The lionesses, ignoring the last few buffalo, headed for the lakefront. Lions--always around but damn unpredictable. He hoped the cats would do something crazy for her; it would both please her and let him wrap up this drive. “It’s likely they’re littermates,” Brett offered. He balanced his video camera on the steering wheel. “Young adults, but fully mature by their size.”
The first lioness waded into the lake up to her knees, sniffing the breeze. “What’s happening?” Elise tugged his sleeve.
The lioness waded in deeper, the water level rising to her shoulders. The second lioness plunged in after her sister and Brett captured the water halo around her. The cats splashed and settled down to smooth strokes. Soon only their heads were visible.
“Do they eat fish, too? Where will they go?” Elise still held his sleeve. With the cats gone, she was curious and not so frightened.
Brett shut off his camera. “There are two islands about three to four kilometers away. Lions are great swimmers.”
“Could we follow them?” Elise clapped her hands. Her watch slid on her wrist, a man’s vintage Hamilton. “I love boats.”
Brett peaked at it. Nearly 8:00 a.m. Chasing the lionesses with her would be terrific, great company and great filming. Damn Isaac’s worries. “I’ve got to get us back. David expects us to check in before three hours.” It was not completely a lie; the radio was in the glove box. “How about if we track them down this afternoon? They’ll be on the island by then.”
“Chase the lionesses at sunset with you?” She tipped her head, this time it was a sexy nod, not at all dismissive. “Could be amusing.”
Brett shifted into neutral and smiled. She was playing with him; it would be fun while it lasted.
The lionesses had disappeared, their wake on the lake’s surface the only thing visible, so he drove to the lodge. Client flirtations could be pleasant, if a guy stayed careful. Careful to stay safe from the wasting disease and careful to stay unattached. Elise, with David’s warning, carried extra risks.
Brett rolled into the car park. Elise didn’t notice they were earlier than the others. She smiled, waiting while he ran around to help her step down. Jeremy swung the Land Rover in and the family of three halloed to Elise. Jeremy, in his best Irish brogue charm, offered to escort Elise to breakfast; the idiot would try to hang out with her all day. What would she, a sophisticated mid-20’s Euro, want with Jeremy, a raw 18-year old fresh out of school?
Elise joined the family. When the little kid extended his hand to Elise, she crouched to his eye level and started chatting. She and the little guy were deep in comparison of lions and zebras. Brett shrugged; she’d flirt with anybody, even five-year olds. Brett signaled to Isaac. They’d drive off while everyone else was getting settled at breakfast and be back before David realized they were gone.
* * *
Isaac braced against the Jeep’s dashboard as Brett spun gravel.
Isaac grunted--no use yelling--Brett always took the turn into the farm’s long driveway too fast. The cold air rushing over the open vehicle during the ninety minute drive made his shoulders ache. Through the lane’s peach trees, heavy with new fruit, Owen’s house seemed to be sleepily winking; the window shades were half way down.
Brett parked at the fork in the driveway between his parents’ long rambling house and Isaac’s father’s boxy one. The peacocks, three old roosters and a young hen, squawked, sweeping their tails like they had all day to cross the lawn.
Isaac surveyed the so familiar scene, his father’s lantern hanging next to the door, the machete standing ready to use on any wandering snakes. He mounted the three porch steps and swung open the door, “Baba.” No answer. He checked the bedroom and back porch.
“Why are you home in the middle of the day, middle of the week?” Isaac heard the voice of Owen, Brett’s dad, in the yard. Brett mumbled something.
“Ba-Owen,” Isaac called. His mentor, his other father, appeared in the doorway. Like always, his blue coveralls were messy with fresh oil yet had a stiff crease on the pant leg. “Is everything all right here with you?”
“Of course, laddie, welcome home. I’ve got a new engine for the combine. Would you like to see it?” Owen pumped Isaac’s hand, but, holding it, dragged him to the doorway. “What’s this nasty bit of business?”
“It’s nothing. Where’s my dad?” Isaac bent so his bruised eye was at Owen’s eye level.
Owen touched the edge of the bruise, touching his hair, palpating his scalp. “Good--no swelling past the eye. Your dad’s over at the Johannson’s, swapping tomato varietals. Seedlings anyway. He’ll be back soon. Come to the house and let me patch you up. Ruth is off, too.” Owen chuckled. “You’re lucky. If she saw this shiner, she’d make a terrible fuss. Did a Jeep hood clip your head as you shut it or is that just wishful thinking on my part?”
“Nah, I tangled with the Presidential Guard. Protests yesterday. Seke Flats. That’s why I came home to warn you.”
Owen whistled. “That even made the radio this morning. An ice pack will help the swelling and you can tell me all about it.”
They descended the porch steps and crossed the grass to the back door of the Owen’s house. Owen pointed out new roofs on both houses, his latest project. Brett trailed behind them, clucking for the peacocks and scattering grain for them.
Momma Ruth’s kitchen smelled like morning muffins and strawberry jam. No bit of disorder on any counter or sideboard. Isaac dropped into his favorite rocking chair next to the stove. Brett strayed into the pantry, no doubt looking for his mom’s fresh baked biscuits or rolls.
Owen dug in the deep freeze and bagged some ice. “I guess it’s only natural you’d find the opposition and the protest action, but have they talked enough--these two sides--before it comes to blows? That’s what your dad says.”
“Nobody in the government is talking at that level. The protest collapsed when security police surrounded Tsvangirai. We had to get him and everybody out of there. No chance to talk.”
“Times are certainly changing in the city.” Owen lifted a window shade and glanced toward the main road. The morning sunlight cast a rainbow, glistening through Ruth’s crystal flower vase.
Brett, holding a pickle jar and munching on a spear, walked to the window. “Things won’t change out here. Except I should get a fat photography job.”
“Ba-Owen, we have to be careful here.” Isaac gripped the chair’s arm, trying to stand quickly and wrenching his shoulder. He wished Brett would shut up. “My dad’s old friends aren’t still his friends.”
“It’s not like we were involved.” Owen winked. “Not this time, anyway.”
Isaac rested against the wall, touching the ivy wallpaper he’d helped Momma Ruth hang. He found himself shaking--was it the ache in his shoulder or was it the police threat? “I lied to the Presidential Guard.”
Owen puffed out first one cheek, then the other, like he was rolling a ball back and forth. “Isaac? Lies?”
“They surprised me. I didn’t know what to say.” Isaac swallowed. “I told them my dad’s old partner was dead. Now they can’t link you to him. Or the farm to me.”
“Lying. And about a death. That’s bad juju in any culture.” Owen exhaled. “What’s the chance that they’d be interested in us? Your dad and I have had nothing to do with the government or politics or anything in twenty years. Nobody has that long a memory.”
Isaac remembered the metals on Wattleneck’s chest.
“Our time has past. Remember--Mugabe was the heart of the revolution.” Owen laid his hand on Isaac’s shoulder. Isaac grinned so he wouldn’t wince. “You youngsters