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 may have it all wrong.”
Brett crossed his arms high on his chest. “Ba Noah says Mugabe will never attack his own people.”
“They won’t sit down and talk. As for old friends, that’s not going to save anybody.” Isaac fell against the wall. “I was there.”
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.
