Disposition of Remains (22 page)

I was so thrilled with this revelation that I arose, dripping wet and smiling ear to ear, fully prepared to give Wilbur the make-out session of a lifetime. Then out of nowhere,
the bitch slapped me back.

My left cheek still stung the next
day as we headed for Hwange National Park in Zimbabwe, though the physical pain was far less substantial than the injury to my ego. Carol focused wholly on the fact that I’d smacked her, and ignored the fact that I’d
saved
her. She completely shunned me. I was grateful for her lack of attention, but aggravated that it was on her absurd terms.

Edison winked and smiled as we climbed aboard the plane, making sure to show me that he was clutching my disposable vomit containers. My total focus on my animosity toward Carol consumed me enough, however, to prevent me from vomiting during the hour-long plane ride
—a shocking first for the trip.

Once again, Raashi
da joined us on our trek to the new camp, while the other staff stayed behind. I seemed to be the only one who really noticed or cared. Since Raashida and Edison sat apart from each other on the plane, I assumed they were trying to hide their relationship from Wilbur. I stayed silent on the matter. I contemplated the possibility that they weren’t married after all, but lovers involved in an extramarital affair.

Zimbabwe was far and away the most poverty stricken of all the African nations we had visited thus far, but was the richest in wildlife. The Zimbabwean dollar was so worthless that peddlers on the streets were selling fifty-billion-dollar notes for one American dollar, but you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting an ostrich or a wildebeest.

The wildebeest became my favorite of all the African wildlife.
Wilde,
pronounced “vilda” is the Afrikaans word for “crazy.” They are called crazy beasts because they run toward predators, then dance around them wildly instead of running away—scared shitless, as would any sane animal. African legend tells us they are made up of the leftover parts of all the other animals. They have the stripes of a zebra; the mane, legs, and tail of a horse; and the head and horns of a bull. I found that I fully related to the wildebeest—some illogical, weird combination, an enigma of the animal world.

The watering hole, fifty yards from the dining area in our Zimbabwean camp offered a continuous parade of animals for our viewing pleasure: all varieties of antelope,
plus warthogs, baboons, buffalo, and even the occasional elephant. Not once did a damn leopard cross our path, however. Rhinoceroses were noticeably absent as well.

Rhinos are killed for their horns, which are ground up and sold as an aphrodisiac, among other things. Because of this, rhinos are severely en
dangered and anyone caught poaching a rhino is shot on sight. No jail, jury, or trial. It was the kind of big-game hunt my twisted mind secretly wanted to witness.

Because Hwange was so thoroughly inun
dated with ferocious creatures, we had to be driven rather than walked to our cabins, despite our armed guards. This was especially vital in light of the fact that the cabins were far more spread out than the previous ones had been, and because a pride of lions had taken up residence amidst our dwelling spaces. As Wilbur explained it, we had become squatters in their home, and they were starting the eviction process by making their presence known.

It was on a late-afternoon game drive that we first came across one of the lions that had been lurking around the cabins. He was an adult male with a long, flowing mane and a face that was riddled with battle scars. Edison stopped the truck so everyone could ogle and take pictures. I was nestled next to Wilbur this time, in the center row, still separating Clifford, who was in front of Wilbur, from Carol who was behind him.

The lion lounged lazily in the grass, posing demurely for us, until suddenly he sprang to his feet. The “King of the Savanna” was not the least bit concerned by our presence. Instead, His Majesty—my reason for coming to Africa—looked far past us. Off in the distance, a small buffalo was grazing solo in a clearing near a wooded area. The young buffalo had wandered away from his herd, which was milling around a few-hundred feet away, making the little one a vulnerable target. But to everyone’s disappointment, the majestic lion inexplicably darted off in the opposite direction of the buffalo.

“What in the hell?” Clifford griped.

“Buffalo can be very dangerous to lions,” Edison explained. “They will kill lions in order to prevent one of theirs from being killed later. And they have a very good memory. A buffalo will go after a lion or a human who has injured him, even years after the event.”

As Edison spoke, I heard a subtle rustling noise to the left of our vehicle. The lion had returned with four lionesses in tow. We watched as the whole pride crouched and slithered stealthily through the grass. They took their time, spreading apart as they grew closer to their prey. The small, lonely buffalo lifted its head, suddenly aware of their presence. He quickly bolted into the trees, rather than back to the herd, which turned out to be a fatal choice. This was actually the best scenario for the lions, because a few lions were no match for an entire herd of buffalo.

The rest of the buffalo were too large to squeeze through the thicket of mopane trees. But the lions, now in full sprint, darted easily into the wooded area. Once they became aware of what was happening, the buffalo herd rushed over and began to systematically test the trees, desperately trying to fight their way into the woods to save their young herd member. Then we heard the victim’s desperate, blood-curdling cries followed by an eerie silence. The rest of the herd slowly began to trudge away, one by one, seemingly dejected by their loss.

Of course, our band of rowdy tourists wanted a closer look, so Edison drove through the clearing. We approached the trees at a safe distance from the buffalo herd, but were still unable to see where the feline fivesome had made their kill.

Clifford pointed to our right.

“I see them! Over there!”

Edison didn’t hesitate to believe the man who’d been dubbed “The Lion King.”
He began to bob and weave the vehicle through the thicket as branches smacked our cheeks. Then we saw the lions climbing all over the lifeless buffalo, their faces drenched in blood. The lions resembled Winnie the Pooh relishing his pot of honey—except in a savage, National Geographic-style manner.

Edison pulled the truck to within
six feet of the pride, which by then had increased in number to seven, as two cubs had arrived. The adult male and lionesses ate first, jostling the impatient cubs away from their banquet. As the cubs eagerly awaited their turn, jackals and vultures started congregating in the distance, hoping for some leftovers.

Groups of tourists from other camps began to arrive, since Edison had radioed their leaders. This was the practice whenever any one of them spotted something noteworthy. Lions are usually nocturnal hunters, so prior to that event our group had seen only the aftermath of a kill: the bones being picked clean by the scavenging vultures and jackals. Wilbur and I were the only ones privileged enough to have heard the lions feasting on the hippo from our vantage point in our Okavango cabin.

I’d had enough of the gory display only a few minutes after our arrival, but the trucks of spectators from other camps were essentially boxing us in. All we could do was watch and wait.

The head lioness finished eating and took a particular interest in us, her maternal instincts in full gear, protecting her feasting cubs. As she sat on her haunches, guarding the young and their meal, Clifford stood up and leaned over Wilbur, his enormous camera in hand, ignoring Edison’s urgent, whispered plea to
sit down.

Clifford groused in full voice, “I paid good money to see this. I want a decent picture!”

The lioness was shocked to her feet, her eyes fixed on Wilbur.

“If he’s going to stand up, then I should be able to as well,” Carol snarled, rising to her feet in front of Wilbur, her hands planted on her hips.

Clifford spewed a mostly incomprehensible roast of Carol, tainted with Southern slang, calling her “dumber than a stump” and threatening “to whup her like a rented mule.”

Carol shrieked a retort which caused the lioness to growl and jump onto the side of the vehicle, her enormous paw
s swiping at us and scratching Wilbur’s arm deeply.

I’d had enough. I’d been polite. I’d tried to be kind. I’d even saved the stupid bitch’s life, for which she’d had the nerve to slap me. I’d listened to both of their nonsense ad nauseam. But I knew at that moment that I’d rather die than let those jackasses turn Wilbur into lion chow.

I could feel the anger burning crimson into my face. I was through with their crap. Using all my might, I jerked Wilbur away from the side of the truck.

“Sit the FUCK
down!” I seethed through clenched teeth.

After all that effort, I had officially failed at being a good person, and the new me was boiling forth with a vengeance. I wanted to feed their idiotic asses to the lions.

Edison was stunned for a microsecond, partly by my outburst and partly by the speed with which Clifford and Carol complied with my hostile demand. Once he recovered, Edison hand signaled for the others to back up so we could move out. Meanwhile, I tore off my shirt and wrapped it around Wilbur’s arm in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

The lioness seemed satisfied with the
damage she had inflicted, and stayed put as Edison slowly backed us away to safety. When we were finally out of the woods—both literally and figuratively—the two couples clapped their hands triumphantly. At first, I thought they were applauding the tremendous scene we had been privileged to witness, or, perhaps, the fact that we had escaped with our lives, but when Mary placed her hand on my shoulder, I knew it was in recognition of me—having finally put Clifford and Carol in their places.

I wanted to be a good person, I truly did, but I was made of the wrong stuff. Clifford and Carol were just more than my weak moral composition could bear. I soon became eternally grateful, however, because after that
day, I never saw Carol or Clifford again.

There was so much blood
. It saturated the shirt that I had torn from my body. In my rage against Carol and Clifford, I had forgotten to hold pressure on the wound.
You always hold pressure.
Any good nurse knows that.

We were back in our tented cabin, sitting on the bed before I realized I was topless aside from my bra. Wilbur was my focus. I needed to help Wilbur, not those fools who were beyond help. I had a purpose. A mission. If my choosing Wilbur over them and their idiocy had signed my death warrant, then so be it, I would be doomed.

Wilbur had downplayed his injury, but after I had held pressure for ten minutes, I removed my shirt from his arm and ran it under cold water to reveal three gouges. Two were more superficial, but the lioness had gotten him good with the third; adipose tissue was visible. The exposed fat layer under the skin meant stitches. Nurses don’t usually suture, so I had no prior experience, but I’d watched enough shoot-’em-up movies to know the procedure required booze—lots of it.

“I’ll be right back,” I said to Wilbur, then
dashed out the door before he could yell out a warning about the lions.

Still topless, I ran down the wooded plank and a half a mile further to the common area. No one was there, but the bar was stocked. I had to give Wilbur credit for supplying all of the amenities in the middle of nowhere.

I grabbed a fifth of Jack Daniels. That’s what the mobsters of old cinema always used. I found some light fishing line behind the bar as well, and off I ran, back to the cabin as fast as my legs could carry me. I had no fear of the lions, no fear of anything. I just needed to get back to Wilbur.

Out of breath, I unscrewed the bottle of Jack
Daniels and ordered Wilbur to take a swig. He looked as though he might protest, but my mania convinced him to submit. Then I poured some over the gash, while he recoiled in pain.

“Is that supposed to numb it? Because that hurts like hell!”

“Here, drink more,” I insisted as I shoved the bottle back toward his face. He appeared more afraid of me than of the pain at that point, so he immediately complied.

As he guzzled from the bottle, I dug frantically through my backpack
, found a sewing kit I had taken from the Hotel in Johannesburg, and removed a small needle. I used a lighter to sterilize it, then threaded it with fishing line. I poured some Jack Daniels over the fishing line as well. No sense in risking the chance of infection.

His skin was tough. I had to force the needle through as he cringed. I tied off each stitch individually and cut off the excess fishing line with my nail clippers, as they were the only thing I could think of
using short of my teeth. When I had completed the fifth and final stitch, there was a knock at the door. I had far too much adrenaline pulsing through my veins to pay attention, until Edison pushed the door open.

“I thought you might need the first-aid kit,” Edison said calmly.

“What? You have a first-aid kit?” I snapped as I grabbed the red box from Edison’s hands and opened the lid to reveal gauze, alcohol, saline, scissors, latex gloves, and most importantly, a suture kit with lidocaine.

I saw the look of disbelief on Wilbur’s drunken face. I grabbed the bottle of Jack
Daniel’s and downed a swig myself to numb my stupidity.

“It’s
okay, Stacia,” Wilbur slurred. “It wasn’t your fault. I should’ve known that was here.”

But I felt no comfort in those words uttered by the inebriated man I had needlessly tortured.

Instead of dwelling on my daftness, I made myself useful. I used some of the saline to clean the other wounds, butterflied them, and covered Wilbur’s arm with gauze while Edison excused himself to tend to the rest of the flock.

While I was I completing the final touches on Wilbur’s arm mummification, our eyes met and the
supernatural magnetism between us took over once again. He began kissing me in a desperate manner, as though it were a matter of life and death. I could do nothing but respond in kind.

Flushed with alcohol and charged with adrenaline, my inhibitions vanished and I forgot about all the reasons I shouldn’t be with Wilbur. Was it because I was a married woman who was trying to be a good person? Was it because I was trying to spare him the pain of my impending death? Right then, none of that seemed to matter. I wanted to enjoy the rest of my life no matter the cost, and I figured I at least owed him a good roll in the savanna.

Drunkenly, Wilbur groped my breasts in a clumsy manner that was markedly uncharacteristic of his normally charming, polite way. It was not how I had imagined our first sexual encounter would begin, and I had envisioned it many times. And yet I decided not to resist anymore, to let go and give in to what I truly desired. Unfortunately, I was covered in his dried blood, to the point where it looked as though I had also been the victim of an animal attack.

“Let me go clean up,” I insisted as I nervously excused myself to the bathroom. Wilbur reached out and grasped for me, but missed and instead, flopped over onto the bed
as I had moved away faster than his sluggish reactions could cope with.

It had been so long since I’d been with anyone new. Seventeen years.
Even though I felt on some level that Wilbur was meant for me, an already close friend who also happened to be devastatingly attractive, with his heart, soul, and mind being even more beautiful that the pretty package they were wrapped inside of, and yet, I wanted to be clean, prepared. Maybe have some candlelight involved. Still, I couldn’t say no.

As I watched Wilbur’s blood run from my arms and down the shower drain, I contemplated the magnitude of what I was about to experience: pure, unadulterated pleasure. I would deal with the consequences later; I was in it for the here and now.

Should I just stroll out of the shower naked and ready? It wasn’t as though I had packed lingerie for the occasion. Or should I just tie a towel around my body and let him unwrap me like a gift? I considered my options, when
wham!
There was a crashing thud.

I leaped from the shower to find Wilbur in a heap on the floor. His pulse was fine, and
his respirations normal. I couldn’t figure it out until he began to snore. I had overly boozed him and he had fallen into a deep slumber and rolled off the bed. I stared at him for a moment, somewhat disappointed, but also a little relieved. I had a little more time. Wilbur and I could wait for a more suitable moment.

I grabbed a pillow from the bed, lifted Wilbur’s head gently, and slid it under him. Then I dressed in some sweats, and curled up next to him, wrapping us both in a blanket.

I wasn’t sure how many hours had passed before the stillness of night was broken by a terrorizing scream that penetrated the walls of our tented cabin. I instantly thought of my mother, how I had seen the coyote jump on her in my dream.
It was just a dream.
Then I heard the scream again in full cognizance. It was real, and it was a human scream that rivaled the sound of a wild animal in distress—or of someone who had just met up with one.

The third scream caused Wilbur to jump to his feet, disoriented for a moment by our position on the floor.

“Are you okay?” he demanded, clutching his head.

“I’m fine. It’s not me. It’s someone out there,” I stammered, pointing through the mesh window to the black night outside. Wilbur reflexively grabbed a rifle from the closet, swiped the flashlight from the nightstand, and tore outside into the
darkness, stumbling a little along the way. 

I climbed up onto the bed and sat terrified as the intermittent screaming continued. I contemplated running out, unarmed, into the lion-infested
darkness, but I couldn’t move. I should have been the one risking my life, not Wilbur. He had the promise of longevity and I only had a short, bleak future to look forward to.

A virtual eternity passed while I sat paralyzed, seemingly enough time for me to have passed into the afterlife, into a Hell where there was only
darkness and screaming. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I feared for Wilbur and whoever was suffering out there in the unknown. I put on my shoes, grabbed Edison’s first-aid kit, and opened the door. I waited for a moment for another spine-shivering scream so I could ascertain in which direction I should run. I could hear it—
her
—to my left, in the direction of the common area. I followed her terror down the walkway with my heart pounding so hard that I felt as though I could hear the blood flowing through my brain. I made it to the common area in a matter of minutes, but no one was to be found there.

I noticed a light ahead through the trees. As I walked toward it, I saw Wilbur standing pale and disheveled, his T-shirt covered in blood. I ran to him and grabbed his chest. The blood was just the dry remains of earlier that
evening.

“Raashi
da’s in labor and she’s in horrible pain. She says something’s not right. We’re hours away from the nearest hospital” Wilbur blurted, “I’ve been radioing the other camps trying to find a midwife, but there isn’t one around. Stacia, can you help her?”

“Oh my gosh
. I worked in a nursery, I wasn’t a delivery nurse. Wilbur, it was so many years ago,” I replied, shaking my head with insecurity.

In silence, Wilbur looked pleadingly into my eyes. As he did, I thought again of my mother. Is this what she was trying to tell me? That I needed to help Raashi
da? Possibly that I needed to
save
Raashida? I had participated in hundreds of births; even if I had just been standing there, waiting to take the baby to the warmer, I had seen it all once upon a time.

“Where is she? Let me see her,” I stammered.

He nodded and led me to the staff quarters. Raashida was lying on the bed writhing, racked by another contraction. She belted out a scream as we entered. Edison stood petrified next to her.

“Raashi
da, I’m going to help you, all right?” I explained as I lifted the covers to reveal the baby’s head already sticking out.

Edison turned away in horror, but I decided to ignore his reaction. I washed my hands and donned the gloves from the first-aid kit.

“When you feel a contraction, go ahead and push,” I guided her, noticing another young staff girl standing against the wall.

“Is there anything that might be able to suction out the baby’s nose, like a…turkey baster, maybe?” I asked her.

Silently, she ran off to look.

With the next contraction Raashi
da began to push, but the baby was stuck. She screamed again in pain. This time I was privy to its full volume. Any regrets I’d had about not having a baby of my own were obliterated in that moment by the sound of her deafening, blood-curdling shrieks. But, despite that, I knew exactly what to do.

“Raashi
da, the baby’s shoulder is stuck. Can you get onto your hands and knees?”

“I can’t,” she cried and shook her head wildly.

“Edison, help her turn over,” I ordered as he continued to stand there frozen.

At last, he grudgingly moved in to help her, taking care to stay as far away from the baby as possible.

“All right, Raashida, you have to relax,” I coaxed as soothingly as I could manage.

My adrenaline was racing once again, but I tried to avoid my earlier manic state and maintain my composure

She did as I asked, taking deep breaths as tears streamed down her face. Once Edison had eased her to her hands and knees, I massaged her sides in a downward motion. We breathed together through the next contraction; then I massaged her sides once again, dislodging the baby’s shoulder from her pelvis. With the next contraction, I gently pulled and twisted the baby and out he came: a slimy, fuzzy, beautiful baby boy. He was so slippery that, I almost dropped him. I marveled for a moment at the wide variety of bodily fluids I had toiled in that night.

Seemingly unaffected by the stress of the scene, Wilbur handed me a blanket, while Edison recoiled in disgust. Any jealously I had harbored for Raashi
da’s situation vanished. What kind of father was Edison going to make?

Once the young girl returned with the turkey baster, I suctioned
out the baby’s nose and watched his flesh flush pink as he began to cry in response. Then I dried him off vigorously with the blanket. I handed the baby to Wilbur, who eagerly cradled him with his good arm. Raashida was exhausted; she laid her head back and sighed in relief.

I waited until the cord stopped pulsating, then had Wilbur hold the baby down low so the last bit of blood from the cord would flow into him. I tied some
of the suture thread tightly around the cord, close to the baby, and then tied another a few inches from that.

“Edison, do you want to cut the cord?” I asked.

“Why would I want to do that?” he retorted, baffled and a little shocked.

I assumed his reaction was borne out of some sort of traditional African taboo against doing such things, but all it took was a crazed death stare from me for him to throw his superstitions out the window and rush to Raashi
da’s side. Squinting in repulsion, he promptly cut the cord between the two areas I had tied off.