Disposition of Remains Page 22

  The gate was short enough to straddle, so after verifying a lack of witnesses, I snuck over it. Several hundred rickety, wooden steps lay ahead of me, and I skipped down them at a rapid clip to assure I would reach my destination before being noticed. A taller chain-link gate stood at the bottom, bearing yet another sign. This one read “Beware of Wild Animals.” I decided not to be a Carol and ignore every warning, so I stayed put. Still, I had an amazing, close-up, private viewing of the baboons at play.

  I sat on the stairs for a while, just inside the gate, when I heard a noise in the tree directly above my head. I looked up to see what bird or varmint was scurrying around, when instead, I saw a spotted paw. I arose quickly and took a few steps back, and there he was: the elusive leopard, hanging in the tree just above my head. He was merely turning over in his slumber to readjust his napping position, paying no attention to me whatsoever.

  On each and every game drive, I had sought him out. I had combed tree after tree just to catch a glimpse of the spotted beauty, but always to no avail. But right then, the leopard could have bitten me in the ass before I had noticed him.

  I crept slowly backward up the stairs so I could get a better view, all while praying that I would continue to go unnoticed, when I bumped into something soft behind me. I turned around to find a tall, African man wearing only a straw skirt and a large, colorful headdress.

  “You are not supposed to be here,” he scolded.

  I considered pretending that I didn’t speak English, feigning that I had just wandered down the stairs by pure accident, but I was too excited by my find.

  “It’s a leopard!” I squealed in a half-whisper and pointed, trying not to jump up and down.

  “I see that. We must go,” he prodded in a gentle, yet insistent voice.

  He grabbed me by the shoulders and inched me slowly up the stairs in a backward fashion. The leopard stirred a bit, but never seemed truly aware of our presence. About thirty feet up, the man turned around to face forward and walked up the stairs, frequently glancing over his shoulder to make sure I was cooperatively following him.

  When we reached the gate at the top he said, “That was very dangerous; you should not have been down there.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t see the leopard until I was already down.”

  “Many people in Africa believe that the leopard is the animal guide for the spirits of the dead,” he said with a smile.

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “No. The leopard helps the dead find their final resting place.”

  I had been actively seeking out the leopard, the death guide. Instead, he had found me. But I wasn’t ready to be guided through death; I still needed guiding through life.

  First it was the Cactus Ferruginous pygmy-owl in Sedona, whose sighting implies imminent death to those who see it; then the ground hornbill, whose very presence means someone is going to die; and now the leopard, the guide of the dead into the afterlife. And yet, after having spotted all the creatures of doom, I was still living and breathing. They were just taunting me—letting me know my place; my inevitable future. And then there was that smirking coyote bastard. What horrible thing could it mean to keep seeing him over and over again?

  “I am Hondo. I work at The Boma,” the man said with an outstretched hand, startling me out of my preoccupation.

  “The Boma?”

  “Yes. You will have to come and see,” Hondo laughed, then turned with a smile and strode away.

  By the time I made it back to the room, Wilbur had returned and I shared with him my encounter with Hondo of The Boma. I decided to keep Earth’s animal prophets to myself.

  “We’ll go there tonight,” Wilbur offered with a smile.

  We dressed in our best clothes and walked a good distance to The Boma restaurant, a large, open, thatched hut partially surrounded by the lush Gusu forest. The walls were splashed with vibrant paint that formed brightly colored works of African art. The hostess covered both Wilbur and I in flashy traditional robes called chitenges, which tied over one shoulder. Then, to the vibrating rhythm of the drums, she escorted us to our table.

  Warthog kabobs, ostrich steaks, crocodile tail, and impala-knuckle terrine were all served buffet style. I decided to be adventurous and try a little of each. We ate in awed silence as fire pits blazed and dancers whirled around us in colorful outfits. Hondo waved to me from across the room.

  My eyes were focused on the festivities, but my mind was entirely preoccupied by what might occur when it was over: Wilbur and I alone in this amazing place. My thoughts wandered back to that kiss we’d shared earlier, how it had melted away the thought of my impending death. I wanted to experience its intoxicating wonder again. I wanted to get lost with Wilbur in a blur of warmth and flesh.

  Following the dancers, a witchdoctor and a local storyteller spoke to the restaurant’s patrons at length, attempting to imbue us with local culture and tradition. I knew they had many interesting things to teach, but I couldn’t concentrate on their words. Botticelli could have returned from the grave to give me a private lecture about Renaissance art and I wouldn’t have cared at that moment. I was inextricably focused on Wilbur, like a love-sick teenager.

  Suddenly, we were pulled up from our seats by the staff to participate in the entertainment. The men joined the drummers, and the women, the dancers. I caught Wilbur’s gaze from across the room and held it. I knew then, as he beat on his drum, that he was thinking the same thing I was. We were letting the wild energy of the place warm us up for the main event.

  We had barely closed the door to our hotel room before the animal magnetism took over and my lips were pressed against his. We were kissing in a way we hadn’t yet: more sensually, more urgently.

  His hands traversed every curve and explored every crevice of my form, gathering and tugging at my dress and my hair. Before I knew it, my dress was on the floor. I’d been so wrapped up in the moment, I had barely noticed that I’d been disrobed. Wilbur unhooked my bra with magician-like ease, sending it flying across the room before he began caressing and kissing my breasts. My entire body tingled in a hypersensitive state. Warmth surged down my core and mixed with the moisture in my womanhood below.

  I tugged Wilbur’s shirt from his pants. It had become a vexation; a nuisance, preventing my skin from touching his. I kissed him as I lifted it over his head, exploring and tasting every inch of his smooth, chiseled stomach and torrid chest. I took my time as I watched his sculpted muscles expand and recede with each sigh and pant.

  He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me hard while moving me closer to the bed. I was torn between the panic I felt about going down that road, and the intoxicating euphoria my body was experiencing. It was better than any drug I could have fathomed.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he moaned as he pressed up against me.

  I could feel how much he wanted me, and how much he had to want me with. Making love to Wilbur was inevitable.

  Upon frantically removing the last of our clothing, he entered me while we were only halfway on the bed. I’d never wanted anything so badly. Quickly, he turned me over so that I was on top of him, giving me a sense of control.

  With Evan it had always felt like a probing invasion, but I welcomed Wilbur in with desperate anticipation. He sat up to meet my gaze, and held it as we rocked in perfect rhythm. I forgot about any inhibitions I’d had about my body in its current condition. I just let go.

  I was only mildly aware that the din of our lovemaking was probably overtaking the quiet of the resort, when suddenly my insides exploded with warmth and pure pleasure. I had never experienced anything like it.

  Wilbur let out a cry of delight at the same time as I did, and I collapsed on top of him, out of breath, our hearts pounding hard. I tried to conceal the tear that trickled down my face. I had no idea why I was crying. I just felt so overwhelmed.

  Part 4

  Depression

  CHAPTER 33

  It was in Victoria
Falls where I came to the realization that it was time to go back—back to reality—and in essence, move forward. I had to make some plans. I needed a job, as I knew my money would eventually run out. I had no place to live and I had no intention of reconciling with Evan. I missed having a home and a warm bed of my own, even though these things would only last a little while. I phoned Misty from the hotel, and she invited me to stay with her in Las Vegas until I’d figured things out. I could go back to nursing, apply to the nursery at Las Vegas Memorial Hospital. It was where my mother had ended her career before her death. It seemed fitting, and Raashida had made me realize how much I missed the babies. I could spend my waning days watching life emerge.

  First, I needed to go back to Los Angeles to officially end my relationship with Evan. Although I was reasonably certain he had already received the clear message that it was over, I was finally ready to give us both some concrete closure. As much as I dreaded the task, I knew I would feel profoundly relieved when it was finished.

  Wilbur sat close to me in front of the computer at the Internet café in our hotel as I searched for flights. I had every intention of paying for both of us, although I realized at some point that all I had was cash. Even with modern technology, it could not be fed directly into the computer. Once again, this rendered me dependant on Wilbur, who was far more creditworthy.

  “I’ll come with you,” Wilbur announced, gently shoving my hands off the computer keyboard and applying his own. “I don’t have anything going on right now. And, look; the flights to Los Angeles lay over in London. Do you want to spend a night there? We could take in a few sights before heading to L.A.”

  “London, huh? I’ve never been. Obviously. What’s one more night?” I replied, knowing well that one more night might be a large fraction of my remaining life. I was in no position to argue with him, however, and fortunately, I didn’t want to. Evan and reality could wait one more day.

  We left that night from Johannesburg and arrived in the morning at London’s Heathrow Airport. We were both able to sleep on the plane, so other than having various body kinks from having been contorted for nine hours in the sky, we were rested enough for a day of exploring.

  We visited the usual London tourist attractions. Even I knew their names: Big Ben, the Tower of London, the beautiful Tower Bridge, and Westminster Abbey.

  As the sun dipped behind the clouds and began its retreat for the day, we strolled into Trafalgar Square tired and hungry. We planted ourselves next to the fountain in the lively square and watched the children chasing the multitude of pigeons in front of The National Gallery.

  Wilbur suddenly stood up and exclaimed in a startlingly proper British accent, “Let’s pop in there. I hear they have a lovely café.”

  I followed him into The National Gallery, but quickly lost interest in food as I found myself surrounded by a multitude of European paintings from the thirteenth through the nineteenth centuries.

  “I know we don’t have much time, but I saw this online, and I know you’d mentioned that you like Botticelli.”

  “I love Botticelli!” I squealed. “Where?”

  Before I knew it, we had made our way to room 58 and were standing in front of Botticelli’s Venus and Mars. I had never known it was in London. I had a particular fondness for his more secular works; to paint them was rebellious during a period of religious awakening. Later in his life, Botticelli personally threw many of his own pagan works of art into the Bonfire of the Vanities when he became an avid follower of the Christian zealot Savonarola. But his exquisite Venus and Mars remained.

  As I stood admiring Botticelli’s mythical masterpiece, a tour group approached my vantage point. I pretended not to notice them as they crowded in behind us to share the view. My feet were firmly planted, and I was not ready to yield my position to them.

  A young British woman, presumably the tour guide, began to instruct the group, “Here you see Venus and Mars. Notice the Jimsonweed in the background. Mars lies motionless because Venus has poisoned him with it.”

  Wrong.

  “And notice the wasps around his head?” the young girl continued. “They represent the sting of love.”

  Double wrong.

  “Another interpretation is that Venus represents Mary Magdalene gazing upon Mars, who represents Christ, removed from the cross.”

  “What? No!” I interjected as I turned to face her.

  I couldn’t take her interpretive butchery any longer.

  “It’s pagan, not Christian. Jimsonweed was ingested to intensify sex. The wasps are there to represent the connection to the Vespucci family. The Vespuccis were the ‘wasps’ of Florence. The name Vespucci comes from the Italian word vespa meaning “wasp.” Wasps are even on their coat of arms. The face of Venus is a tribute to Simonetta Vespucci.”

  When I paused to catch my breath, I realized that I had the entire tour group’s full if not irreverent attention, so I felt obligated to continue.

  “This painting portrays Venus, the goddess of love, and Mars, the god of war—one of her lovers. Venus is completely dressed and fully alert and Mars is shown mostly naked, as if immediately post-coitus—exhausted and vulnerable. She subdued him with sex. This is meant to signify that love triumphs over war. You see how Mars sleeps while the little satyrs play with his helmet and lance? One is even blowing a horn in his ear, but Venus has rendered him helpless.”

  I turned toward the painting again, forgetting about the crowd. I should have been embarrassed by my outburst, but I wasn’t. I breathed in the painting, another tribute of Botticelli’s love for Simonetta. He’d painted it seven years after she died. I wondered if it was possible for me to have that kind of profound effect on anyone. On Wilbur.

  As I turned to face Wilbur, to read the future in his eyes, I saw more of a look of shock than love.

  “Wow,” he said. “You do love Botticelli. Though, I think you may have irritated the tour guide a bit.”

  I glanced to my left at the begrudged little tour guide who shot me a sneer from the next painting over. I turned back to Wilbur.

  “Thank you so much for this, Wilbur. It’s incredible. I had no idea this was here.”

  “There are more of his paintings over this way.”

  “I want to see them all.”

  “All right, but I think there are only five.”

  “No, I mean, I want to see all of Botticelli’s paintings, wherever they are in the world.”

  That was my new plan, the start of my bucket list, even though deep down I was becoming more and more determined to live. I had gone from wanting to settle down to wanting to travel the globe again in less than twenty-four hours. Poor Wilbur. It was no wonder he had his reservations about me. Even I didn’t know what I wanted from one minute to the next. But I knew I had to establish myself somewhere. Travel for short periods in between work, if life or death permitted.

  It was hard for me to break myself away from The Master’s works as the gallery was closing. We bumped along the underground to our hotel near Heathrow. I reminisced about our night in Victoria Falls, two nights before when Wilbur and I had been entwined as one. I longed to feel his body against mine again.

  We ate dinner by candlelight and made love through our exhaustion. We made love slowly, looking into each other’s eyes. I never knew it could be like that. I imagined myself as Venus trying to subdue Mars with my love. But Wilbur was different; there was no war in him.

  CHAPTER 34

  The next day brought with it another long flight. We arrived at LAX at four o’clock in the afternoon, found a hotel, showered off the nasty plane grunge, ate, and slept. I couldn’t wait to establish myself somewhere. I could see why Wilbur had kept his home, even though he was a nomad and he really didn’t need one. I could relate to the eerie feeling of not having a place to return to.

  “I have to face him,” I confessed to Wilbur as he scooped the last bit of eggs onto his fork at breakfast.

  “You don’t owe him anything, Stacia,�
� he replied with just a hint a jealousy.

  “I know. But I have to do it for me. I want a clear conscience, a clean start. I know we haven’t talked about what’s going to happen with us, but I have to see him face to face. We both need to know it’s really over.”

  “All right, I understand.”

  I needed to see Evan, but I wasn’t sure what would be the most appropriate venue for our meeting. Both the house and the office would be awkward. I thought it best to arrange someplace neutral. But before I contacted him, betting on the likely chance he’d go ballistic, I wanted to retrieve a few things from the house first—mainly, my mother’s urn. In my haste, I had forgotten to take my mother; I had never been separated from her for that long. I was afraid that if my conversation with Evan didn’t go well, I would never see her urn again. It wasn’t inconceivable that he would hold her hostage in some pathetic attempt to win me back.

  We rented a car and Wilbur drove me to my house—Evan’s house. It was unnerving to see it, the place I had been held as a willing prisoner for all those years. Wilbur stayed in the car while I went in. It was noon on a Thursday, a time I knew Evan would be at work. I could feel my blood pressure rising as I walked up the sidewalk through the imaginary barbed wire and bars. I was surprised to find the door unlocked.

  I walked into the living room where my mother’s urn was still sitting, collecting dust on the piano. Everything looked the same as it had when I left. I examined the urn for a moment before I noticed that Margaret, the office manager, was heading straight toward me, stark naked. I almost didn’t recognize her without her clothes. Oddly enough, she hadn’t noticed me standing there, because if she had, I was quite certain she would’ve been even more disturbed than I.

  “Hello, Margaret,” I said in my best nonchalant yes, I’ve caught you voice.

  She dropped an empty water glass and screamed. I had never really cared for Margaret, though not because she was mean, or egotistical, or even obnoxious. Not any of the normal reasons not to like someone. She was a simpering fool who followed every one of Evan’s commands out of fear of repercussion. I disliked her because she was what I had become.