Disposition of Remains Read online

  Clifford barked at Carol, “Do ya try to be that stupid?”

  But Carol, who had selective hearing in addition to an intellectual handicap, was already busy casting her line again.

  Immediately, I felt a tug on my own line.

  “I think I got one!” I squealed.

  Somehow, at that moment, the senseless murder of a defenseless, vulnerable fish became an exciting prospect. Wilbur rushed over to help me reel in my bubble fish.

  “I got one too!” Carol shouted, as she began to reel in her own catch.

  “It’s a big one! Give it a little line,” Edison cautioned her.

  Carol’s selective hearing button was in the “off” position, so she completely ignored him, opting instead to continue trying to fight the fish into the boat. In the process, she backed up into Clifford who gave her a less-than-gentle shove in the opposite direction.

  Edison was making his way across the boat to Carol but before he could intervene, the fish took off and, in the process, jerked suddenly on her fishing pole. Instead of just letting go, Carol stubbornly followed her pole right into the predator-infested water. She was able to take that swim after all—the hard way. Carol began flailing and screaming like a lunatic despite Edison’s pleading admonitions otherwise.

  “You must calm down, Carol. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself.”

  But Carol was just too berserk and too Carol to listen.

  Edison grabbed the life preserver and tossed it in her direction. It clubbed her right in the head, but didn’t stun her enough to stifle her frenzy. Instead, what had started as a shrill roar then accelerated into full-blown hysteria. Clifford stared at her with crossed arms as if he hoped to finally see his first African kill. Wilbur and Edison exchanged dumbfounded looks of what in the hell do we do now?

  I don’t know what mystical force possessed me; maybe it was the fact that I was already grappling with my mortality, or maybe it was my need to stare death in the face. Whatever it was, it caused me to spontaneously jump in after Carol.

  As I hit the water I heard Wilbur scream, “Stacia, no!” But it was too late for second thoughts.

  I swam to Carol and tried to get her to take hold of the life preserver, but she couldn’t be reasoned with. I decided just to grab her, but she continued to scream and flail wildly, threatening to pull me down under the murky water with her. Hysteria dictates a good slap in the face, and upon realizing that I didn’t want to die right then and there, I saw no other option. I held onto her with one hand, drew back the other, and slapped the stupid bitch as hard as I could.

  For the first time since I met her, Carol was suddenly and delightfully speechless. The shock of my blow subdued her long enough to push her close to the boat so Edison, David, and John could grab her and reel her in. Meanwhile, Clifford had returned to fishing.

  I then realized what a moronic thing I had done.

  Wilbur reached out for me as he exclaimed à la Paul Revere, “The hippos are coming!”

  I reached for Wilbur, but I slipped out of his grasp as he tried to grab hold of me. Clifford rolled his eyes and set his fishing pole back down to assist Wilbur in pulling me back into the boat. Had their timing been off by a millisecond, there would’ve been six fewer hungry hippos in the world. When Carol and I were both safely aboard, Edison started the engine and sped away for fear that the hippos would try to overturn the boat.

  “Yer jus’ as stupid as she is,” Clifford growled, shaking his head.

  “That’s kind of unnecessary, don’t you think?” Wilbur shot back in response, his face reddening with uncharacteristic anger. “She just saved Carol’s life.”

  “Yeah, thanks for that one,” Clifford replied sarcastically.

  “It’s all right, Wilbur. It was pretty stupid,” I said, trying to diffuse the situation.

  I could tell Wilbur was ready to throw some punches with the old coot and I didn’t want to be responsible for that. Not just because of my silly plan to be a good person and save my own skin, but also because Wilbur would have hated himself later if he’d let Clifford push him over the edge into violence—even if Clifford more than deserved it. It was because I genuinely cared about Wilbur. I cared about him more than I cared about myself.

  For a brief moment I even cared about Carol more than myself. I had accomplished something. I had committed a selfless act. I had actually saved someone’s life, even if it wasn’t a life that Clifford or anyone else on the boat thought worth saving. My life meant something in a small way. I had made a permanent impression on someone’s world. My being there was the butterfly effect that saved a life. Maybe it was all right that I was going to die. Maybe I had fulfilled my sole purpose on Earth.

  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.

  CHAPTER 30

  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, Raashida 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 endangered 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 inundated 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 paws 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.

  CHAPTER 31

  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.