The Eves

by Grace Sammon

  In the morning there is, again, Robert and his tinkling bell. I am already up, on my porch, and ready to greet him. Proudly, I say, “Jambo, habari ya asubuhi, Robert. Hello, good morning!”

  He gives me a slight bow and a broad smile. “Jambo, habari ya asubuhi, Bwana Bibi. Today will be a most amazing day!”

  It is Day Seven. As we near the hotel I am surprised, after all the driving, when our guide tells us we are only one hundred and ten miles from Arusha. She tells us about the Crater and reiterates many of the things I have learned from Robert. She adds that the Crater gets its name from the sound the Bantu cowbells make as the animals move in and out of the valley. Ngoro, ngoro.

  Tonight’s accommodations are everything Robert promised and more. As a proper hotel, they can do my laundry! My three days’ worth of clothing has been stretched to the max and I welcome the opportunity to exchange everything I have for the plush hotel bathrobe as my laundry is being done. The tour operator apologizes that the luggage will now likely never arrive.

  There is time to relax before the late afternoon game ride. I unabashedly walk through the hotel in my robe and slippers. I’m on my way to the infinity pool, (I like the sound of that) via the gift shop.

  The gift shop is a more pristine version of the small markets we have visited. The shop worker, dressed in Bantu garb, asks if he can help me, introducing himself as Samuel. A more formal “Uncle Sam” for a more formal vendor setting. I laugh at his introduction and he wonders if he has said something funny. “Not at all Samuel, I am just so happy to be in a proper hotel and to get clean laundry.”

  Everywhere we go, everyone I meet has such pride in this land. Samuel is no exception. He helps me pick out a few items, and a very sweet multi-colored carved bird for Roy. It’s of a Speke’s Weaver, common here. They are the industrious builders of elaborate bottom-entry nests that hang from trees by the dozens. I pick out two different types of coffee bean necklaces for Erica and Sonia, and a few bags of the rich coffee we have been drinking each day. The big purchase is the tanzanite, the lustrous and lush deep blue diamond-like stone mined nowhere on earth but in Tanzania. A pair of stud earrings for Erica and a pair of teardrops for Sonia.

  While he wraps up my purchases, I ask Samuel to tell me about the deep blue stones. He tells me, his voice full of mirth, that he assumes that the stone existed for a long time but was only ‘discovered’ in 1967, after his country became Tanzania. The name tanzanite comes, he knows I must realize, from the name of his country, but prior to 1964 there was no country. The country was made up of the lands of Tanganyika and Zanzibar. He continues with trivia that must be part of what he is told to share with tourists. The stone was named not by a geologist, or sadly, even by a Tanzanian, but by, and here he forgets the name, by the expensive New York company that uses the light blue boxes.

  “You can’t mean Tiffany?”

  “Yes, Bibi, you are right! This is it, Tiffany, thank you. I can also now remember it was made the birthstone, whatever this really means, for December just a few years ago.”

  Samuel tells me he will apply my charges to my room and send my purchases ahead. As I begin to head to the Crater’s rim, I spy the spoons. Hand carved wooden spoons of various sizes and hues, some with beads wrapped around their handles. I select six of them bringing them to Samuel to wrap and tell him I will slip a small one with beads into my pocket.

  As Robert instructed, I go to the edge of the Crater and am stilled. For nearly one hundred miles the world lies before me, tumultuous storm clouds and heavy rain hangs far out to the east. Yesterday, as he spoke, I was jealous of Robert’s faith. Today, alone, fingering the smooth wooden spoon in my pocket, I stand at the edge of the world, on a rift that runs north through Africa and into the “promised land.” The words of all my years of Catholic school training come rushing back. Margaret Mary and Elizabeth cross my mind as I, unplanned, recite aloud the words of the Old Testament: “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. The Earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters. My hand laid the foundation of the Earth, and my right hand spread out the heavens. When I call to them, they stand forth together.”

  The words of the New Testament come to me easily now as I continue aloud, “Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God.”

  Pulling myself away, I ready for the afternoon ride and exult in clean, crisp, freshly laundered clothes. We descend more than two thousand feet into the Crater and head to the Gorge. Our guide tells us the history of discovery and the ongoing research being conducted by the Leakey family today. She prepares us to visit the small museum just off site from where the studies are being done and encourages us to walk the trail that leads to a casting of the original prints.

  Upon arrival, I opt to do the trail while the others move toward the museum and the inevitable gift shop. The trail is marked with the same six arc-like smudges from the T-shirt and Erica’s card. I know now from the signage that these are the “Laetoli footprints” formed 3.5 million years ago and discovered by Mary Leakey and her team in 1976.

  This is the place where Man first learned to stand erect and to walk into uncertainty. These fossilized footprints are the record of our oldest human ancestors. Formed when, for the first time, three individuals, one clearly larger than the other two, stood erect and, with a clear two-footed stride walked side-by-side, close enough to touch, over wet volcanic ash.

  A woman and her two children? The long sought mitochondrial Eve? Eve and her children, I choose to interpret.

  I am still kneeling at the site, tracing, and retracing the three pairs of footsteps, tears rolling down my face when Robert finds me. He bends to me, lifting me by the elbow, steadying himself with the staff. “Come, Bwana Bibi, it is time to stand up. Perhaps this is why you came to Africa.”

  re-entry

  T

  he rest of the trip unfolds much as Robert described it. To stand amidst the Great Migration surpasses every expectation. This annual clockwise trek through the great Serengeti from Tanzania to Kenya includes millions of animals following the path. We look like a speck amongst them.

  At dawn on the last morning of the trip, we drive quickly across a submerged road with, what I know now is, a “rafter” of hippos eyeing the intrusive van. At the airfield we wait alongside our vehicles for a “kaleidoscope” of giraffe to move off the grassy runway. The trip happens in reverse—Addis, Frankfurt, and Dulles, all with smooth connections and without incident. Upon landing, my anticipation of getting home is soon dampened. As soon as I touch down, I turn on my cell phone connecting me back to—well, back to nothing from Ryn or Adam and back to a disappointing text from Roy.

  “Jes, I checked, and your flight is on time. Welcome home. Sorry, I can’t meet you, have sent a car service. Text driver when you are outside baggage claim 555-747-1458. – RLG”

  Really? Really? He said he’d be right here. I probably made all sorts of mistakes and misinterpretations with Roy. Or, worse, I scared him off. Now I’m just feeling foolish.

  I have two hours in the customs line to mull this over before I text the driver. I was not smart enough to get the Global Entry thing done before I left so I could sail through the tedious lines. I use the time to mull over what is going on with Roy and to catch up with Sonia. She and I text back and forth, I tell her customs should not be taking this long given I have only the duffle bag and a small shopping bag. She tells me Erica says hi and she wants to see my photos. She catches me up on what’s gone on for the last two weeks and I feel connected again.

  When my driver pulls up, I realize Roy must be feeling really guilty about not picking me up. He’s sent a stretch limo. The driver gives me a “good evening ma’am,” opens the rear door, tells me he’s taken the liberty of opening a bottle of champagne for me, and that I will find it and a glass, along with a few appetizers, on the table stand.

 
I feel ridiculous in the huge space of the limo but settle into soft jazz, interior lighting, along with food and beverage. The driver scrolls down the dividing window, asking if I am comfortable and if I have a preferred route into the city. At this time of night, it is probably fastest to do Rt. 66, or maybe the Beltway to Connecticut and down, but I opt for the GW Parkway and across Memorial Bridge, down Rock Creek, and home. I pour a glass of champagne and sip slowly. There was almost no alcohol once I got to Africa. I didn’t want to pay for each drink separately and call attention to my drinking.

  Returning to DC always gives me an appreciation I lose when I drive past the monuments every day. Coming across the Memorial Bridge, Arlington Cemetery now behind me, Potomac River underneath, the Lincoln Memorial is lit in front of me. No matter what time of day or night you cross the bridge there are runners, many with “Marines” T-shirts. I can’t wait to run again. My ankle feels great. The upside-downside of the safari was with sitting almost all day in the vans there was lots of time to rest my foot, but no chance to exercise, let alone run.

  The driver makes the sharp right at the Lincoln, banking under the bridge and continuing along the Potomac, Georgetown to my left. He bears left to go behind the Kennedy Center and The Watergate, then the zoo. Almost there, I pour another glass of champagne. When the driver comes up Park Road and onto Hobart, I’m wondering how awkward things will be between me and Roy now that I’ve screwed up. As the driver double parks, I notice Roy has left lights on for me—nice. My lone little duffle bag is removed from the trunk and run up to the front door. The driver returns to open my door and give me a hand to get out. He demurs on taking my tip saying that Mr. Gillis has already taken care of it. “Of course, he has. Thank you,” I tell him, picking up my shopping bag, unlocking and opening the front door.

  “Greetings, greetings! You’re here! Gabler, look who is here!” Roy’s words greet me as he heads to the front door from the kitchen.

  “Look who is here indeed!” I reply, feeling the broad grin on my face. Gabler comes to greet me. “Hey Gabler, how are you? Boy, do I have cat stories to tell you!” Then, to Roy, “I thought you couldn’t pick me up.”

  He babbles, “Not if I wanted to have Gabler and dinner waiting for you. Here, let me take your bag upstairs. Did your luggage really never arrive? Sonia was so annoyed at this. I’m surprised she didn’t call the airlines directly after you told her.”

  He looks handsome. Cordovan loafers, crisply pressed black “dress” jeans, cordovan belt, green denim shirt, sleeves rolled back at the wrists, just the way I like them on a man, watch with leather watchband, black onyx ring on his right hand.

  I tell him he can leave the bag in the hallway or in the parlor, but he runs, literally runs, the duffel and the gift bag upstairs. We don’t hug or kiss hello. I’m not sure if he’s here just to greet me and is leaving or if he’s staying for dinner.

  The house smells fabulous, Italian red sauce, sausage, meatballs, and peppers. I snoop under the lids of the pots while he is upstairs. A large salad is ready to be tossed and garlic bread ready to pop in the oven. Yum! Plates, silverware, cloth napkins, and stemware are ready to go on the table, so I’m guessing he’s staying. Good.

  “Oh, Roy, you shouldn’t have, but this looks and smells amazing. Thank you!

  “Do you mind if I take a quick shower, I feel so skuzzy from the plane. I’ll be fast. Then I’ll set the dining room table.”

  “Take your time. I will be here, Jes.”

  The shower is perfection. All showers are not equal—the ones after a gritty day in the yard, childbirth, and travel, especially this trip, rank as outstanding. Toweling off, I hop on the scale. Yeah! I guess all the sitting was offset by the lack of alcohol. Down four pounds.

  When I enter my bedroom, I suddenly realize that the house has been cleaned, really cleaned. The clothes from the bed, chairs and table have been neatly folded and put on top of the dresser. The bed must have clean sheets because you can tell it’s freshly made. The carpet has vacuum marks.

  I quickly pick a pair of dark brown jeans, hoping they will fit if I lie down on the bed and zip. This seems like such a teenage trick. I remember Margaret Mary’s words. She’s right. I feel like I might actually look like a teenager, not a woman of near sixty with a muffin top. Success! I button the button, pick a red square-necked cotton sweater, pull on socks, and then brown, low-cut boots.

  Before I bound down the steps I stop at their rooms and take a deep breath. “Jambo, my children. I went to Africa. It felt like I met ‘us’ there. I miss you.”

  Deep breath. Downstairs I go. The aromas from below beckon me along with the sounds of the Italian and Spanish music playlist Erica made and loaded on my iPod. Roy has made a good choice. I love the flavor of this music. I also imagine that just by listening and humming and singing along I will someday master Spanish.

  In response to me noticing that the place settings are no longer on the counter nor is the dining room set, he tells me I don’t have to worry about setting the table, he’s got it.

  He loads up the plates and asks me to grab the salad. Sliding the parlor door open with his foot, he says he will return for the garlic bread. All I can say is, “You amaze me.”

  He’s made over the parlor. The first thing I notice is the fireplace. Happy tears roll down my face. He’s unsealed the flue and made it all work again. There’s a crackling fire! My drop-cloth-covered bed is gone, replaced by a table, beautifully set, and two green, high-backed, soft dining chairs. He’s rearranged the furniture in a manner that the room feels both bigger and more cozy, like a true parlor. The room sparkles and smells of fresh paint, the wood fire, and a dinner I can’t wait to eat.

  He holds my chair out for me. Toasting me with a really nice Chianti, he says, “Welcome home, Jes.”

  We sit at the table for hours, savoring the meal and, I’d like to think, the pleasure of each other’s company. I tell him about the trip, omitting, for now, the footprints. He tells me about the renovations at The Grange and what he’s accomplished here. I’m delighted, and a little surprised, that he’s also made sure that the fireplace in my bedroom now works.

  He shares that the move into the new house is scheduled for this week and everyone seems happy with the space. The voting on the names for the new house is to be on Tobias’ upcoming birthday. Roy runs down the list of entries and hints that Sonia has been lobbying hard for her recommendation. “Casa Verde,” the green house. I still like “the Eves,” but begrudgingly admit I like Sonia’s idea. It fits well with all the “green,” energy thoughtful, touches.

  I insist on cleaning up the kitchen and he insists on helping. We make short work of it. He’s a tidy cook, something I envy. He shows me that the bathroom under the stairs is complete. I’m delighted that he used the excess materials from The Grange’s new house and that everything is made out of the recycled materials. He’s given me a proper toilet, saving me the “gift” of one that composts, although he did consider installing one. I thank him for that and admire all the other elements. CC’s influence is now here and appreciated. I’ll have to tell her.

  The travel, the time change, and the sheer enormity of the experience is creeping up on me and I am fading fast, but I want to give Roy the little carved bird before he goes.

  “Come upstairs a minute.” I take his hand. “I brought you something.” As we climb the stairs, I suddenly feel awkward. I’m inviting him to my bedroom? I open the duffle bags and slide out the tissue-wrapped bird, telling him the story of the birds and about all of the “Uncle Sams.” He seems to delight in it.

  “I’m so glad you like it. I’m so glad you did this tonight. I was disappointed when you weren’t there to pick me up. I thought, maybe, I had mis-stepped.”

  “Jes, I’m a man of my word and I’m not going anyplace. This was a good night, thank you.”

  He takes my shoulders and leans in to kiss my cheek. I turn, ever so slightly, and our lips meet, just for a
moment, and I breathe him in.

  “Good night, Jes,” he says, pulling back. “Sleep well. I’ll turn off the lights and lock up. You are exhausted. I’ve left a folder in your office with all the receipts and the last invoice. Let’s go over it tomorrow and set up a timetable for the balance of the work.”

  I hear him call goodnight to Gabler as he checks the kitchen door, turns off the lights, and turns the key locking the front door. For the first time in too long I am upstairs and choose to sleep in my tidy bed. It feels luxurious. As I reach to turn out the light, I notice that Roy has laid a fire to be lit at some future date.

  The text beep comes just as I am closing my eyes. I see I’ve missed multiple texts from Sonia and Erica, I scan through them quickly. Erica texts saying she was out with one of her friends and they got in a car accident, she was OK, but wanted me to pick her up. Sonia frantically texting saying she was crazed about the accident and that she was rushing back from Calvert County, could I pick up Erica.

  Texts from each of them, frantic and scared, all while I relaxed. The last texts from both of them, Erica’s saying thanks, but she is home and safe. Sonia’s so much more primal, “I was so scared, I was so scared. Thank God she is safe. We are home now.”

  We text back and forth a bit. Sonia says that she and Erica are not speaking. They have a difference of opinion about Erica’s decision to go out tonight. Sonia emphasizes that Erica needs to understand about her opinion.

  I apologize for not being there for them. Sonia actually apologizes for trying to interrupt my evening. Clearly, she knew, and did not let on, Roy’s plans.