Owen guided him to the chair. “You relax until Ruth gets back. Come on, Brett, you can help me for once. I need to hook up the tractor’s combine attachment.” Owen stood square in the doorway, ready to get on with his day like nothing was happening.
“I can’t help here, Dad. David thinks we’re on a road test, so we need to get back. It’s my job.” Brett’s voice was angry. Owen scowled.
Isaac didn’t recognize what this particular excuse was about, but it was another of the same old battle cries these two had thrown at each other for five years. Owen believed Brett was wasting his time. Brett loved animals and photography but not machines. Isaac ached in his shoulder and deeper inside, too. He wished he could stay to help Owen with the machines and watch for government thugs.
“I’m sorry,” Isaac said. “My stupidity may bring them here.”
“Not to worry. Your dad and Ruth and I have a few tricks up our sleeve. You two get out of here now. I knew Brett wouldn’t lend me a hand. T’isn’t possible.”
“I’m sorry to miss Mom and Ba-Noah. Give them my love,” Brett muttered.
“I will. Now, dammit, Isaac, get that collarbone taped up proper. Don’t be a tough guy.” Owen surveyed the back fields. “Hey, come back in a week or so and let’s fix you two up with the old Jeep. Then you won’t have to sneak one of David’s.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Brett hugged his father and hurried out.
“Ba-Owen,” Isaac stopped on the threshold. The Jeep was an offering to both of them. Time for him with Owen to fix it and transport for Brett’s photography. “I don’t know what to say…”
“Don’t say anything, Laddie. We’ll be all right.”
On the curve to Bumi Hills’ main entrance, Brett swerved to miss the lodge’s cat, sleeping sprawled on the driveway. Isaac yelped as the Jeep swayed. “Buddy, Dad’s right. Somebody should see your shoulder.”
Unlike their usual return from the farm to the lodge, always filled with his ranting about his dad or Isaac’s moaning about the lodge’s cooking in comparison to home, they’d hardly talked at all. When they passed the turnoff to Hwange village, Brett had argued for pulling into the clinic, but Isaac said no because the doctors would likely report him to the cops.
“Drop me off here, so I can skip the boss until the swelling goes down more.” Isaac popped the door. “I’ll grab some aspirin. Let’s ask Mrs. Hilda if Astrida is visiting tonight.”
“Good plan. She’ll check you over and not breathe a word to anybody.”
“Astrida will know if the rumors I heard about Bulawayo are true.” Isaac cut through the bushes toward the employee bungalows.
Brett parked near the kitchen door. If he hurried, he could catch Mrs. Hilda now before anybody was looking for him. He didn’t want another dressing down from David for being late. Catching a whiff of Cook’s cigar through the back window, Brett called, “Where’s Mrs. Hilda?”
“Upstairs hallway,” Cook said.
“Ndatenda.” Brett left the kitchen, skirting the quiet lobby and the office hallway. The tourists were finishing up their relaxing or napping in the heat of the day. He, Cook, and Isaac got to be peaceful for a couple of hours. Only Mrs. Hilda worked between 12 and 4. Today she sang as she pushed her housekeeping cart down the guest room wing.
“Mhoroi, Mrs. Hilda. How’s your work today?” Brett asked. Her high dark forehead had no wrinkles even though she was older than his folks. It was pleasant to take a little time, to share news, and it showed her proper respect. Brett didn’t like how Jeremy, increasingly like his father, never took time to talk with her or with Cook or the maids. It wasn’t right.
“Not many rooms. After the loo in the lobby, I’ll finish up early again.” Mrs. Hilda tilted her turbaned head, smiling. “My youngest grandson visits tonight. It is his first birthday.”
“Astrida’s boy? One already?” Mrs. Hilda’s daughter had dated Isaac a few years back, but Isaac broke it off, not wanting to get settled. She’d married that guy from Bulawayo and had a baby already. He and Isaac were still free to have fun. “Can we stop over tonight? I’ll bring the baby a doo-dad and you, a couple of fine beers.”
“That would be nice.” She wagged a finger and chuckled, “For the baby. Beers for me, indeed. Now shoo, let me finish my work.”
“Chisarai,” Brett grinned. She smiled again, murmuring ’good bye’ as she waved him off. Brett hummed her tune as he trotted down the main staircase into the lobby which was cool and dark, the curtains pulled against the sun, the glassy eyes of the trophy heads keeping a silent watch. David stood, his elbow propped on the registration desk, a ledger open. “Brett, dammit. Did you take my Jeep off property?”
“The alignment--remember. Isaac needed to hear highway road vibration. We’ll gravel test it tonight after dinner.” That covered his reason for the trip to Mrs. Hilda’s later. “What schedule have I got for this afternoon? The Australians?”
“No, Miss Elise persuaded the Nelsons to request you.” David banged the ledger shut. “Nothing is going on, right?”
“Of course not. I know the rules. Just keeping her happy.” Since old man Johnson, who’d been the king of tourist flings, retired last year, David enforced a non-fraternization policy. As if they weren’t smart enough to use protection against the wasting disease. Probably David didn’t want Jeremy to get any ideas from them.
“Take the boat and look for those lionesses you saw. Hurry up--they’re waiting.”
Brett ran down the steps to the boat dock where Elise and the Nelsons, an American family of three, waited by the five meter motorboat. The little boy Tommy peeked around his mother’s long swingy skirt.
“Will you find us a leopard?” Elise winked.
“No guarantees, but I know where there are two hungry lionesses.” Brett helped Elise into the front and when he turned, the kid was watching him.
“Can you show me lions?” Tommy asked seriously, no wiggling.
“We’re hunting for two swimming lionesses,” Brett said. The kid nodded like a fifty-year-old. He then climbed into the back seat with his mom and dad without whinging at all. Brett untied the boat and hopped next to Elise.
A short boat ride put them ten meters off the island. Brett circled for an hour and a half and they saw kudu, impala, but no lionesses. The Nelsons and Elise chatted about Zambia, where Mr. Nelson was a Lutheran missionary. Brett tried the southern and then eastern inlets with no luck. He couldn’t tie up the boat and let them debark and hike which was their usual system on the island, not with two lionesses somewhere around.
The sun hung low on the horizon. Brett drove the boat past the northern tip of the island, the farthest point from the lodge. He’d circled the whole damn island and was about to give up when there they were, sleeping on the black soil of the bank, two tawny lionesses.
Tommy made a purring noise. From the second seat, Mr. Nelson chuckled about Bootsie back home. “Will the lionesses wake up, Mr. Brett?” Tommy asked.
“I hope so,” Brett said. “They should be rested up from their swim.”
Behind the lionesses on the short bluff, a group of fifteen impala grazed, ignoring the cats and the boat. The herd was a good sized group to shoot. They were such small antelope, he could get crowd scenes or zoom in on individual behavior, while keeping the lionesses in the foreground. He slipped his camera out of his bag, nestling it by his ankle.
“We’ll watch for a while and see.