Rotten Peaches

by Lisa de Nikolits

  “Ja, for sure. We did a charity event together, recently. I didn’t tell you because I know you’re not exactly fond of her.” She searches through the contacts on her phone. “Here we go. Don’t say anything.”

  I nod and Theresa switches the phone to speaker and we listen to the phone ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “Chrizette?”

  “Yes? Who is this?”

  “Theresa, from the fundraiser at the Kruger Park. I’m sorry to trouble you. I’m trying to find your husband, Dirk.”

  Chrizette gives a snort. “Shows how much you know. We split up ages ago.”

  “Do you know where can I can reach him? He isn’t answering his cell.”

  “You might want to try Bernice Van Coller. I heard he was sponging off her these days. If you speak to her, tell her she’s got my sympathies.”

  “She hasn’t heard from him either.”

  “Then sorry to say but you’re out of luck. Does he owe you money? If he does, you can forget about getting it back. I have to go.” And she hangs up.

  “You want to call the cops?” Theresa suggests, after we sit in silence for a while.

  “I gave him the money. No gun was held to my head. It was all me, my stupidity.”

  “Was he really impotent?” Theresa wants to know and I nod.

  “He did kind of okay the night I gave him the money but a million rand is a lot to pay for a fuck, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Ja, I would.” Theresa agrees. “Listen my friend, I have to go. I’m sorry about this. I hope he turns up soon. Maybe he just went on a bender.”

  Something clenches in my belly. My friend. She’s never called me that before. Usually when people call me my friend, they are trying to con me into something and it reminds me of something Dirk said.

  “Liefie. He called me Liefie. He only called Chrizette that when he was lying to her. And, when he was lying to me. I should have known then that something was wrong.”

  “You couldn’t have known anything. Stop blaming yourself. Blame him. He’s the one to blame, not you. Do you want me to come by later?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll be okay. I need to think.”

  Betty lets Theresa out the front and I go into the kitchen and turn the kettle on just for something to do. What a mess.

  “Rosie wants to talk to you,” Betty announces and I jump. I hadn’t heard her come into the kitchen.

  “Me? About what? Does she know where Dirk is?”

  “She doesn’t know anything about Dirk,” Betty replies and I’m confused.

  “Then why does she want to talk to me?”

  “She will tell you.” Betty is implacable.

  “When does she want to have this talk?”

  Betty looks up at the apple-shaped wall clock. “In half an hour.”

  I shrug. I soon forget about Rosie and go back thinking about Dirk and my money.

  He took all his clothes too. He planned the whole thing in careful detail, packing when Betty was in her room and I was at the gym, leaving before I got home.

  I waited for him when I came back from the gym, and when he didn’t come home, I thought he was meeting with a trainer or some such, and there wasn’t anything more to it. Although it was odd of him not to have called.

  I went to bed at my usual time, not even considering the possibility that I would wake up without him. But when I woke, startled out of a nightmare, it was with a sick feeling and no Dirk, and I knew then that something was horribly wrong.

  He kept his toiletries in the guest bathroom and his clothes in the adjoining spare room, and I rushed into his bathroom, expecting to see his toothbrush and shaving kit in their usual place, but the counter was bare.

  That’s when it hit me. He was gone. I ran into the spare bedroom and yanked the closet open. It was empty, apart from a few misshapen metal hangers, an old pair of tracksuit pants on one shelf, and a broken pair of old running shoes.

  I shouted for Betty and she came running. “Gone,” I said. “He took my money and he left me.”

  I sank down onto the carpet. Betty didn’t say anything.

  I managed to get up and I tried to phone him and that’s when it went from bad to worse. I called Theresa who drove over as fast as she could.

  “Rosie is here,” Betty announces and I look up. I’m in my study, scrolling through my emails trying to find someone else who knows Dirk but I’m not coming up with anything.

  “Hi Rosie,” I say distantly to the figure in front of me, my eyes on the screen. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can pay my mother back the money you owe her,” Rosie says curtly and that snaps me to attention and I spin around to face her.

  “I beg your pardon? What are you talking about?”

  Rosie sits down across from me. She sits down uninvited. I want to point that out to her but I’m too shocked by what she has said to correct her manners. I look up, expecting to see Betty hovering in the doorway like she usually does, about to offer tea or coffee, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

  And then, out of the blue, I’m hit by a blinding headache that knocks me sideways. I’ve never had a headache before, although my mother suffered constantly and most terribly. I always dismissed her as being a hypochondriac, a weak and lazy person who used headaches to cover up her depression and her unwillingness to do anything that required effort. But right now, she had my heartfelt sympathy and I squint, trying to see Rosie through the blackness of my pain.

  “Ag come now, Rosie, I don’t know what you are talking about,” I say, and I lean my forehead on the palms of my hands and close my eyes.

  To my shock, Rosie slams her hand down on the desk and I jump. The pain is nearly intolerable. I want to throw up, gouge my eyes out, howl with agony.

  “Rosie, please, don’t make so much noise. My head is killing me. What’s going on? I don’t understand. Please, close the blinds, the light is hurting me.”

  “I am not your servant. Close your own blinds. And don’t act confused. Your books. You used my mother’s recipes for every single one of them. And you never gave her credit. And you never paid her either. I am suing you, on behalf of my mother, for half of every cent you have ever earned.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” I ask. “Tell me this, could your mother ever have done a book without me? All she did was show me how to cook and bake. I did everything else.”

  “Yes. She showed you how to cook and bake. She contributed half of the content of each and every one of your books. I am glad you see it that way too. I am, by the way, recording this conversation, so thank you for being obliging in admitting that my mother is responsible for half of the proceeds of what your books have earned.”

  She pushes a phone across the desk and I see the red recording light.

  She reaches into her leather briefcase and pulls out a thin binder. “In this binder you will find the legal notices that require you to pay my mother. Should you fail to pay her, legal proceedings will be put in place.”

  “What about your school fees? My father paid for that. And your university. And I paid your mother a monthly wage and gave her a room to live in.”

  “Yes. A room. With a toilet in another room outside and a basin to wash in. Not even a bath. Not even a shower.”

  “The room has always been like that,” I object. “If Betty was unhappy, why didn’t she tell me, hey?”

  “And you would have done what? Told her oh, you’re sorry, or offered her another fifty rand a month? You wouldn’t have done anything. And to your point about my school fees and varsity fees, I anticipated that and I deducted them, although in reality it was your father who paid for that. You had nothing to do with it. Tell me, would you, out of the kindness of your heart, have sent me to such a good school, to your school, if it had been up to you? Somehow, I don’t think so. And in case you are
wondering how I arrived at the sum I did, with regard to my mother’s share of the royalties, a friend of mine is a publishing agent and she got a copy of the sales figures. I am very glad to see that my mother is entitled to so many American dollars.

  She stands up. “I am taking my mother home with me now. I wonder how you will manage all by your fragile little self.”

  I squint at Rosie. She has straightened her hair and she looks different from the last time I saw her. Something about her reminds me of someone, in a good way, but I can’t think of who. And I am too distracted by what she’s said to think about it.

  “Now? Betty is leaving now? But she can’t go. I need her. Dirk left me, everything is going wrong. This explains why she wouldn’t give me any new recipes. It’s because of you. Fine, I will pay her but I want her to stay. I am certain she wants to stay, why don’t we ask her?”

  “I want to leave,” Betty says quietly from the doorway. I hadn’t seen her arrive. “I am sorry Madam, but I want to go home to my family in KwaZulu Natal and I want to rest. I am very tired.”

  “Tired from what?” I ask, incredulous. “You can’t leave me, Betty. Not now. I need you. What’s in KwaZulu Natal anyway?”

  Rosie laughs. “You see. You know nothing about my mother. Nothing.” She pushes the binder towards me. “You’ll see on the papers who you have to send the money to and you’ve got my email address to let me know when it’s done. Now I’m taking my mother and we’re leaving.”

  There’s nothing I can do. And then Betty is gone.

  And the pain in my head is unbearable.

  I manage to reach for the phone and I call my family doctor. “I’m dying. I need you to send an ambulance.”

  A voice tells me help is on its way and I pass out cold.

  34.

  WHEN I WAKE UP, I have no idea what happened. I’m in a hospital bed, in a hospital gown, with a needle in my arm and tubes up my nose. I am trussed up and confused and I start tugging the wires from my face. I’m about to yank the IV from my arm when the nurse comes in and stops me.

  “How’s your head?” she asks which is a strange question.

  “Fine. Why?”

  “You lost consciousness due to a migraine,” the nurse says and I shake my head.

  “I don’t get headaches.” I’m annoyed by her mistake, but I start to remember what happened and even the vaguest memory of that pain hurts like blazes. I lie back on the pillow.

  “Your family doctor will be here in a few hours, as soon as he is done with the patients in his clinic. He works in the hospital too.”

  “I didn’t know that.” I speak automatically. Betty is suing me for half of my book money and she’s gone. I’m sure that Rosie has been after Betty for years to get repayment for her contribution to the books, but I’m equally sure that Betty resisted. It’s clear to me now that she hasn’t been happy for a while, and it culminated in her quiet refusal to talk about new recipes. But would she have agreed to this enormous betrayal had I not foolishly handed over an obscene amount of money to a useless fool? But the only fool in all of this mess is me.

  35.

  I HAVE A CAT SCAN AND AN MRI and I’m released from hospital the following day. My doctor concludes that the headache was a medical anomaly triggered by extreme stress. He doubts it will reoccur, unless the stakes once again rise to that level. I don’t tell him all the details, except to say I have been conned out of millions of rands with only myself to blame. He agrees that would indeed cause a crippling headache in the most hardy of fellows. That’s how he put it.

  I take a taxi home and let myself inside. The house has been unlocked for two days and it’s a miracle that I haven’t been burgled to hell and back. I pause in the hallway. The sun is shining through the tall stained-glass windows and I watch dust motes float down on a diagonal beam. I remember reading that the dust motes are skin flakes that we’ve shed and I shudder. There’s a lot of skin floating around my house.

  It’s so quiet. And perhaps it’s my imagination but the rooms already have a dusty, unloved, unlived-in look.

  I wonder if I should lock the door behind me but I have the sudden thought that perhaps an intruder has found his way into the house in my absence and, if so, I want to be able to make a run for it.

  I tiptoe quietly into my study and pad around to my desk. I open a drawer and take out a key. I remove the entire drawer and unlock a secret drawer behind that. I reach for the tiny revolver that my father gave me. It is loaded.

  I check the house, room by room, as silently as I can, with my senses on high alert for the smallest sound. I’m terrified the stress of being there alone and being so frightened will spark off another headache and I’m relieved when I finally make it through the house and everything is fine. I lock the front door and set the alarm.

  I pick up my phone. Theresa called a bunch of times. And there is a text message from an unknown number, caller ID blocked.

  Bernice. Sorry. I never meant to steal from you. But I ran out of money. I ran out of faith. Everything and everyone has betrayed me and they must pay. I will make them pay and you will see my retribution.

  There are more texts:

  I will have my justice. Like my fathers before me, I will do the Afrikaner nation proud. I will make them stand up and be counted. They have lost their way. But I will show them.

  And then:

  When I am finished, they will rise up again, as a nation.

  And:

  I am sorry I could not love you. I was a married man. I was a father. That should not have been taken from me.

  Dickhead. I hate him. I hate being in this house. I miss Betty. The weight of her loss fills my heart. Tears run down my face and I half-heartedly wipe them away on my sleeve.

  I go to my desk and remove Rosie’s paperwork from the binder and I read it. I sign where she wants to me to and I make out a cheque. I seal the papers and the cheque in an envelope and I address it. I put a stamp on it and put it in my purse.

  I get my computer going and I send Rosie a message: I have done what you asked. The letter and cheque will be posted tomorrow. Please tell your mother that I miss her very much and that I hope she is well.

  I can’t apologize for my actions, as much as I want to. I can’t say I’m sorry for never having acknowledged Betty’s role in the cookbooks. I can’t even thank Betty for everything she did for me. I want to, but I can’t.

  I send Theresa a message to say I’m fine, that I collapsed and was taken to hospital but I am better now. I tell her that I’m going to take a vacation and that I’ll phone her as soon as I get back.

  I hurry to my bedroom. I pack a suitcase and I call a taxi to take me to the airport. When I get there, I’m told I’ll have to wait for a few hours for the next flight to Pilanesburg but I don’t mind. I sit neatly and primly in my chair, with my large purse balanced on my knees, and my suitcase at my side. I sit and wait. And every now and then a tear escapes from my eye and I don’t care who sees.

  36.

  THE WOMAN AT THE AIRLINE COUNTER misled me. The flight to Pilanesburg is only the following day. I wasted hours waiting.

  I’m tempted to rent a car and head straight to the farm as it’s only a three and a half hour drive, but it’s already evening and I would be stupid to drive at night.

  I check myself into an airport hotel and dump my luggage in the room. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m wound up, stretched like a bowstring. I check my phone. I’m hoping to hear from Betty. I’m hoping she will say she’s sorry she left me and that she wants to come back. Instead, Dirk has fired off another volley of texts:

  Where are you? Why were you in hospital? Email me.

  Then:

  Watch the news.

  Then:

  They made me do this. They brought me to this.

  “Betty,” I say out loud. “Ag man, you were
like a mother to me. Why didn’t you say something to me, about the cookbooks, hey?” But I know the answer to that one. Because I wouldn’t have listened.

  And Dirk. Wait a minute, how does he know I’ve been in hospital? The only person I told was Theresa. Oh. My. God. Theresa is fucking Dirk.

  I immediately call her.

  “Where are you?” she asks. “What do you mean, you are going on vacation? Where to?”

  “Cut the crap. How long have you been fucking Dirk?”

  A resounding silence follows. “Since he moved in with you,” she finally admits in a small voice. “He came to see me when he couldn’t get it up. Turns out he managed fine with me. He said it’s because my parents were Afrikaans. He said I’m a lapsed Afrikaner and there’s still hope for me. And I fell in love with him. He doesn’t love me, he never did. I am sorry, Bee.”

  I want to hang up on her but I need to hear more.

  “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know. He texts me from a phone with no ID. I can’t even text him back.”

  “And did you know he was going to steal from me?”

  “Of course not! What kind of friend do you think I am?”

  “A friend who fucks her best friend’s lover. That the kind of friend I know you are. That fancy new Kate Spade handbag you got. Dirk paid for that with my money, isn’t that so?”

  Theresa starts crying but she manages to tell me that I’m right. It was a gift from Dirk.

  “Ag stop crying for god’s sake,” I tell her. “What is he planning to do?”

  “I don’t know. I swear. He hates the fact that he was betrayed by the Volksraad. He says the Afrikaners need a wake-up call and that he’s going to give it to them. I told him not to be stupid but he won’t listen to me.”

  “Dirk stole from me and cheated on me. You lied and cheated on me. Betty left me. Rosie sued me. You all deserve to die.”