally found the courage to lift my hand.

  There was no need to summon the waiter. He was already there.

  “Please bring me the bill,” I asked softly.

  Eyes down, I looked at no one as I scurried out.

  I needed to move quickly. I had to catch him.

  What if he’d left and gone back to Johannesburg?

  How would I get back?

  I felt the bile scaling my throat as I quickened my step. It was bitter and sour and I wanted to be sick.

  Was his car still there?

  It was.

  I lay my hand on the bonnet. It was cold to the touch.

  I quickly made my way to where our suite took form ahead. It was in darkness. The light from the courtyard strained through the entrance, but it was enough to see that the door to the room upstairs was closed. I entered cautiously, without a sound, and turned into the bedroom downstairs. The room where we’d blithely tossed our luggage a few hours earlier. His bag was gone. My shiny, black suitcase was still on the bed. Small and compact. Now sitting large and weighted full of empty promise. Packed and unpacked.

  I lifted it and quietly set it alongside the open door, ready for a hasty departure.

  I collapsed onto the bed and leaned back into the headboard as my thoughts tumbled around me.

  What had just happened?

  God forbid.

  I found the corner of the sheet and starting rubbing its sharpness between my thumb and forefinger the way I used to when I was a child. Slowly. Backwards and forwards. Trying to smooth away the gnawing hollowness.

  I knew it well.

  It was fear.

  And it took me back.

  We are away on holiday. I am ten years old.

  Holidays were a luxury and they usually only happened once a year when my mother packed our car full of Christmas presents, home-grown pumpkins and other seasonal vegetables and we made our way to our grandmother in the Eastern Cape.

  But this time it’s different. It is not December, nor are we heading south.

  We are going someplace else.

  We are off to the land of the rising sun and the Zulu kingdom. To Durban. To see the sea, the sand and the dolphins. We’d never been there before and we’d been counting the sleeps for weeks.

  I know we are only allowed one small bag each so I sort and sift my clothing with much attention to probability and any unforeseen possibility. Anything that can’t fit in, I’d wear. I’d then disrobe once we were already on the journey and it was too late for my father to do anything about it.

  We leave early in the morning, with me layered in masterful deceit. I’m wearing a dress and fitted snugly beneath it is a pair of jeans. Over my dress are two T-shirts, a jersey and a jacket. My disco
mfort is not a burden. I also intend adding to my layers as soon as we reach Durban and have brought along my savings, my birthday and pocket money, tucked away safely in my handbag on my lap. Brits is not a haven for high fashion after all.

  We arrive in Durban mid-afternoon.

  It is hot. A different kind of hot from the one we are used to in Brits. The air hangs thick with moisture. It is a wet that dampens and frizzes my hair as soon as my father opens the window to breathe out the burn of his congratulatory cigarette. He deserves it. He’s been driving for hours and he’s finally got us there safely. I watch as the thread of nicotine floats out and dances through the sea air, wickedly mimicking us on the back seat as we strain to see who will be the first to see the ocean.

  It has taken a while to get to where we are staying. My father has driven up and down the endless one-ways in an attempt to find his way. But it really doesn’t matter if we get a little lost along the way. It’s all part of the journey and, anyway, it’s thrilling to see street names we’d only ever seen on the Monopoly board.

  It turns out our block of flats is not along the beachfront. It’s a few roads back and we can’t really see the sea, except if we stretch ourselves tall and thin and peer out on our toes. Then there it is: the sea with its waves rolling over in the distance, foaming at the edges and frothing our names, lapping at the beach, meeting the golden sand as it melts beneath the hot sun like warm hazelnut fudge.

  “We’re coming,” I want to shout. “We’ll be there now, but my mom first needs to get organised.”

  Our flat itself is rather drab, all a bit dark and rather unexciting but, as my mother cheerfully says, “We’re only sleeping here.”

  And sleep is the last thing we want to do right now.

  When my father circles the building in an attempt to find parking I notice some shops and immediately start to nag my sister to accompany me on my spending spree while my mother unpacks our bags and sorts the kitchen. Soon we are rushing downstairs and hopping along the pavement. We have memorised the address and promise my mother that we won’t go far and won’t get lost.

  We’re already one block down before we find the first clothing shop. It’s a small boutique. I am too young to know I should be intimidated and proudly explain to the glamorous shop assistant that I am spending my birthday money. And she honours my determination by presenting me with the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. It is crisp white and gathered ever so slightly along the neckline into thin straps that tie on the shoulders. It falls well below my knees with a neat ruffle. Truth be told, it doesn’t quite fit but I know I’ll grow into it. I also buy my first pair of high heels. They are canvas on wedges, red-and-white stripes with rope straps that cross up my skinny calves. I have never owned an outfit so splendid before. A white, summery dress with red-and-white striped high heels. It is magnificent.

  I even have enough money over to buy a necklace. There is nothing in my price range that coordinates with my beautiful new outfit, but as I riffle through the trinkets I find a fine gold-plated coil that nestles on my collarbones. It is perfectly round, with a silk flower as its centre. It is peach in colour, each petal beautifully crafted, delicate and shiny. I am not at all concerned that it doesn’t all match and work together as one outfit because as the sales lady explains I can then mix and match.

  We bound back, me with my empty purse and swinging my purchase proudly. Once back in the building, my sister and I agree to race each other to our flat on the third floor.

  I’ll take the lift. She’ll scale the stairs.

  On a count of three, we take off. I am determined to beat her. I laugh as I encourage the lift upwards and squeeze my way out through the lift doors before they even open properly. But she isn’t there to greet me. Instead, I hear her fearful shouting from the floor below. She is screaming for my mother.

  My sister had been making her way up, two stairs at a time, when she had turned the corner and run right into my father. He had been creeping along, tiptoeing down those darkened stairs like an amateur thief. Making his way home. Leaving us behind.

  I fall down the stairs to get there. My mother and brother come rushing from the flat. We stand there in disbelief, suspended between the first and second floor, my mother, me, my brother and my sister, watching my father, knowing what he is capable of. This is our father, a man who could rip a birthday cake from the heart of a heated oven and deliberately toss it away, flinging it out the kitchen door in a grand gesture of command, reminding us of who has the power, leaving us with only the faintest essence of vanilla.

  “Where are you going?” my mother asks.

  “Home.”

  I think I see the shame in his eyes. Not the shame for a pitiful act. The shame at having been caught. Then he lifts his chin as he looks at each of us, one at a time, deliberate and defiant.

  If I hadn’t been looking at him I would have missed it. It is the briefest flicker of pleasure, a fleeting flash of fulfilment. He is pleased. He is delighted with our disappointment and our fear.

  There is nowhere to go but back.

  It is the end of our holiday in Durban.

  So as I lay against the headboard, I knew not to be left behind. I knew not to settle down into the duck-down duvet and succumb to the night. I knew to keep vigil.

  I heard him making his way down the stairs in the morning.

  “I’m leaving now,” he muttered as he passed my door.

  I scuttled after him.

  For the four hours back to Johannesburg, we never spoke once, not a word. We sat together in our disconnect of silence, with me trying to work out where it had gone wrong.

  I blamed myself.

  He was clearly feeling trapped and pressured and I had made him feel that way.

  He dropped me back at home and then left. I never knew where. It was a few days before I saw him again, but it was a long time before I’d realise that it wasn’t me he wanted to get away from. There had been something he wanted to get to. And it had been a far greater force than my presence. But, sitting in stony silence on that seemingly endless journey back from Mpumalanga, I had thought it was my fault.

  As I stood breathing deep and holding onto my kitchen counter a few weeks later, I knew it was my fault. It was me who had asked him to move out and he had taken it as soul-crushing rejection. What was wrong with me? Why did I say I was uncomfortable supporting him financially? I should have handled it differently.

  My heart lifted when fifteen minutes later he was striding down my passage.

  “Here!” he said, his eyes narrowed. “It’s obviously important to you.”

  His words cut to the bone as fifty-rand notes fanned out over my kitchen counter.

  What could I say?

  I’m so sorry.

  Please stay.

  Ten

  “You’ve told everyone I’m a drug addict,” he said, tightening his grip on my arm.

  Of course I hadn’t.

  It was the last thing I’d want anyone to know. Especially not my work colleagues.

  Was he insane?

  And if I had wanted them to know, this certainly wasn’t the place I’d tell them.

  We were at Insomnia nightclub in Illovo for the launch of Janet Jackson’s album The Velvet Rope. I had been invited as a familiar voice and a famous face, and all around me were other equally, if not far more, familiar voices and famous faces. We mingled among important radio execs, hip music producers, talented musicians, society columnists, cool journalists, trendy A&R managers and young record company reps. The place was literally glittering with local stars. Everyone trying to hear each other above the drum of the music as they threw back free drinks, bounced to the beat, bumped into each other and laughed out loud. It was a grand event and it was good to be there. I was with my people and he was there as my partner.

  Amid the deafening noise and pulsating strobe lights, the deeper meaning of Janet Jackson’s album totally slipped me by. I was oblivious that the title of the album, The V
elvet Rope, was a metaphor for her own emotional boundaries. I didn’t know she was singing herself naked, about her own life, introspecting on everything from her own depression to her fractured self-image as a victim of domestic violence. In fact, I barely noticed the video images magnified on the large screens all around the venue. They were just a visual backdrop to an awesome party.

  All that changed when his voice slashed the smoky air.

  Then I was suddenly aware of everything, even Janet Jackson as she cut across the rhythm to the chorus and sang her truth of darker themes.

  “We’re going,” he said, yanking my arm and half dragging me from the venue.

  By the time we reached the parking lot my car keys were firmly in his hand.

  “You’re not driving,” I said. “It’s my car and you’ve been drinking.”

  It was hard to focus, to keep my car on the road, with him rocking backwards and forwards into my face, spewing his sewage. He was like a madman on a runaway horse, howling, flailing his arms. His eyes were wide, frozen open like bottomless pits of black dead. He kept gripping his head and dragging his fingers through his hair. He was laughing like a lunatic when he reached in close and jerked at the handbrake, yanking it up hard, tearing it from its socket. I screamed as the rear wheels locked and we spun out of control. We were spinning straight into the traffic. Then, as the car jerked to a shuddering stop, I opened the door. As I leapt out, he lashed out and grabbed at me, ripping my sleeve. I stumbled. Two cars stopped. He was shouting at them and then at me.

  “Are you okay?” one driver yelled.

  I was unsure what to do.

  I was standing in the middle of the road, my sleeve torn from my jacket, and five terrifying metres away were my car keys in the ignition, with my house keys attached.

  It seemed there was no other way.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said to the driver. “Thank you.”

  By the time I got back to the car, I was shaking.

  Now he was behind the steering wheel.