shoulder. For old times’ sake.”
“Off with the shirt,” she ordered. She’d always been bossy to both of them, even though she was between them in age.
Isaac began to unbutton his shirt. He closed his eyes as if the effort was too much. Astrida brushed his hands away and slid the shirt off his shoulders. His mouth was shut tight, but he didn’t make a sound as her fingers tapped across the shoulders, down his ribs, and over his collarbone.
“It’s broken.” She laid her palm high on Isaac’s chest, the touch of an old lover. The baby, chewing on the toy, gurgled and mewed, catching her attention. “Seth needs to go to bed now.”
“Not to worry, I got this guy.” Brett rocked Seth. “Can you do anything?” Seth cooed, his drool sticking to Brett’s shirt. Great-- if he ever got near Elise, he’d smell like baby slobber. The little guy, warm against him, winked his eyes shut, open, shut.
“How did you get hurt? I don’t know how to fix it if I don’t know what caused it.” Astrida crossed her arms over her belly. Brett thought her hips were a lot bigger than before she was married.
“A couple of blows from a rifle butt. Harare cops. The Presidential Guard.”
Astrida’s arms still folded, she tapped her foot. “I thought for certain it was some stupid foolishness. More trouble, more fighting. The last thing we need.”
“What’s this all about? Isaac was doing what he thought was right.” Mrs Hilda reappeared with a tea tray and two beers opened and set it on her wood table. “You left some of your student medical supplies here. Would any of them help?”
“There is a roll of the white antiseptic tape,” Astrida answered. “That will stabilize it. A break in the collarbone needs to be set but it mends by itself. Drink this beer straight down. That will numb you a bit. Men should be home tending their families and not marching with fools in the streets.”
The baby started to fuss, probably reacting to the sound of his mother’s angry tone. Brett hush-hushed and started an English lullaby his mother used to sing. He drifted into the kitchen, the baby gurgling again. Around his singing about waiting at the train station, he could hear Isaac asking about Bulawayo. The ripping of medical tape covered part of Astrida’s answer, but she was positive her husband’s job at the mill was secure and that the mill would never be bothered. The commercial farmers who supplied grain to the mill were concerned, but it was nothing, she said. Her mother interrupted, insisting the government veterans had visited once or twice. Mrs. Hilda continued that some veterans were camping at a farm nearer Harare and the Presidential Guard had been seen on the Route 17. Isaac said mari –something, a word Brett didn’t recognize. Something about a traitor or a thief.
The baby’s breathing fluttered his lips; he was sound asleep. Brett strolled out of the kitchen. The three of them looked at him; conversation stopped. Mrs. Hilda tipped her head, no smile; she peeled the baby out of Brett’s arms and carried little Seth off to his bed. Brett stood by Isaac and tried to figure out what they were arguing about. Was it the sleeping baby or didn’t they want him to hear? Astrida just packed up her supplies. Isaac flexed his arms, testing the collarbone.
“Ready, then?” Brett felt odd, outside a conversation of Isaac’s.
“I’m better. It’s good to see you, Mai Astrida. I wish you and your family well.” Isaac shook her hand in both of his. “Thank you.”
“Be careful. Try not to do anything stupid.” She touched his shoulder.
“You know I’ll take care of all the stupid stunts. Good night, Trida. You have a lovely son.” Brett opened the front door and walked to the Jeep. “How’s the shoulder feel?” Brett asked as they drove away.
“Better, I guess.” Isaac clicked on the radio and searched for his Harare jazz station, shutting off any conversation about the baby or politics.
Brett dropped off the Australian businessmen at noon and waited until the five of them staggered up the lodge steps. A whole morning of them getting pissed. Brett parked the Land Rover in the shade of the frangipani and slammed its door. The morning game drive had been a stupid waste of time, parked by the abandoned rhino midden for two hours. Brett hurried to the kitchen and grabbed two sandwiches from the employee basket and tucked them in his camera bag. Cook’s cigar smoke curled up past the open window.
“Heyyah Shamwari. Where’s Isaac?” Brett called.
“He snitched a couple of beers right after lunch.”
“Ndatenda.” Brett knew exactly where Isaac was. Brett left the kitchen and climbed the back stairs to the guest hall. Empty except Mrs. Hilda pushing her cart between rooms.
“David?” Brett asked. She pointed to the maintenance door at the opposite end of the hall. “Isaac?”
“He’s up there already. You half affies, daft you are. Don’t fall off.” Mrs. Hilda began singing a lovely Shona song and motioned him to the door.
“Trida’s baby is a lovely boy. Thanks.” Brett slowly opened the door, its creaking hidden by her song. He bolted across the storage attic to the metal spiral stairs. Mrs. Hilda would never give up their hiding place to David.
Today was an ideal roof afternoon and he needed one. The Aussies had lifted the cooler from the tail gate into the upper passenger seat and passed out beer after beer. They’d claimed they liked Zimbabwe’s Lion brand better than Foster’s.
Brett popped the roof hatch. The air temperature was balmy for this late in June. Isaac was stretched out in a warm circle of sunlight on the thatch.
“Hey Runt.” Isaac reached for Brett’s camera bag.
“Hey Buddy. Hungry?” Brett watched closely but Isaac didn’t cringe when he lifted the bag. Down in the clearing, three female impala sipped from the waterhole.
Brett exchanged a sandwich for a beer from Isaac’s knapsack. Taking a pull on his beer, he gulped. The yeasty foam hitting the back of his throat cleared out the dust of the morning. The impala stepped near the fresh water splashing from the iron pipe. He’d try the video camera on the trio. Panning the deck chairs, he didn’t see Elise.
Next to him, Isaac tucked his jacket under his head as a cushion. Brett hung his camera strap around his neck and chewed the cold croc-cuke sandwich. He sneaked a glance at Isaac’s eye which looked more purple but less swollen.
The waterhole offered a perfect setting for filming; the roof provided an interesting angle. The wildlife wandered by all afternoon, creating a regular parade for the tourists lounging in the deck chairs, who lined up like kids in the front row of a movie theater.
“So how was your morning? Any luck?” Isaac asked.
“I was ambushed by David. He took Elise and Tommy in the open Jeep. The boss is an ass--he said he’d double check the open Jeep’s alignment for himself.”
“That’s always the problem with half-lies. They bite back like a beaten dog.” Isaac raised up on his elbows.
“Nah. It’s David. He’s different this year. Before he’d never interfere when a tourist requested
